“So, Bonita, give.”
Professor Carlos Montoya slid onto the bar stool next to Veronica Keane. “What brings you down from a lofty ship
to grace us lowly Cubans with your presence?”
Bonita. Pretty
lady was not an endearment coming from the mouth curved in a taunting smile, but
not a slight either. Not with his deep, melodic voice speaking words as if he
knew secrets about her. What secrets did he know? Would he pry into her
personal life? She doubted this bad-boy college professor acknowledged
boundaries.
“Just drinks and dinner.” She scrambled for composure. “Aren’t
we attending a world-class conference? I find the local population to be
friendly and kind. That’s not slumming.”
The bartender set down a saoco. “Hope you like it, senorita.”
“Gracias,” she said. “Very nice, served in a coconut.”
“Ah, the saoco,” Carlos said. “Rum, lime juice, sugar, and
ice. The saoco,” he repeated, disbelief heavy in his words. “Um. Wow. Once used
as a tonic for prisoners of the revolution.”
“Medicinal?” She couldn’t help it. She chuckled and sounded
as if a rusty spoon had scraped her throat raw, but it was genuine. The warm
glow in its wake was welcome and needed. .
He leaned an elbow on the bar, his beer bottle with the
green-and-red Cristal label dangling between his fingers. “Be careful with that
one.” He dipped his head toward the front door as if he needed to go somewhere
soon.
That fast, the glow snuffed out. She cleared her throat and gripped the fuzzy surface of the
coconut container.
He placed a five-peso coin with a brass plug on the counter
and whirled it. The spinning motion mirrored a dizzying attraction going on in
low parts of her belly.
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