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  He extended a hand. “Welcome again, Samuel. Come, let me introduce you to my friends.”

  Samuel shook the tiny hand. “Thank you for inviting me back.”

  He wanted to ask Arturo if he’d made a decision as to whether he would sell his plantation, but thought better of it. He’d waited three days, and if negotiations were to go in his favor, then he was willing to wait three years.

  His two brothers had accused him of being brash, arrogant, and at times too ambitious, yet they hadn’t complained when their first soybean harvest yielded an unforeseen profit that changed them from dirt-poor cotton farmers to prosperous businessmen.

  Samuel saw a myriad of expressions ranging from shock to bewilderment cross the faces of the men as he approached them. He only had to travel ninety miles from his homeland to be reminded of the stigma attached to those of African descent.

  Arturo made the introductions in Spanish, and Samuel wasn’t certain whether his host had done this deliberately, or because the men weren’t familiar with English. Three of the six nodded, two turned their backs, and one smiled and offered his hand.

  “Welcome to Cuba, Senor Cole.” His English was only slightly accented.

  Samuel smiled and accepted the firm handshake. “Gracias, Senor Diaz.” He nodded politely to the other five. “Senor Velez, Avila, Pacheco, Gonzalez, Torres.”

  The ones who’d deliberately snubbed him turned, astonishment freezing their features. Samuel Claridge Cole had a secret weapon—the ability of total recall. This mental gift had served him well in school when he graduated at the top of his class. His dream of attending college was dashed after his brothers, Thomas and Mark, married and left home, leaving Samuel to help Charles run the family farm.

  The sounds of feminine laughter punctuated the night as four young women walked into the garden. Samuel felt as if he’d been poleaxed when he saw a tall, willowy figure in white seemingly float over the slate path leading to an area where a long table had been set with gleaming silver and delicate crystal stemware. There was still enough daylight to discern high color in her lightly tanned cheeks as she wielded a delicate white lace fan inches from her face. She turned and met his curious gaze with one of her own. He was enchanted with her loosely braided dark hair, entwined with tiny white flowers, that touched her waist.

  She appeared ethereal and virginal in a knee-length dress of a wispy fabric with a low, hip-length waistband. A single strand of pearls, knotted at the base of her throat, touched the dress’s hemline. His gaze inched lower to her shapely legs in white silk stockings, and lower still to a pair of tiny feet pushed into silk-covered shoes with a low heel. He knew it was impolite to stare, but Samuel was unable to look away.

  Jose Luis saw the object of Samuel Cole’s entrancement. His reaction was similar to those of other men who’d found themselves temporarily dazzled by his daughter’s beauty. However, their fascination was usually short-lived because of her outspokenness. Upper-class Cuban women saw to the needs of their husbands and children, while maintaining a well-run household. They did not discuss politics, the world’s economy or the Catholic Church’s influence in Latin America.

  He knew Marguerite-Josefina wasn’t entirely to blame for her free-thinking stance. If he’d remarried after his beloved Carlotta died from a riding accident, then perhaps having a woman in his daughter’s life probably would’ve softened her. His unmarried sister had tried, but Gloria was dealing with her own eccentric lifestyle.

  There was no doubt the American was attracted to his daughter, but before the night ended Samuel Cole would discover that her beauty was a foil for a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue.

  Chapter 3

  Manners are made up of trivialities of deportment, which can be easily learned if one does not happen to know them.

  —Emily Post

  Marguerite-Josefina watched the man seated across from her through a fringe of lashes, noting his hesitation in choosing a fork. Although he was as elegantly attired as the other men at the table and his beautifully formed slender hands well groomed, she knew he was ill at ease with a formal dinner party table setting.

  She traced the handles of the sterling pieces at her place setting with a fingertip before tapping the fork for the seafood cocktail. He gave her a direct stare, then picked up the fork and acknowledged her assistance with a barely perceptible nod.

  Arturo Moreno had waited until everyone was seated to announce that Senor Cole was an American businessman interested in doing business in Cuba. The reaction of those seated around the table was surprise and overt revulsion.

  Marguerite-Josefina almost laughed aloud when one of her father’s pompous business associates who usually went on incessantly about being a direct descendant of a Spanish king clutched his throat and had to be led inside the house to recover from the shock that a norteamericano Negro would attempt to cross the threshold into a world and lifestyle that favored a privileged few—Cuba’s social elite.

  “You like him, don’t you?” Elba Moreno asked Marguerite-Josefina, sotto voce.

  She put down her fork and dabbed the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin without looking at her friend. “How can I like him? I don’t even know him,” she whispered. The petite young woman who’d inherited her father’s small stature and dark eyes and her mother’s shimmering blond hair picked up a water goblet and held it to her pale mouth.

  “If you don’t like him, then stop staring at him.”

  “I like looking at him.”

  “Why?”

  “His face is interesting.”

  Samuel’s lean face, dark slanting eyes, high cheekbones, strong nose and firm mouth reminded Marguerite-Josefina of the tiny African masks Antonio concealed in all of his paintings. Samuel’s coloring reminded her of cured golden tobacco leaves. She liked his face and his hair. It was close-cropped and brushed back off his forehead. She wanted to touch his hair, to discover if the tightly curling strands were soft or as stiff as Antonio’s whenever he applied pomade and water to keep his wiry hair in place.

  Elba took a sip of water. “But, Marguerite-Josefina, he’s not one of us.”

  “Us? Who the hell are we? And I told you to call me M.J.”

  Bright color suffused Elba’s pale face. There was no need for M.J., as she wanted to be called since she’d enrolled in the universidad, to use foul language with her. “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

  Burnished eyebrows lifted several inches. “Did you forget our promise that we would only marry for love?”

  M.J. shifted her gaze from Samuel Cole to Elba, frowning. “We made that promise when we were thirteen. It’s different now.”

  Elba stared at M.J. as if she’d grown another head. Although M.J. looked the same, Elba did not recognize her childhood friend. So much about her had changed since she’d gone to Havana to further her studies. And when the rumors about M.J. becoming a model for a popular Cuban artist swept over the island, her father had raised his fist in triumph, saying that was why he hadn’t wanted her to go to the universidad.

  She waited for a waiter to remove a plate for the next course, then asked softly, “Why is that so?”

  “Because as modern women we now have more choices.”

  “You’re not a woman.”

  Vertical lines appeared between M.J.’s large dark eyes. “I am not a girl.”

  The color drained from Elba’s face as her jaw dropped. “You…you did it?”

  M.J.’s frown deepened. “Did what?”

  A becoming flush replaced Elba’s former pallor. “You know. Did you and your artist do it?”

  Heat stole its way into M.J.’s cheeks. Elba and probably everyone in Cuba wanted to know if she’d shared the artist’s bed. “Of course not! And his name is Antonio.”

  “Has he kissed you?”

  There was a pause before M.J. said, “Yes. But it’s not the kind of kiss you think it is.”

  “And what kind of kiss i
s that?”

  “No hay pasion, no fuego.”

  “If there’s no passion or fire, then why do you continue to see him?”

  “I was his muse, Elba.”

  “Was?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  She did not want to relive the confrontation she’d had with her father earlier that morning. Sitting for Antonio had given her a sense of worldliness and independence much like her tia Gloria. Never married, middle-aged Gloria Luz-Maria Diaz lived a Bohemian lifestyle most repressed Cuban women fantasized about. She wore trousers, smoked cigars and cigarettes, never retired for bed until dawn, and took lovers whenever the mood hit her. She had become much sought after for her soirees where her guests included university intellectuals, artists, writers, poets and political dissidents.

  M.J.’s gaze met that of the American as she picked up a wineglass. A mysterious smile parted her lips seconds before she took a swallow. Something in Samuel Cole’s gaze communicated that he was as interested in her as she was in him. A thought flashed through her mind, but she banished it quickly. She would not contemplate that possibility until she learned more about the foreign businessman.

  She looked at her father, noting his tortured expression. There was no doubt he saw her staring at the stranger. Lifting her chin in a haughty gesture, she turned back to Samuel and flashed her enticing smile.

  Samuel was bored and impatient. Bored because he couldn’t understand any of the conversations floating around him, and impatient because Arturo continued to play cat and mouse with him when he could’ve given him his decision the moment he arrived.

  He would return to Florida if Arturo sold him the plantation. If not—he would then book passage on a freighter to Costa Rica.

  Staring across the table, he met the demure gaze of Jose Diaz’s daughter, seeing curiosity in her dark eyes. His pulse quickened and the flaccid flesh between his thighs stirred, and he knew there was something about the beautiful woman with the dimpled smile that had affected him as no other had.

  Samuel wasn’t a novice when it came to women—in or out of bed—but felt something he did not want to feel: lust. He’d come to Cuba for business, not to become besotted with a woman—albeit the most exquisite woman he’d ever encountered in all of his travels.

  Samuel waved away a waiter poised to fill his wineglass. His head had stopped pounding and his stomach settled enough for him to eat sparingly. He’d had three days to get used to the delicious spicy cuisine of which he could not get enough. Pork and chicken served with mojo criollo—a potent garlic sauce—had become his favorite.

  Dinner concluded three hours after it had begun, and Samuel sat in a solarium with his host and other male guests. Sherry and cigars were passed around, Samuel declining the wine and accepting a cigar.

  Fragrant, tightly rolled tobacco leaves wafted in his nostrils as he moistened the cigar with his tongue. He clipped the end, lit it, and inhaled a mouthful of sweet, flavorful smoke.

  Arturo, watching Samuel’s expression, smiled. “Your first Cuban cigar, Samuel?”

  He nodded, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Yes.”

  “Do you like it?” Samuel nodded again. “Good.”

  Arturo placed his cigar in a large ceramic ashtray. “As soon as you finish your cigar we’ll go for a walk.”

  Samuel followed Arturo away from the light showing through the many windows in the pink structure that resembled a frothy confection, beyond the sputtering, flickering candles in the garden, away from the Moreno household staff cleaning up the remains of dinner, and along a footpath leading to an overgrowth of trees and flowering shrubs.

  The light from a full moon, the flower-scented breeze and the sounds of nocturnal wildlife provided a magical setting for Samuel and his host.

  Arturo stopped, hands clasped behind his back. Tilting his head, he stared up at Samuel. “I don’t know how to say it.”

  Samuel’s expression was impassive. “Just say it, Arturo.”

  “I want so very much to sell you my land, but I cannot.” He held up a hand when Samuel opened his mouth. “Let me explain. Por favor, Senor Cole.”

  Samuel nodded. It was apparent Arturo sought to make his declination more palatable with formality. “Okay.”

  “I cannot sell you my lands because you are American—”

  “And not because I am black?” he asked, interrupting Arturo.

  “No, Samuel, it is not because you are black. If you knew anything about our history you’d know why. Cuba has traded one oppressor for another—the United States. In 1905 an estimated thirteen thousand American colonists bought about fifty million dollars’ worth of land on our island. They own our lands, meddle in our politics, and pay us pennies to keep their military base at Guantanamo Bay. Your country’s so-called Platt Amendment has made my country a protectorate. Do you know what a protectorate is?”

  Nodding again, Samuel said, “I am familiar with the word.”

  Arturo affected a weak smile. “Therein lies the reason why I cannot sell you my lands. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back to my guests.”

  Samuel closed his eyes, listening to the fading footfalls as Arturo made his way back to his house. He didn’t know why, but he would’ve preferred that his race had become a factor rather than his nationality. He’d become accustomed to rejection because of his color, not because he was an American.

  He opened his eyes and slipped his hands into the pockets of his dress trousers. His disappointment in not securing the sugarcane plantation was softened by Arturo Moreno’s truthfulness. However, he would take the man’s suggestion and learn all he could about Costa Rica before meeting with a representative from the United Fruit Company.

  Turning, Samuel retraced his steps. He’d forgotten his manners. He wanted to thank Arturo for his hospitality before taking his leave. He hadn’t gone more than a hundred feet when he saw a slender figure in white sitting on a stone bench in the moonlight. He stopped, unable to go forward or retreat.

  He stared at Jose Luis’s daughter as she leaned back on her hands, lifted her chin and stared up at the alabaster sphere. A breath of cold air swept over the back of his neck despite the eighty-degree nighttime temperature, and the hairs stood up as a warning that had served him well when on the battlefield in Europe. It always foretold of a threat of danger. But what did he have to fear from a woman he’d just met? From someone he would never see again after tonight?

  Without warning she turned, staring directly at him. Samuel wasn’t able to make out her features in the diffused light, but saw her spine straighten. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until she rose to her feet like a silvery specter, the motion galvanizing him into action, as he exhaled and put one foot in front of the other in a slow, deliberate approach. He eased his hands from his pockets, acknowledging her presence with a nod.

  “Good evening, Senorita Diaz.”

  M.J. smiled, dimples winking attractively. “Good evening, Senor Cole. I’m surprised you remembered my name.”

  A slow smile softened the angles in Samuel’s face. There was no way he could forget anything about the stunningly beautiful young woman who spoke English with barely an accent. And she had a wonderful low voice, soft and clear.

  “You speak English very well.”

  “It was one of my favorite subjects.”

  “Did you learn it in school?”

  “Yes.” She’d excelled in languages at the convent under the tutelage of Dominican nuns. “Do you usually go for walks in the moonlight, Senor Cole?”

  “No, I don’t. This is the first time, Senorita Diaz.”

  She snapped open the fan suspended from a cord around her wrist. “What do you say we dispense with the senor and senorita and call each other by our given names?”

  “I would not presume to take such liberties, Senorita… Miss Diaz.”

  Closing the fan, M.J. slapped it against her open palm. “M.J.,” she said defiantly. “Please call me M.J.”


  Samuel knew he was treading on dangerous ground. He was alone with a young woman in a country where he was not only a foreigner but also regarded as an interloper. When he left Cuba he wanted to leave with his head intact.

  Those who were familiar with Samuel Cole knew that he’d shunned permanent liaisons because his sole focus was to become a successful businessman. If he saw a woman more than three times, then she was one of the luckier ones.

  Samuel wanted to get away from Jose Luis Diaz’s daughter because there was something about her that had slipped under the barrier he’d erected to keep all women, regardless of their age or looks, at a distance until he achieved his goal.

  He inclined his head politely. “Good night, Miss Diaz.” His attempt to move past her was thwarted when she tapped his shoulder with the fan.

  “Please don’t leave.”

  Samuel stopped and glared at her. “What is it you want with me?”

  M.J. saw the frown settle into his features, heard his chilly tone, but refused to back down. “I want to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Your country.”

  “What about my country?”

  She gestured toward the stone bench facing the one she’d just vacated. “Please sit down.”

  Samuel wondered if she was part of a conspiracy to lure him into a situation from which there was no escape. His suspicions were short-lived when he heard Jose Luis calling his daughter’s name.

  “I’m over here, Papa.”

  Jose Luis came closer, slowing when he saw his daughter with the American. His eyelids fluttered at the same time he swallowed a moan. First Antonio Santamaria and now Samuel Cole. He had to see Marguerite-Josefina married without delay.

  M.J. looped an arm through her father’s. “Are you leaving now?”

  Jose Luis stared at Samuel Cole. The man hadn’t bothered to give him a glance. There was no doubt the American was as entranced with his daughter as she was with him.

  Marguerite-Josefina had accused Jose Luis of clinging to the old ways, and she was right because he’d believed she would agree to an arranged marriage. He gritted his teeth in frustration. How could he have been so wrong, so blind as to what she wanted? He knew she was attracted to black men, but feared she would select one so unworthy of the Diaz name and legacy.