Best Kept Secrets Page 6

  M.J.’s face was flushed with humiliation and anger at herself. Her quick tongue had gotten her in trouble again. She wanted to get to know Samuel Cole better, not chase him away.

  “Please forgive my impertinence, Samuel.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I’d like to know if your offer to act as my guide is still available.”

  Her embarrassment was short-lived. “Yes, it is. When would you like to meet?”

  “How’s tomorrow?”

  “It’s good, but…”

  “But what?” Samuel asked when her words trailed off into silence.

  “I have to get in touch with my aunt.” She actually did not want her aunt to chaperone her and Samuel but knew doing so would alleviate some of her father’s anxiety about her being alone with a man. “What are you thinking, Samuel?”

  “I could always arrange to see you another time.”

  “No!” she shouted before clamping her free hand over her mouth. “As soon as I hang up I’ll call Tia Gloria and ask her to come.”

  “What if she has other plans?”

  “She’ll change them for me.” M.J. smiled when Samuel laughed again. “What’s so humorous?”

  “You,” he replied, chuckling. “Do you expect everyone to stop what they’re doing because you deem it?”

  “No. Is there a telephone where you’re staying?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I’ll have Tia Gloria call for you and both of you can come together. Where are you staying?” He gave her the name of a hotel in Habana Vieja. “I’ll give her the number and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Samuel?”

  “Yes, M.J.?”

  “Thank you for coming back.”

  “I’m glad to be back.”

  “Hasta mañana.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  “Hasta mañana, Senorita Diaz.”

  M.J. laughed at his bungled attempt to speak Spanish. The words, which should’ve sounded musical, came out flat and nasal. “You need a Spanish tutor, Senor Cole.”

  “Are you available to take on a student?”

  “Very available.”

  “Good. Can we begin mañana?”

  “Sí, Senor Cole. Adios. That means goodbye.”

  “Adios,” he repeated.

  M.J. hung up, covered her mouth and swallowed her giggles. It had taken Samuel Cole a month, but he had kept his promise to return to Cuba. Now all she had to do was tell her father that he was coming to see her, then wait for his reaction.

  M.J. found her father in the library, reading glasses perched on the end of his aquiline nose. Rays of late-morning sunlight glinted off a full head of silver-gray hair. The crisp crackle of turning newspaper pages competed with the soft twitter of a pair of colorful birds flying around a large wicker cage.

  “Papa?”

  Jose Luis turned and peered over the top of his rimless eyewear, a slight frown vanishing when he saw who’d interrupted him. Just once he wanted to be able to finish reading the paper in one day.

  “Que tu haces?”

  “Tia is coming tomorrow.”

  “Good,” he said quickly before turning back to the article about Cuba’s newly elected president.

  “She’s coming with Samuel Cole.”

  “What!” The word exploded from Jose Luis. Rising slowly to his feet, he stared at his daughter as if she were a stranger. “What on earth have you done?” he whispered harshly.

  M.J. knew it was too late to retreat or withdraw her invitation to Samuel. “He’s going to be our houseguest. I knew this would probably upset you, so I asked Tia if she would act as a chaperone.”

  “Chaperone! I asked her to chaperone you in Havana, and what did you do? You posed naked for a cabrón to take pictures of you for all of Cuba to see,” he said, answering his own question.

  “Samuel Cole is not a cabron, Papa. He is decent, respectful. He told me that he felt uncomfortable being alone with me in the garden that night at the Morenos’.”

  “You know nothing about this man. You don’t even know if he’s married or has children.”

  “He has neither.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I asked him, Papa. You’re afraid I’m going to shame you when it is the last thing I want to do. I want to be able to fall in love and select my own husband, not someone you feel is suitable for me. You married for love. Why shouldn’t I?”

  Jose Luis gave her a direct stare. “Are you saying you’re in love with this American?”

  “He has a name, Papa. It’s Samuel.”

  Jose Luis threw up a hand. “Oh, now it’s Samuel?”

  “Yes, Papa. Samuel Cole.”

  “You love this Samuel?”

  “No, Papa. But I do like him. A lot. But if I’m not permitted to spend time with him, then I’ll never know if I can fall in love with him.”

  “You would actually consider marrying a foreigner when you can choose from any Cubano?”

  M.J.’s spine straightened as she lifted her chin. The gesture of defiance was not lost on Jose Luis. “If I love him, yes.”

  “How do you know he likes you?” Jose Luis asked, deciding on another approach. “You are throwing yourself at him when he may be toying with you. Men are known to do that until they get what they want.”

  Twin dimples kissed her cheeks like thumbprints. “He must like me because he did return to Cuba.” Her smile faded, a frown taking its place. “He will not use me, Papa, because I won’t let him.”

  “You let Antonio Santamaria use you.”

  “He did not use me. I trusted him and he deceived me.”

  “And you believe you can trust this American?”

  Her delicate jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth. A faraway expression in the dark eyes made M.J. appear older, wise beyond her years.

  “Right now I don’t trust any man. Including you, Papa. You plot behind my back to arrange for me to marry strangers—men whom you believe would be perfect husbands for me.” Her angry gaze swung back to her father. “If you force me to marry someone I have not chosen for myself I swear on my mother’s grave that I will bring shame on you and this house by taking lovers—as many and as often as I can.”

  A shocking and paralyzing fear would not permit Jose Luis to utter a sound. Sharp pains knifed his chest as objects became fuzzy. He clutched his chest, praying for the pain to stop as the image of his own father holding his chest at the dinner table before he collapsed, facedown, into the food on his plate came back in vivid clarity. His father died as he and Gloria witnessed the last seconds of his life. Miraculously the tightness eased, his vision cleared, and he drew in a lungful of air.

  “You cannot, Marguerite-Josefina,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “I will, Papa, if you force me to marry someone I do not love.”

  He knew he had lost the battle. Marguerite-Josefina was too much like her aunt. “What do you want from me, Chica?”

  M.J. walked over to her father and hugged him. “I want you to trust me, Papa. I want you to see me happy. I do not like the men you want for me. They are boring, weak, and they repulse me.”

  Jose Luis tightened his hold on her slender body. “Pedro Acevedo comes from one of the best families in Cuba.”

  “He looks like a frog! And he’s old and ugly.” Pulling back, she stared up at Jose Luis. “I cannot change who I am or what I want.”

  Jose Luis buried his face in her fragrant black hair. “I don’t want you to change, Chica. You’ve always brought joy to my old heart.”

  “You’re not old, Papa.”

  “Are you now a mentirosa?”

  “I’m not lying, Papa. You’re only sixty-four.”

  “Sixty-four is old. I should be a grandfather already.”

  “That can happen if you stop trying to control my life.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “You want children?” She nodded, smiling. “But I thought you w
anted to be a libertine like your aunt.”

  “I want to marry and have children, but I also want to control my destiny. I want a husband who thinks of me as his partner and not as his possession. I don’t want my children hampered by archaic laws or customs that will limit their success.”

  Jose Luis kissed her forehead. “You are so young and so very idealistic, Chica.” He kissed her again. “We’ll talk again later—after you’ve made preparations for your American houseguest.”

  “Thank you, Papa. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” M.J. crooned as she raced out of the library, then slowed considerably when she spied one of the gardeners. She inclined her head when he stepped aside to let her pass him as she sought out the housekeeper. Unconsciously, she’d slipped smoothly back into her role as mistress of the house.

  M.J. stood in the doorway, mixed emotions of anticipation and jealousy gripping her as she watched Samuel Cole with her aunt, who’d rested a hand on his shoulder while smiling adoringly up at him.

  She’d spent the past four weeks trying to recall everything about him and failed—miserably. Samuel had changed. He appeared taller, slimmer, his face several shades darker. He reminded her of a well-to-do Cubano with his Panama hat, tan lightweight suit, stark-white shirt, brown necktie and coordinating tan-and-white shoes.

  She held her breath, watching as he came closer and closer until he stood less than three feet away. His warmth, his smell, and the way he’d angled his head while staring at her, made her feel things she did not want to feel—at that moment. Her heart fluttered in her chest like the delicate wings of the caged birds in her father’s library.

  She offered him her right hand. “Bienvenido, Senor Cole.”

  Samuel removed his hat and cradled her hand, kissing the back of it. “Gracias, Senorita Diaz.”

  M.J. gave him her winning smile. “Did you enjoy Costa Rica?”

  “Si.”

  Her smile widened with his attempt to speak Spanish. “I hope your visit met with success.”

  “It was bueno,” he said, releasing her hand, “and before you ask me anything else, let me tell you that my entire Spanish vocabulary consists of all of ten words.”

  “Which means you’ll still need a tutor.”

  Samuel found it impossible to look away from the woman who unknowingly had cast a spell over him. Staring at her in the daylight was like a punch to his midsection. He couldn’t breathe or swallow without experiencing pain—pleasurable pain. Intelligent, sensual and ardently feminine, Marguerite-Josefina Diaz possessed all he admired in a woman.

  “Sí, Senorita Diaz.”

  Gloria frowned at Samuel. “Do you plan to spend the rest of your life calling my niece Senorita Diaz?”

  “Tia!”

  Fifty-eight-year-old Gloria glared at M.J. “I did not leave Havana to watch you react to him like a convent novice,” she chastised in rapid Spanish. Like quicksilver, her mood changed and she smiled sweetly at Samuel. “It’s time for siesta,” she said, switching fluidly to English. “M.J. will show you to your room. Don’t worry about your luggage. Someone will bring it up to you.”

  M.J. threaded her fingers through Samuel’s. “How long can you stay?”

  He went completely still, his gaze fusing with hers. “How long do you want me to stay, M.J.?”

  “Long enough for us to become friends.”

  Samuel’s solemn expression did not change. “That shouldn’t take too long. Three days should do it.”

  Her delicate jaw dropped. “Three days?”

  “Is that too long?”

  “No! It’s not long enough.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “If that’s the case, then we should spend as much time as we can together.”

  M.J. gave him a saucy grin. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Sí, Senorita Diaz.” Samuel gave her fingers a final squeeze.

  He wanted to tell M.J. that he wanted her, but not as a friend. He knew women, those he’d grown up with or gone to school with, who were his friends.

  He’d secured an agreement with the United Fruit Company to export bananas and other tropical produce to the States in exchange for the Cole brothers’ soybean crop. His attorney had drawn up the papers required to file for a corporation in the state of Florida.

  Seven years.

  It had taken a little more than seven years, give or take several weeks, after he’d found himself on a battleship sailing back to the United States with his black market booty—booty he thought of as spoils of war—secreted in bars of soap and in a jar of hair pomade to realize his goal to become an independent businessman.

  Confident his Latin American venture would eventually make him a very wealthy man, he was free to concentrate on the person who disturbed his dreams and whose image filled his waking moments.

  Gloria Diaz had shown him the photographs of M.J. taken by popular Cuban artist Antonio Santamaria. His camera lens had captured the essence of her youth, her femininity and her unabashed sensuality for perpetuity.

  Samuel had stared at the photographs, trying to connect the scantily clothed Marguerite-Josefina with the prim but outspoken M.J. he’d spent time with in the Moreno garden. She may have looked the same, but the large, dark eyes staring out at the camera in the photograph were mysterious. The slight smile curving her lush mouth made it appear as if she were hiding a secret.

  If Marguerite-Josefina hid a secret, then Samuel Claridge Cole also had one. He’d returned to Cuba not to tour the country but to court Jose Luis’s daughter, his thirst for wealth temporarily assuaged and replaced by lust and obsession.

  Marguerite-Josefina Diaz had become his obsession.

  Chapter 6

  A photograph is a secret about a secret.

  —Diana Arbus

  Samuel spent siesta reclining on a chaise in a spacious, airy room with a view of a formal garden, an orchard with lime and lemon trees, and a lush lawn stretching for acres. He felt relaxed, carefree for the first time in his adult life; a foreign, indescribable joy he’d never experienced before would not permit him to fall asleep, because if he did he feared he would not wake up again.

  The room he’d been assigned for his stay was wholly Spanish, with stucco walls, terra-cotta floors, massive mahogany furniture and wrought-iron wall sconces. A dressing room and an adjoining bath provided privacy and convenience.

  A soft knock on the door startled him as he sat up and swung his legs over the chaise. He stared at the door. “Yes?”

  “It’s me, M.J. Open the door, Samuel.”

  “I can’t,” he said quickly. “I’m not presentable.” He’d removed his shirt and shoes, but had left on his trousers.

  “Are you naked?”

  Samuel smiled. “No.”

  “Then open the door.”

  Crossing the room, he opened the door to find M.J. standing on the other side, smiling up at him. “My father would like to see you in half an hour. He told me to tell you that he’ll be in his library.”

  Samuel couldn’t pull his gaze away from the single braid that fell over her right breast, the curling ends secured by a narrow, white satin ribbon. Her simple outfit of a white blouse and navy-blue skirt reminded him of the uniforms worn by schoolgirls.

  “Let him know I’ll be there.” Nodding, he closed the door slowly, shutting out the vision of the face and body of the woman with whom he did not trust himself to be alone.

  He closed his eyes, still seeing her photograph with the soft swell of breasts above a lacy décolletage, parted lips, half-closed eyes and heavy black hair flowing over the edge of a divan. She had the face of an angel and the body of a courtesan. A most winning and tempting combination.

  Jose Luis was standing with his back to a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, hands clasped behind his back, when Samuel entered his library. A cynical smile touched his mouth. His daughter had chosen well. Samuel was elegant; he radiated an inherent breeding that could not be purchased like a priceless bauble.

  “I�
��m sorry I was not here to greet you upon your arrival.” The foreman at the cigar factory had summoned him because of problems with several of his best workers who were demanding an increase in wages.

  “There’s no need to apologize. I’d like to thank you for inviting me into your home.”

  “I did not invite you, Senor Cole. It was my daughter. It’s apparent she’s quite taken with you.”

  Samuel stared at the tall, slender man with thick white hair and classically handsome features. He didn’t know what M.J. had told her father, but he wouldn’t lie to him.

  “I’ve done nothing to mislead your daughter, nor do I plan to take advantage of her.”

  Jose Luis pointed to a mahogany pull-up chair near a table that held a full-leaded crystal decanter and two matching goblets. The decanter was filled with red-gold liquor.

  “Please sit down.”

  Samuel took three long strides and pulled out the chair closest to the older man. “Please sit, sir.”

  Jose Luis hesitated, sat, then waited for Samuel to sit in a matching one. “Thank you…Samuel.” He reached for the decanter. “May I offer you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I know your country has a ban on alcohol, but here in Cuba you are free to enjoy our wines and our excellent rum.”

  Samuel crossed one leg over the opposite knee. “I don’t like wine, and the last time I sampled your Cuban rum I woke up with a hangover.”

  “What did you drink?”

  “Fuego liquido.”

  Smiling, Jose Luis shook his head. “It is a miracle you woke up at all. You had what we call liquid fire. If you won’t drink with me, then I’ll wait for dinner.” He glanced away, staring at the birds hopping nimbly from one perch to another. “What are your intentions toward Marguerite-Josefina?”

  Samuel’s eyebrows lifted. “My intentions?”

  “Sí, Samuel. Your intentions. Why have you returned to Cuba?”

  Samuel’s eyes widened as he registered M.J.’s father’s challenging query. The first time he’d come to the Caribbean country he’d been viewed as an interloper, just another American colonist seeking financial supremacy and domination. This trip was of his own free will where he hoped to capture the heart of a young woman of whom he could not rid his thoughts.