Best Kept Secrets (6 page)

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.

S
amuel 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.

“I’ve come to court your daughter, Senor Diaz.”

Jose Luis inclined his head. “Thank you for being truthful. Now I’m going to be truthful with you. There has been talk—a lot of talk—about photographs of Marguerite-Josefina—”

“I’ve seen the photographs,” Samuel said quietly, interrupting him.

“You were not bothered by them?”

He wanted to laugh at the older man’s pained expression. “Not at all. Marguerite-Josefina happens to be an incredibly beautiful young woman.”

Clasping his hands in a prayerful gesture, Jose Luis gave Samuel a direct stare. “They are shameful, Samuel. Men who would’ve considered marrying my daughter now think of her as soiled goods.”

“Then those men are fools.”

The words came out more harshly than Samuel wanted them to. He did not want to be disrespectful or insult the elder Diaz, not when he was residing under the man’s roof while at the same time requesting permission to court his daughter.

“And you would not think of yourself as a fool to want to be seen with her, Samuel?”

Samuel’s impassive expression did not change. “No. Not in Cuba or in the United States.”

Jose Luis was hard-pressed not to smile when Samuel mentioned the United States. He lowered his hands, resting them on the arms of the chair. “You are thinking of taking Marguerite-Josefina to the United States?”

“I would. But only as Mrs. Samuel Cole.”

He sat forward on the chair. “You want to marry her?”

The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of Samuel’s mouth. He had spent the past four weeks thinking about M.J.,
her outspokenness, delightful laugh, wit, intelligence and hypnotic beauty. He’d found himself comparing her to the other women in his past, but none had lingered with him beyond their brief encounters.

He knew M.J. was different the moment she sensed his dilemma over which fork he should select for the first course at the Moreno dinner party. And with the wave of anti-American sentiment on the island she could’ve waited for him to make a social faux pas that would’ve garnered the ridicule of those at the table.

Samuel angled his head, studying the man sitting less than five feet from him. “It is too soon to speak of marriage. I’m interested in getting to know Marguerite-Josefina. That is why I’ve returned to Cuba. But in order to propose marriage I would have to find myself in love with her.”

“While you are contemplating falling in love with Marguerite-Josefina, I believe it is only fair to apprise you that she is to be promised to another.”

A muscle twitched in Samuel’s lean jaw as he went completely still. “What do you mean promised?”

“I’ve arranged for my daughter’s betrothal to the son of a business associate.”

“What the hell do you mean by arranged?” Samuel’s quick temper had gotten the better of him. It was as if he’d learned nothing from his father’s daily whippings for talking back.

Jose Luis, seemingly unperturbed by the outburst, said, “I’ve spoken to Pedro Acevedo about offering my daughter’s hand in marriage. They will marry December twenty-seventh.”

Samuel felt a roaring in his head. It was the same sensation as being held underwater. “Does she know?” His voice was a whisper.

“She knows I’ve spoken to Senor Acevedo.”

“Does she know about the wedding date?”

Jose Luis shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Don’t tell her.”

“I don’t understand.”

Samuel’s head was filled with a jumble of thoughts and questions to which he had no answers. They were one-fourth into the twentieth century and in the Western Hemisphere, and he couldn’t believe women were still being forced into arranged marriages.

He uncrossed his legs and placed both feet firmly on the priceless Persian carpet. His dark eyes burned with a strange, lethal fire. “I said don’t tell her.”

“But, Senor—”

“Shut up and listen to me,” Samuel said between clenched teeth, cutting off Jose Luis’s entreaty. “I’ll marry your daughter, but only if she will have me as her husband.”

Leaning back in his chair, Jose Luis closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer of thanksgiving. It had worked. He’d gotten Samuel Cole to agree to marry Marguerite-Josefina.

He opened his eyes and stared at the arrogant American. “She will agree.”

Shocked by the enormity of what he’d proposed, Samuel took in deep breaths to slow down his pounding heart. He’d just offered to marry a woman he’d seen briefly during one encounter, a woman he didn’t know, a woman with a quick tongue who he was certain would challenge him without regard to the consequences, a woman who would be the perfect hostess for their soirees, and a woman who was certain to give him beautiful, intelligent children.

“What makes you so certain she will?”

A knowing smile crinkled the skin around Jose Luis’s jet-black eyes. “You are young and you are also not, as she refers to Senor Acevedo, a frog.” His smile widened as Samuel lowered his head and forced back a grin. “You are also a Negro.”

Samuel’s head snapped up. “Why should that matter?”

Jose Luis sobered. “It matters because the blood of Africa also runs in my veins. My grandmother was a black woman—
a Cuban slave who gave my grandfather his only child and heir. My mulatto father was educated in Spain, and while there he married a Spanish woman and brought her back to Cuba. She and four of my brothers died from yellow fever in seventy-three, leaving Papa to raise my sister, Gloria, and me.

“I waited until I was forty-three to marry, and Carlotta made me a father at forty-five. Carlotta was carrying our second child when she was injured in a riding accident. A feral pig frightened her horse and she fell and lay bleeding for several hours until I found her. The doctor couldn’t stop the bleeding and she died the next day. The hardest thing I ever had to do was tell my four-year-old daughter that her mother was never coming back. When she was six I sent her to a convent because I felt she needed to be around other girls her own age.”

Samuel studied the face of the man who was to become his father-in-law. “You never remarried?”

He shook his head. “No. It took me almost forty years to find a woman like Carlotta, and I wasn’t willing to spend the next forty looking for someone to replace her. I love my daughter, even though there are times when I don’t show it, because she is so headstrong and rebellious.”

Samuel smiled. “She’s a modern woman.”

“Too modern for Cuba,” Jose Luis countered.

“Too modern for Cuba or too modern for you?”

A flush spread over Jose Luis’s face as he swallowed a retort. He didn’t want to debate with Samuel about how the island’s proximity and economic ties to the United States substantially influenced Cuban culture. North American social mores had significantly affected Cuban social mores, especially in urban cities like Havana.

Reaching for the decanter, Samuel poured a small amount of sherry into both glasses, handing one to Jose Luis. They touched glasses. “To family,” he said in a quiet voice.

“La familia,”
Jose Luis repeated in Spanish.

Sharing a smile, the two men tossed back their drinks in a single swallow. Samuel felt a wave of warmth settle in his chest as a pleasant nutty flavor lingered on his palate.

“Do you like it?” Jose Luis asked, seeing Samuel’s expression.

“Yes. I like it much better than French wine.”

Jose Luis snorted. “The French. What do they know? Now, Spanish wine is
magnifico
.”

Samuel held out his glass for a refill, and as he stared at the sherry he recalled all that had happened to him within the short span of a month: he’d become an exporter and importer of fruits and vegetables, and he’d promised a man he would marry his daughter before the end of the year.

He’d committed his future to a stranger—a woman whose first language he didn’t understand, a convent-educated woman who’d permitted a photographer to capture her sensuality, and a woman he would bring to the United States, his home and country that would become her country
and
her home.

Samuel, seated opposite Gloria Diaz at a table in the smaller of the two dining rooms in the exquisitely decorated home, watched M.J. as she nodded to a serving girl that she was ready for the next course. The gesture was only discernible to those staring at her, and despite what Gloria had told him about her niece’s unorthodox views regarding the class into which she’d been born, the result was that Marguerite-Josefina was undeniably a product of her upbringing.

Gloria, sporting a stylish salt-and-pepper bob hairdo, touched the corners of her mouth with a napkin. She’d exchanged her man’s shirt and trousers for a simple shirtwaist dress.

“I just received a call from a friend who’s only going to be in Havana for a few days, so I’ve decided to drive back early tomorrow to spend some time with her.”

An expression of distress furrowed M.J.’s smooth forehead. “
Tia
, you promised—”

“It’s okay,
Chica
,” Jose Luis said. “She can go back to Havana.”

M.J.’s eyebrows lifted. “But, Papa. Who is going to chaperone me and Samuel?”

Jose Luis stared at her, then Samuel. “You won’t need a chaperone if Samuel treats you like the lady you’ve been raised to be.”

Samuel stared back at Jose Luis. “You have my word as a gentleman that no harm will come to your daughter.” It was a repeat of what he’d promised him in the Moreno garden.

There was a pregnant pause before Jose Luis spoke again. “Okay.”

M.J. forced herself to remain seated when she wanted to jump up and throw her arms around her father’s neck and kiss him. She would note this day in her diary as the first day of her emancipation.