Eduardo left Cuba before we did, before President Batista fled the country on New Year’s Eve, abandoning us to Fidel’s hands on New Year’s Day. I always wondered if all the money Eduardo had slipped people throughout the years gave him advance warning that Cuba’s fortunes were about to shift.

“Most women I meet these days spend their time flattering me,” he adds, grinning. “It’s exhausting, really.”

I stifle a snort as I tear my gaze away from his and scan the crowd.

My breath hitches.

A pair of blue eyes bore into mine, and Eduardo is momentarily forgotten.

There’s no fiancée tonight, or if there is, they aren’t the sort of couple to dangle on each other’s arms. More likely than not, she’s at another more respectable venue like most unmarried girls of good families. It’s that kind of party.

Nicholas Preston is just as handsome as he was last night, wearing a suit instead of a tuxedo, his skin hale and tan against the blinding white collar.

Polite society comes to Palm Beach during these winter months to escape the harsh temperatures farther north, and it’s easy to envision Senator Preston hitting the links with the Kennedys in the early-morning Florida sun, or walking along the sandy beach in the waning hours of the day. He gives the impression he is happiest doing something: either behind the helm of a sailboat, gripping the stick of a plane, on the back of a polo pony brought down from some tony estate somewhere, or with a racket or club in hand, ready to thoroughly trounce his opponent.

I stand next to Eduardo while he greets our host, the heir to a newspaper fortune whose family is immortalized in the Social Register, which serves as my mother’s unofficial bible as she pores over the names, searching for an eligible man to which she can affiance one of her remaining unmarried daughters.

Nicholas Preston’s gaze follows me, lingering over the bare skin exposed by my gown, Eduardo’s hand on my body, the point where our flesh meets.

When Eduardo leads me onto the makeshift dance floor, a shiver slides down my spine, the weight of Nicholas’s stare unsettling, the curious looks from the rest of the guests pointed. Have they noticed the attention I’m drawing from Nicholas Preston’s corner of the room? Or are their stares merely a reaction to the sight of Eduardo and me together, the manner in which our dark features complement each other, the familiarity with which we move a confirmation of their suspicions that I am Eduardo’s mistress or something equally tawdry?

“He’s going to ask you to dance,” Eduardo predicts before releasing me into a twirl.

I peek over his shoulder.

Nicholas Preston is still watching me. Goose bumps rise over my arm, the twirling making me just a bit dizzy. Or perhaps it’s everything else tonight: the man, the subterfuge, the want curling inside me.

The thing is—I want Nicholas Preston to cut in. I want him to cross the ballroom and ask me to dance, and I want to pretend I’m just a twenty-two-year-old girl, the girl I used to be.

I only want to dance with him. Fine, maybe flirt a bit, too.

The song ends without me glancing his way again; it’s a Herculean effort, considering I feel his attention on me as surely as a physical caress. Eduardo was right; he does watch me.

Constantly.

Eduardo leaves me by myself in a corner with a wink and the promise to return with champagne. Thirty seconds later—

“Dance with me.”

My brow rises at the smooth voice, the confidence contained in those words, as I fight to keep a smile from my red lips. I like him better for the fact that he, too, treats this as though it is little more than a foregone conclusion, as if we are two magnets drawn to each other, his arrogance tempered by the weight of his gaze on me all evening.

“Your asking has lost some of its polish. What was I before, ‘thief-of-hearts,’ wasn’t it?”

He smiles. “I didn’t think my charms worked on you.”

I can’t quite formulate a response to that one.

“People will talk,” I say instead.

“Yes, they will.”

“It’s an election year.”

He laughs. “It’s always an election year.”

“And you are an engaged man.”

“I am. But have no fear, I won’t lose my heart over a dance.”

I grin, returning his verbal volley. “But I might.”

A dimple winks back at me as he offers me his hand. His fingers are momentarily unencumbered by the weight of a thick, gold wedding band. “Then we will just have to risk it, won’t we?”

I hesitate.

I wasn’t merely being coy earlier. I walk a tightrope when it comes to my reputation.

And still, I can’t summon the energy to deny myself this pleasure.

I place my hand in his, my fingers threading with his fingers, our palms connecting.

There are whispers; there are muffled gasps. Ironic, really, considering we’re surrounded by men and women dancing with partners to whom they aren’t lawfully wed.

But if I’ve learned anything in this past year, it’s that there are different rules for those who were born into this enclave, and interlopers like me. If Andrew’s proposal last night bothered them, tonight is likely to drive them to apoplexy. In the social hierarchy of the Palm Beach set, there is no higher an unmarried—or married—woman can reach than Nicholas Randolph Preston III. His is the lead they all follow.

He knows it, too.

He appears impervious to the looks, the wagging tongues, nary a hitch in his stride. At the same time, it’s impossible to miss the way his breath catches as his hand settles on my waist.

“Are you enjoying yourself tonight?” he asks.

I cock my head to the side, studying him while we dance. “Are we to have polite conversation now?”

“Would you rather we had impolite conversation?”

“Perhaps. What exactly would that entail?”

“I imagine it would start and end with your dress.”

I flush beneath said fabric. “It is a very fine dress.”

A dress Marilyn Monroe herself would be proud to wear, formfitting and decadent, perfect for highlighting the abundance of curves God gave me. My mother barely approved of the dress, her concern for gossip warring with her need to marry her daughters off with military-like precision. Pragmatism won out over propriety, as it so often does.

“Are you trying to steal my heart?” His expression is one of mock alarm.

“Only a little bit,” I tease.

My gaze drifts to the other guests before returning to my partner. “Considering the way we left things last night, I thought you were angry with me.”

“I don’t think we’ve known each other long enough to be angry with each other.”

“True,” I acknowledge. “It occurs to me we’ve actually never been properly introduced.”

“Then let me rectify that immediately. My friends call me Nick.”

I turn the name over in my mind, savoring the sound of it, the private side to a very public man. How many women have used the moniker with him? Have known the casual side of him?

“Are we to be friends?”

“Something like that.” His gaze turns speculative. “You seem to have other friends here tonight.”

It’s impossible to miss the question wrapped in those words.

“Eduardo is more like an old, dear family friend. Almost like a brother.”

Almost, but not quite.

“With similar interests, I presume?”

It’s easy to forget the man before me is more than the golden facade, that he sits on powerful committees in the Senate. Eduardo wasn’t wrong; Nick Preston would make a powerful ally.

“Are you trying to get me to spill all my secrets?” I ask.

“Hardly. In my thirty-seven years, I’ve learned the art of patience. I have a feeling your secrets are best unwrapped one by one.”

“I didn’t realize you were so old.” Etiquette is momentarily forgotten as I seize on that important fact and ignore the unmistakable hum of interest lingering in the background of our conversation. No wonder he’s eager to marry.

“Is thirty-seven old these days?”

“It is when you’re twenty-two.”

He smiles. “See. My first Beatriz secret.”

“My age is hardly a secret.”

“Perhaps. But it is something about you, one more piece to the puzzle. Besides, I have a feeling you’re an old soul at twenty-two.”

“I don’t think you can live through a revolution and lay much claim to innocence afterward,” I agree.

“No, I suppose you can’t. War has a way of sanding down your virtue.”

“You fought in Europe, didn’t you?”

He nods, his expression more guarded than before.

“So you know then.”

“Yes,” he replies.

It’s different going to a place and fighting, seeing the destruction men can wreak all around you, and then returning home, to the sanctuary of a country that will likely never descend into such madness. Harder to live it in your favorite haunts, to watch death touch your friends and family. And still, war is war and misery comes to all men, natives and foreigners alike.

“It’s hard talking to people who haven’t lived it, who haven’t seen the things you’ve seen, who don’t understand.”

He nods.

“What was it like? Going to war? You were a pilot, right?”