Page 43 of Perfume Girl
“I don’t have any,” I said, glaring at him. “Why would you say that?”
“The evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“You turned up at my home unannounced and apparently my sister had no appointment with you.”
“A misunderstanding.”
“Ah, so that explains it.”
A feeling of dread stole over me, giving me goose flesh. “Where are we?”
He held my gaze. “Havana.”
I blinked at him, trying to process the information, and hoping I would soon hear the punch-line of his joke.
Pushing himself up, he threw the rope to a young man who secured our boat to a wooden post as he chatted with Astor—in Spanish.
“This isn’t possible,” I muttered.
I stared at the foreigners milling about…no,I was the foreigner. I tried to calm my panicked thoughts, my chest tight with disbelief. “Are you getting off here?”
“I’ve arrived at my destination.” He leaped onto the marina. “So apparently I am, yes.”
“I didn’t bring my passport!”
He faced me. “They don’t take kindly to illegal entry.” Reaching into his jacket, he removed his wallet and pulled out several banknotes, handing them to the young man. “Watch my boat, please, Samuel. Eres bueno con eso?”
“Sí, señor.” The Cuban gave him a wave.
Astor strolled off down the wharf.
I climbed onto the wooden dock and called after him. “You’re not seriously going to leave me here?”
He turned around with a grin, ambling backwards.
“Good luck, Ms. Wren.”
INEEDED TO BREATHE…REMAINcalm and not panic.
Under normal circumstances I’d have been happy to be here. I adored traveling and seeing new sights, meeting new people, and exploring richly layered cultures.
But at the moment I was about to hyperventilate. I’d probably pass out and fall into the ocean and be swept away, cursing Astor with my last thoughts.
I hurried after him with unsteady legs, pulling at the back of my dress which was stuck to my skin with sweat. I had no intention of spending the night in a Cuban jail.
Charging round the corner, I skidded to a stop and peered into the crowd. I couldn’t see him. A car sped by and I leaped onto the sidewalk to avoid being hit.
I felt a jolt of relief when I saw Astor entering an impressive building with spiraling white pillars.
I sprinted after him.
Bursting into the foyer of the Hotel Inglaterra, I watched Astor heading towards the east wing. On the way he gave a nod to a man who looked like the concierge, who handed him something, though I couldn’t see what.
My heels clipped on the blue and green tiles as I tried to keep up with him, shuddering at the sudden chill of air-conditioning. Lush palms and towering plants lined the corridor and the impressive décor surrounding me was a pleasant distraction from my sense of impending doom.
At a casual pace, I followed Astor into a well-lit room. He was at the bar casually ordering what I assumed was an alcoholic drink.
