Love Without Measure

14. Love & Contraband

The humid evening air of 1927 Havana carried the scent of salt, cigars, and gasoline from the nearby docks. A streetlamp flickered outside the Hotel La Rosa, casting long shadows across the polished teak floors of the bar. Inside, jazz played softly from a gramophone, and the air was thick with the perfume of tobacco and secrets.

Isabel Moreau perched on a high stool, a glass of amber rum trembling in her hand, eyes scanning the crowd. She was young—twenty-three—but she carried herself like someone who had seen too much for her age. Her dark hair was pinned loosely at the nape of her neck, a few strands framing her sharp cheekbones. She wasn't here by accident; Isabel had a reputation for knowing the right people, for finding the things people claimed were impossible to get.

And tonight, she was hunting someone very particular.

Across the room, Alexander Drake lounged in the corner, half-hidden in shadow, his tailored suit impeccable even under the dim light. He was older—thirty-eight, perhaps, with a presence that seemed to command the room without effort. His silver-streaked hair and carefully groomed mustache only enhanced the aura of danger he carried. Men gave him space, women stared, but Isabel's eyes never wavered.

Why does he feel so familiar? she thought, tracing the curve of his jaw in her mind. I shouldn't want this. I can't.

Alexander's gaze met hers across the room. He raised a glass, a slow, deliberate gesture that made Isabel's pulse quicken. When he moved toward her, the jazz seemed to fade, replaced by the rhythm of her own heartbeat.

"You're late," he said, voice low and smooth, almost a growl.

"I like to make an entrance," Isabel replied, masking her fluttering nerves with a coy tilt of her chin.

He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing the spark he saw in her eyes against some unspoken code of restraint. "You're braver than you look," he said finally, sliding into the seat beside her. "Or more reckless. Perhaps both."

"I'm neither," she said, though the lie felt thin. He has no idea how reckless I really am.

Their first conversation was a careful dance, words cloaked in double meanings and half-truths. Isabel had come seeking information about a shipment—contraband whiskey coming into Havana under the cover of darkness—but Alexander seemed to enjoy watching her struggle against her curiosity, his smirk teasing, infuriating, magnetic.

"Do you always flirt with danger this easily?" he asked, leaning closer, letting the scent of cedar and tobacco wash over her.

"Only when the danger is interesting," she whispered, barely daring to meet his eyes.

Alexander's gaze lingered on her lips, on the subtle curve of her collarbone just visible beneath her dress. "Interesting is dangerous," he said, voice dropping, low enough that it made her stomach flutter. "And dangerous... is tempting."

She swallowed, the heat in her cheeks betraying her composure. I shouldn't feel this way. He's older. Experienced. Too experienced. And yet...

And yet... her pulse betrayed her, thrumming in her ears like a warning bell she was eager to ignore. Isabel's fingers itched to touch him, to feel the weight of him close, but reason whispered she should step back. He's dangerous. He's older. He knows how to break a woman without lifting a hand.

Alexander leaned closer, scent of cedar and tobacco curling around her senses. His hand hovered near hers, brushing accidentally—or perhaps deliberately—against her wrist. A jolt ran through her, a thrill she didn't try to suppress.

"You think too much," he murmured, voice rough, intimate. "Sometimes danger is better felt than rationalized."

She inhaled sharply. "And if I fall?" she asked, teasing him with defiance even as her stomach twisted.