The Cuban Assignation

Chapter Two

It was only when Cara reached for the eyelash curler in her make-up bag that she began to question whether she was putting a little more effort than was strictly necessary into preparing for her ‘date’ with John Porter. She couldn’t deny that she’d been quite taken with his new look, but with arrogance on her list of his many faults based on their previous meeting, the last thing she wanted was him thinking this game of dress-up was for his benefit. Dropping the curlers back into the bag, she reached instead for a basic, black mascara, finishing her task swiftly before checking the information she need to relay to John.

It was only once she was sure everything was in place that she headed for the street below and hailed a cab.

***

At Luca’s, John was getting impatient. Cara may have been considerably more attractive under cover than in office mode, but he couldn’t wait for this to be over.  He’d been fortunate to secure an outside table, which meant that not only could he keep an eye on his surroundings better, but the slight breeze counteracted the heat of the navy linen jacket he wore to conceal the gun tucked in his waistband at the small of his back.

He glanced at his watch again, and was just about to signal to the waiter when he noticed Cara heading inside and called to her.

“Maria…”

She turned and beamed at him, her eyes lighting up just as they might do if they really were old friends meeting up for the first time in months.

“Marcus, you made it!” She slipped through the chairs and tables and greeted John with a warm hug and kisses on both cheeks. He responded in kind, slipping a large hand around her waist and pulling her close, inhaling once again the fragrance of warm skin and coconut oil.

For a moment, John was reluctantly aware that in another time and place, he would have been more than a little turned on by the woman he held briefly in his arms. But ever the professional, he filed the thought away in seconds, and quickly took charge of the situation, ensuring they had drinks and menus.

To anyone overhearing their conversation, John and Cara would have appeared to be old friends – possibly more – catching up after a long period of time apart, but their exchanges were littered with key phrases that enabled John to mentally assemble all the information he needed to relay back to MI6 headquarters

By the time Cara had finished telling John what he needed to know, dusk had fallen and the terrace was lit by hundreds of tiny, white fairy lights. From inside the restaurant drifted an evocative Latin rhythm, courtesy of the live band performing that evening, and the dance floor was soon beginning to fill up.

John smiled at Cara watching the dancers wistfully through the window.

“You’ve never struck me as the dancing type,” he said, looking at her quizzically.

“You don’t know me well enough to even hazard a guess at my ‘type’ Marcus,” she retorted, quietly but sharply, irritated by his presumption that he could read her after just a couple of brief encounters in a work setting.

John glanced down, suppressing a smirk at her feisty rebuttal and began to raise his hand to flag down a passing waiter for the bill, but then he stopped abruptly.

Pushing back his chair he pulled Cara swiftly to her feet. She swung to face him, wondering what the hell he was playing at.

“Dance with me,” it was a command rather than a request and she fumed momentarily at his overconfidence, not to mention the inappropriateness off his behaviour. But before sheS could respond she felt his arm tighten around her as his mouth dropped to her ear whispering, “Ahora, por favour.”

She knew at once that this was not an offer she could decline. It had been agreed that at any sign of trouble John, who was most definitely not employed for his bilingual tendencies as far as Cara was aware, would drop a word or two of simple Spanish into the conversation.

They made it to the dance floor just as an energetic mambo was finishing, and Cara’s heart sank as the band began playing a passable cover of Carlos Santana’s “Maria, Maria.”

“Ah, they’re playing your song sweetheart,” said John sarcastically, his expression belying his tone of voice and he pulled her closer and they began to move in time to the slow, salsa rhythm.

Cara wound a hand around John’s neck, pulling his head down to whisper in his ear.

“What’s going on?”

“I noticed someone watching us outside the restaurant. I know I wasn’t followed so it’s probably nothing, but I’m not taking chances.”

All the while he spoke, he maintained a flirtatious smile on his face, bending to whisper the last few words in her ear before brushing his lips briefly across her cheek as he raised his head. Cara tried to ignore the flush creeping across her face and focus on the music. She was surprised to discover that John Porter displayed a considerable amount of skill on the dance floor, bordering on the snake-hipped, in fact, for an older bloke, she mused, before quickly dismissing the thought from her mind.

“How come you can dance, Jo – Marcus?” she asked, curiously.

“Sign of a mis-spent youth,” he replied. “My parents loved Spain – we used to go on holiday there every year. By the time I was about fourteen I’d caught on to the fact that the quickest way to the prettiest girls was via the nearest dance floor.” He grinned mischievously.

Cara couldn’t help but chuckle at his confession. It certainly made more sense than John learning to dance out of love for the art form.

Suddenly he spun her round and pulled her closer still, “He’s in here,” he whispered, “The guy that was watching us.”

“Where?” she mouthed, adrenaline immediately beginning to course through her body.

John signalled with his eyes to where a young and gangly Cuban man stood at the bar, urgently scanning the crowd of dancers before him. He watched surreptitiously as Cara casually turned her head to look at him…and promptly burst out laughing, on reflex burying her head in his chest to stifle her giggles.

John was not impressed. Pulling away and lifting her head to face him, he addressed her in a low but slightly dangerous tone, “What the hell is going on?”

Cara pulled herself together and led him away from the dance floor. “His name is Paulo,” she explained. “He’s a delivery driver at the factory and he’s had the hots for me ever since I arrived here. I’ve made it abundantly clear that I’m not interested but obviously he’s not too great at taking a hint.”

John was struggling to make sense of what was going through his head, anger at first that the job may have been compromised, combined with a ripple of jealousy that he was trying very hard to ignore.

“Perhaps, he’ll take the hint if I introduce you,” Cara teased, her eyes twinkling.

“For Christ’s sake – this is enough of a farce already,” stormed Porter, “If you think I’m getting involved in your love life you’ve got another thing coming.”

And with that, he strode off to get the bill.

Five minutes later, he met up with Cara again outside at their table. Confirming the information she had given him, he hailed two taxis, put her in the first one, and climbed into the second one, instructing the driver to take him back to his hotel.