Best Kept Secrets Read Free Page A

wasn’t as versed in Cuban history as he should’ve been, and had just learned of the resentment of the U.S.’s involvement in Cuba’s politics, military and economy.
    And it was obvious he had two strikes against him: he was black and American.
    “Would you not rebel against unfair labor practices and inequality?” Samuel’s voice was low and chastising. “Was that not the reason for the Spanish-American War?”
    Blood suffused Arturo’s face as his spare mouth thinned into a slash across his face. He reached into a pocket of his jacket and removed his watch. “It’s time we go inside and dine. I will give you my decision before the end of the week.”
    Not waiting for response from his guest, he pushed to his feet and headed toward the large two-story mansion.

Chapter 2
    I’ve never cared what others thought of me. With me, it was always—just me.
    —Ethel Waters
    J ose Luis Diaz stopped pacing long enough to glare at the ramrod-straight slender figure perched on the edge of a tapestry-covered settee. “You have shamed not only yourself and me, but also our family’s name!”
    Marguerite-Josefina Isabel Diaz’s expression did not change as she endured her father’s tirade. Why, she mused, did he equate shame and family honor with a mortal sin?
    “How could you take your clothes off and pose for that cabrón whose sole intent is to bring disgrace upon my head because I refuse to let him court you?”
    Marguerite inhaled and compressed her lips, attractive dimples showing in her flawless cheeks. “I did not take off myclothes, Papa. I wore a dressing gown when Antonio photographed me.”
    Jose Luis placed a hand over his chest and felt the rapid beating of his heart. His daughter, the sole issue of his loins, was conspiring to kill him. She had blatantly disobeyed him when he told her to stay away from Antonio Santamaria.
    “I send you to the universidad to get an education because you claim you want to be a modern Cuban woman, but if I’d known you wanted to be a…a puta …or one of those actresses who prance around half-naked, I could’ve saved my money.”
    Pinpoints of red dotted Marguerite-Josefina’s cheeks as her large, dark eyes glittered wildly. She sprang to her feet. “I am not a puta! And don’t you dare call me that.”
    “Bastante!” Jose Luis shouted. “You will not go back to the Universidad de La Habana, and you will not leave here until I find a suitable husband for you.”
    Tears filled Marguerite’s eyes and she blinked them back before they fell. She refused to let her father see her cry. She had no money of her own, so there was no way she could pursue her studies, but knew she’d never be a willing participant in an arranged marriage.
    Her slender hands curled into tight fists. “This is not the nineteenth century where women have no rights. I will kill myself before I become chattel to some stinking old goat!”
    “And the man who took pictures of you for all of Cuba to see isn’t a cabrón? ” Photographs of Marguerite-Josefina Diaz in a number of provocative poses, her hair flowing down her back or over a revealing décolletage, were currently on display at a Havana gallery.
    Jose Luis gave his daughter a steady look, then shook his head. “You do not understand.”
    “What is there to understand? Antonio is an artist.” Her voice was lower, softer.
    “He’s nothing more than a peasant who will take advantageof you and your innocence. He knows when I die you will stand to inherit everything. All you have to do is tell him that I’m leaving my money and the cigar factory to the Church and he will move on to seduce another woman.”
    “He doesn’t need your money because he has a benefactor.”
    The elderly man angled his head and lifted his eyebrows. “So I’ve heard.”
    There was something in her father’s voice that caused a shiver to snake its way down Marguerite-Josefina’s spine. She shuddered noticeably despite the late-morning tropical