Barefoot With a Bodyguard (Barefoot Bay Undercover) (Volume 1) Page 7

  Huffing out a breath, she stepped away. “I’m taking a walk around the resort.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder, a huge, hot, masculine hand that tripled her pulse the moment he touched her.

  “You’re not going anywhere without your husband, Tilly.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, ire rising at the all-too-familiar feeling of having lost a fight to a stronger man. “Then get some shoes on, because I’m leaving in thirty seconds, Benjamin.”

  *

  Alec kept his left arm around Kate, his right hand in his pocket, scanning the resort grounds from under a ball cap and behind sunglasses, hoping he looked like a groom on his honeymoon and not a bodyguard on high alert.

  Venturing out for the first time since he’d stepped foot on the resort was a strange sensation, but holding a woman possessively—a beautiful woman who seemed to shiver when he touched her—was beyond strange. Even though he suspected the physical was more because she would rather be anywhere, with anyone, than here with him, taking ownership of her felt…different. Good, even.

  “So, where did you fight?”

  He glanced down at her, not sure if she meant martial arts or the war. “No,” he said quietly, leaning closer. “Tilly and Benjamin Carlson, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She sighed, looking at the beach as they meandered down the path. “That’s the main building?” She pointed to a three-story structure with wide columns and high archways and sharp-looking doormen all around.

  “According to the pamphlet in the villa, that’s the lobby and stores, plus a spa called Eucalyptus and a restaurant, Junonia, which is apparently named after a rare seashell you can find here. Behind it is a pool and deck overlooking the beach.”

  She laughed softly. “You really did study that pamphlet.”

  “Out of sheer boredom.”

  “And you didn’t come over here to see it all?”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t be seen without you three weeks before we got here for our honeymoon. I did run a few times at dawn or after nightfall, but I haven’t ventured into the hotel or restaurant. Nowhere in daylight.”

  “Like a good nocturnal animal.”

  “Like a rat,” he agreed.

  She glanced up at him. “Hey, I really am sorry about before. About the phone call and making assumptions about your past.”

  “S’okay.” Then he smiled. “Is this your version of tapping out?”

  “What is that?”

  He patted her shoulder three times. “Tapping the mat or your opponent is how you signal that you’ve had enough and don’t want to fight anymore. Though some bastards like to get one last yank on an elbow or knee in a direction nature didn’t intend.”

  She curled her lip. “Has that happened to you?”

  “Rarely,” he said. “But that’s because I’m a trainer, not a…” He closed his eyes, realizing how easily she got him to talk about things he didn’t want to, and shouldn’t. Not to mention they were supposed to be honeymooners. “You don’t follow orders very well, do you?”

  She let their footsteps fall into sync as they neared the end of the path and reached a little wooden bridge, one of several that crossed from the walkway over sea oats to the wide-open white sands of the bay.

  “It’s not that I can’t,” she finally said. “It’s that I’ve followed orders for so long that I don’t want to anymore.”

  He thought about that, pretending to take in the water view, but really thinking about why a strong and brilliant woman would let herself be pushed around.

  “My dad is overbearing, as you might have guessed.”

  “And your mother?”

  She sighed. “Lost her when I was fifteen.”

  He felt the tug of sympathy, knowing the pain so well. “I was thirteen when my dad died.” The words were out before he even knew he said them.

  She nodded, as if she understood, too.

  “He had cancer,” he added, hating that he couldn’t seem to stop himself from confiding in her, which broke the first rule. Doing it outside of the villa broke the second rule. Not caring about breaking rules was probably the third of Gabe’s rules he was smashing. “Your mom?”

  “Car accident,” she said, looking out to the water. “I was driving the car.”

  “Oh, man.” It was the pain in her voice that twisted his gut, much more than the history she was sharing. “That sucks.”

  She sighed and feigned a smile. “Sure does. I was on my learner’s permit and made the stupidest of rookie errors, a blind left turn and…” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “Long story short, I’ll never forgive myself for making that turn that killed her, and turning my dad into the most overprotective parent on the planet. He practically threw me into the arms of one of the top criminal defense attorneys in Boston. He saw Steven as another man to ensure I don’t make bad left turns in life.”

  No wonder she hated this situation. He squinted into the sunlight pouring over the creamy building, glinting off some bright blue square tiles.

  “You want to know something interesting?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, either studying his face or her own reflection in his sunglasses, but didn’t answer, so he decided to tell her anyway.

  “A couple built this resort.”

  As he’d hoped it would, that made her smile. “You really power-studied that brochure. I might need some tips for torts.”

  He laughed, guiding her toward the grand entrance of the hotel. “She owned all the property and grew up on this island, and lived in a little house right over there somewhere. About six years ago, a hurricane blew it down, and she spent the night in the bathtub with her teenage daughter.”

  “Get out!” She leaned back, her jaw loose. “That can’t be true.”

  “No, it is.” He felt a weird satisfaction that he’d taken her mind off her sadness. “After the storm, she decided to build a bed-and-breakfast-type place, but the architect she hired came up with this whole high-end resort idea. And then she married him.”

  “Really?”

  “Some friends of hers invested in the place, and they all work here, and it’s grown massive and successful, with corporate investors now. They named it Casa Blanca after their favorite movie.”

  She let out a sweet laugh. “That is a great story.”

  “Or they made the whole thing up to get more people to come here, I don’t know.”

  “A made-up marriage?” she asked as he held a heavy glass door open for her. “Lots of that going around, I hear.”

  He shot her a warning look as they walked into the cool of the lobby, pausing to take in the long marble floor and Middle Eastern-looking rug hanging on one wall. But he no sooner saw the decoration, than he spotted a small crowd in the middle, and cameras flashing all around.

  “What’s going on?” Kate asked, trying to break free to get closer to the action.

  He kept close to her as the small group of people approached, surrounding a tall man holding hands with a woman and a young boy.

  “Let us through, please,” the man said with an air of authority. “Please let my son through.”

  “Nate, are you staying here?” one asked.

  “Let me get a picture,” another called.

  “Are you no longer naughty, Nate?” A woman held up her phone to get a shot over the crowd, the lens pointed directly at Alec. He tried to dodge the picture, but Kate’s full attention was on the cause of the commotion.

  “Oh, that’s Nate Ivory,” she said, moving closer. “You were right about him being on this island. That must be the woman he’s marrying and her little boy he’s adopting.”

  Alec tried to unobtrusively lead her away from the crowd and cameras, way more concerned about not getting his picture taken than some guy who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth fending off fans at a resort.

  “Come on, Tilly.”

  “Wait, I have to get a picture. My friend Laurie is crazy about him.” She searched for her ph
one just as the other woman got even closer with hers, forcing Alec to reach out and snag Kate to get her out of the picture, drawing some attention from the people standing next to them.

  “You don’t need to gawk at him, honey,” he said, loud enough for them to hear. “Come on.” She must have heard the determination in his voice, and maybe realized the situation they were in, because she instantly backed away and took his hand, as if she just remembered she was a cover, too. She tucked his tattooed fingers between her two hands and smiled up at him.

  “You’re right. You’re the only man for me.” She let him steer her away from the crowd as it dissipated when the celebrity family escaped out the front door to a waiting black SUV.

  “Do you really need to look around anymore?” Alec asked when they were finally alone. “’Cause this place is crawling with people and cameras.”

  She shook her head, resignation and disappointment on her face. “No, let’s just go back to the villa. I’m going to pass that contract practice test if it kills me.”

  “It won’t.” He leaned into her ear to whisper, “But if someone snags your picture”—or his—“it could kill you.” Or him.

  Thankfully, she didn’t argue.

  Chapter Eight

  Taking the long commute of about fifty steps from the bungalow he called home to the one where he had an office, Gabriel Rossi was already a little itchy for progress. But he’d been restless since he’d arrived in this particular ass-end of space.

  Restless for progress on something that he simply couldn’t control.

  Not his business, though. That was humming along, with two clients in the system. He still believed that the concept of his operation—helping people who didn’t qualify for witness protection but needed to get off the grid either permanently or for a while—was brilliant, and would be lucrative.

  And his guise that he worked as a freelance consultant to McBain Security, Inc. was perfect. He even liked that the resort had stashed all the outsourced functions like security, housekeeping, and excursions in a cul-de-sac of beachy bungalows that hugged the eastern edge of the Casa Blanca property.

  Five of the cottages had been transformed into offices, save one, which was the comfy two-bedroom bachelor pad he was sharing with Nino. Those digs faced a sizable farmette that fed the resort, where Nino had already made friends with the head gardener and her three kids.

  In fact, Nino had made friends with everyone, Gabe thought, as he unlocked his office door. He knew the change would be good for the old man, who got up every morning and put on a crisp white shirt and long pants, then went over to his cubicle at McBain Security, Inc. and did the administrative tasks Gabe gave him. He quit at noon, stopped by the break room so the ladies in the housekeeping department could coo over whatever he brought them to eat, then spent the afternoons digging in the dirt.

  Shit, Nino had more to do than Gabe these days. But Gabe had to be patient…and continue his “project” behind the closed doors of the small private office Luke McBain had given him.

  Which was exactly what he was doing today, taking out a non-traceable cell phone to make the call he’d scheduled a week ago. The bastard on the other end better answer, especially after making Gabe wait so long.

  He did, with a gruff hello.

  “How are you, Agent Drummand?” Gabe asked, purposely sucking up by using the formal title even though they’d once been acquaintances and colleagues. Never friends.

  “Same as I was last time you came sniffin’ around a year ago, Rossi. Nothing’s changed.”

  Gabe swallowed a smartass retort, knowing this dicknose didn’t even have enough of a sense of humor to appreciate a joke. “Everything’s changed,” Gabe said. “Cuba’s open.”

  “Not as wide as your mama’s legs, but yeah, Cuba’s opening. Slowly. Not the US Embassy, though.” A long pause and soft snort. “And not to you.”

  “What would happen if I showed up?” he asked.

  “Well, let’s see…” Drummand’s voice sang with false playfulness. “Lots of things, Gabe Rossi. And I bet you can guess what they are.”

  He sure could.

  But Drummand was on a roll now. “Let me help you out with some frequently asked questions by former intelligence consultants who didn’t play by the rules,” he said. “Will you get arrested the minute you step foot on one square inch of Cuba? Likely. Will they be able to find charges that would stick to you like superglue? No, but they will make up a few doozies that will keep you there longer than it takes Fidel Castro to get a hard-on. Will you be treated like a traitor and scumbag fuckwad and given some of that Gitmo juice that makes your ass hurt for the rest of your life? Quite possibly. Will you come out alive? Yes, but you might wish you hadn’t.”

  Gabe closed his eyes, more pissed at himself for thinking it could be easy. The US and Cuba may be loosening their choke holds on each other, but the CIA wasn’t letting up on any of its long list of enemies. And that list included Gabe.

  “Take my advice and don’t be booking the next flight to Havana, Mr. Rossi.”

  “No worries.” He’d have to go about his business another way…his way.

  “Listen, Gabe.” Drummand lowered his voice. “No one has seen or heard from her for years. I’d bet my ass she managed to get out and is languishing on some Brazilian beach dreaming about those lazy nights in Cuba when you nailed her stupid and silly.”

  “Shut the fuck up, asswipe.”

  “Hey, is that any way to talk to the only person in the CIA with the clearance, authority, or remote desire to actually speak to you?”

  “It’s the only way I talk to you.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to talk to a man who forgot where his bread was buttered. Where are you now? I see you’re untraceable.” He hacked a laugh. “Are you back in Boston or looking for work with ISIS? Heard they need hotshot former spooks.”

  Gabe gritted his teeth and didn’t respond, as much as it killed him.

  Fuck it. He needed this guy. “Any word on Mal?”

  Drummand was quiet for a beat too long, then, “Mal’s getting out real soon. But then, even you are smart enough to figure that out.”

  In other words, Drummand wasn’t going to share anything of value. Still, Gabe inched forward, thinking of all the implications of Malcolm Harris being released from federal prison. “How soon?”

  “Who knows? That mother must be giving blow jobs to sentencing commissioners, because they’re letting him serve the rest of his time on house arrest. But don’t worry. We’ll get him again. One way or another, he’ll spend life in prison. We’ll be on him like flies on shit, which is what he is.”

  Gabe closed his eyes, hatred soaring.

  “And we’ll be on you,” Drummand added, “if you so much as breathe on Cuban soil.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Anytime, Rossi. We haven’t forgotten you. And we won’t.” And the connection died.

  Gabe dropped the phone and thunked both elbows on his desk, looking up at a tap on the door.

  “Gabriel, it’s me. Unlock the door.”

  He stood to let Nino in, hoping the disappointment that grabbed his gut wasn’t evident on his face. He could lie about almost anything to anyone…except Nino. He had a hard time lying to the grandfather who’d left his comfortable life and family in Boston to follow Gabe on this adventure.

  But it was Nino who looked perturbed. His thin gray hair was mussed, and he plucked at the damp wrinkles of his usually crisp white shirt.

  “Does it never cool off down here?” he demanded, walking to the only seat in the office, facing Gabe’s desk. The room was sparse, and Gabe liked it that way. He didn’t keep files. He shredded them. “Is it November or July?” Nino demanded.

  “You don’t have to dress up for work, Nino,” Gabe said, returning to his own chair. “Shorts, commando, and T-shirt are all you need in this joint.”

  Nino scowled. “I told you I don’t work in dungarees or those flipper-flopper thin
gs. When I’m here, I’m working.” He adjusted his collar, which, thank God, didn’t include a tie. “But I will be taking the afternoon off to help Tessa with the sweet potato harvest on the farm.”

  “That’ll cool you down.”

  Nino shrugged. “I need to work off some frustrations.”

  Gabe scowled at him. “What are you frustrated about?”

  Nino looked toward the open door and leaned forward to whisper, “I know she’s a good woman and I don’t really want to kill her, but…”

  Gabe blinked, having lost track of what Nino said. “Who are you talking about?”

  Nino’s eyes widened. “The Jerk Chicken.”

  “Poppy?” He’d sensed from the beginning that the Jamaican housekeeper’s overbearing and opinionated style might clash a little with his not-so-easygoing grandfather, but Gabe figured the two of them were smart enough to work it out. Apparently, no such luck.

  “Now what?” Gabe asked.

  “I’m just wondering what her exact job is, that’s all.”

  Damn it, he didn’t want to do this for a living, but here it was: adult day care.

  He sucked in a breath, trying to put himself in Nino Rossi’s ancient wing tips. “Look, I know she’s a strong personality, but she’s my eyes and ears at the resort, Nino. She talks to everyone, knows everything, and can keep me informed about the possibility of a blown cover. I need her out there,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder in the general direction of the beach. “People tell her everything, and that’s a spy’s gift. And someone has to go in that villa where our clients are staying, so she’s perfect.” Nino’s face grew progressively unhappier as Gabe talked. “What is the matter with that?”

  Nino shifted in his seat and adjusted his collar again. “Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  “No, no…” He waved a big, gnarled hand. “The last thing you need is bickering employees.”

  Thank you.

  “And I don’t want to be one, but that lady…”

  “Thinks she knows everything,” Gabe supplied.

  “Exactly!” Nino slapped his legs loudly. “And after a while, I just want to say, ‘Hey, Miss Mama, I got thirty years in the kitchen over you, and I don’t give a flying…’ Well, you can’t say that to her, because she’ll stick her greedy hand out and make you pay for using a bad—”