Barefoot With A Stranger

  Barefoot with a Stranger

  Barefoot Bay Undercover #2

  Roxanne St. Claire

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to Barefoot Bay Undercover…where love is in the air and suspense will heat up the sand. Like every book set in Barefoot Bay, this novel stands entirely alone, but why stop at just one? Kick off your shoes and fall in love in Barefoot Bay!

  The Barefoot Bay Billionaires

  Secrets on the Sand (ALWAYS FREE!)

  Seduction on the Sand

  Scandal on the Sand

  The Barefoot Bay Brides

  Barefoot in White (ALWAYS FREE!)

  Barefoot in Lace

  Barefoot in Pearls

  Barefoot Bay Undercover

  Barefoot Bound (prequel)

  Barefoot with a Bodyguard

  Barefoot with a Stranger

  Barefoot with a Bad Boy

  Want to know the day the next Barefoot Bay book is released? Sign up for the newsletter! You’ll get brief monthly e-mails about new releases and book sales.

  http://www.roxannestclaire.com/newsletter.html

  Dedication

  This one is for Kristi Yanta, the Picky Editor without equal, whose delicate touch magically transforms my lifeless first draft into living, breathing color. I would crumble and cry (even more) over every book without her.

  Chapter One

  Chessie squinted at the departures screen and adjusted her glasses, certain she had to be reading the numbers wrong. Her connection was delayed for three hours?

  Sheesh. This was not in Francesca Rossi’s carefully laid-out plan for tonight.

  She turned away, spinning through her options like they were hypothetical computer bugs she needed to identify and eliminate. But this was not a tech issue she could solve with a few smart keystrokes. This was Atlanta Hartsfield Airport, full of grumbling travelers trapped by the stormy night skies and widespread delays for many flights, not just her commuter hop to southwest Florida where her brother waited.

  The jammed gate area practically vibrated with frustration and inconvenience. Behind her, the concourse bustled with impatient people rolling their bags, and the airport restaurant teemed with captive customers. Leaning against a sliver of space on the wall, Chessie pulled out her phone and texted her brother Gabe to deliver news she knew would elicit enough cursing to stroke out a nun.

  Gabe had been breathing fire down her neck for weeks, desperate to get Chessie to Barefoot Bay to help accomplish what he called “the plan.”

  The plan. Chessie loved a plan as much—probably more—than the next person and appreciated a clever and succinct title to sit on top of a well-ordered list. But this plan?

  There were no fancy covert names, like Operation BabyLift or Mission: Munchkin for this project. Locating a child that could be Gabe’s son was too serious and too major for cutesy code words.

  Weeks earlier, Gabe had flown Chessie down to Florida and enlisted her help in hacking an encrypted website to search for a woman supposedly living in Cuba. She didn’t know who Isadora Winter was or why Gabe wanted to find her, but when Chessie discovered the woman was dead, Gabe’s response told Chessie plenty. Isadora mattered to him. A lot. So Chessie had dug deeper into the layers of code to discover that Isadora had a child…named Gabriel.

  And that news had stunned them both.

  Her phone buzzed with Gabe’s reply. WTF? Get your ass on another flight!

  She looked at the board again, which flashed with even more cancellations. She still didn’t know why she couldn’t do her computer research from Boston, where she worked as a tech specialist for the Guardian Angelinos, their family’s security firm. But Gabe had insisted she return to the Gulf Coast island where he was running his own security-type of business, and he also insisted she tell no one about the child or their plans to find him.

  That last bit wasn’t a surprise. Like the rest of her siblings and cousins, ex-spook Gabe was always up to something adventurous and dangerous and secretive, saving lives and taking names.

  But not Chessie. The youngest in a long line of bodyguards, investigators, cops, agents, and spies, she was convinced that the Rossi and Angelino gene pool must have run out of the Badass DNA by the time she emerged. She was happiest in front of a computer monitor. Her idea of a brush with danger was refuctoring a line of code to make it irreversible. And maybe, when she felt wild, kicking her Mustang into fourth gear and doing doughnuts in an empty parking lot.

  Her phone flashed with another text from her brother.

  Fly to Orlando or Tampa, rent a car and drive. Or rent one in Atlanta and drive all night. You can be here in time for Nino’s peppers and eggs.

  There weren’t going to be flights to Orlando or Tampa, and while the idea of her grandfather’s signature breakfast sounded heavenly, Gabe was smoking something if he thought she was going to drive eight or nine hours at night in this weather.

  Not in the plan, bro.

  She texted back a sisterly “shut your pie hole” and peered over the gate crowd again, catching sight of a woman getting up to free a seat near the back. Shouldering the oversized handbag that carried her laptop and grateful she’d checked her suitcase, Chessie headed straight to the vacancy. She was two feet away when a middle-age man with a shiny dome and mustache beat her, practically throwing his backside into the chair to make sure he got it before she did.

  Chessie slammed on her brakes with a soft grunt, a little taken aback at his audacity. The man whipped out an iPad and ignored her, leaving Chessie feeling awkward as a few people stared at her. She glanced around on the off chance there was another open seat.

  Not happening. Her gaze landed on the man in the chair directly across from the one she’d almost snagged, meeting dark eyes that glinted with a mix of dismay and humor. Instantly, he stood.

  “Here, take mine.”

  “Oh, no, I…” Damn, he was big. Not just tall, but solid and broad. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I insist.”

  She started to reply but got a little lost while looking at his face, which was pretty much a straight-up dime. A rugged blend of chiseled and rough, a strong nose, soft lips, and a shadow of whiskers that didn’t quite hide a cleft in his chin that was downright lickable.

  She shook her head. “I…I…can’t.” Can’t think or talk, apparently.

  Slowly becoming aware of her surroundings again, she realized most everyone in earshot observed the exchange—but not the tacky seat-thief.

  “Please. It would be rude of me to let you stand there.” He put the slightest emphasis on rude, more of a deep rumble from that impressive chest, and a few onlookers shifted their attention to the truly rude guy. Who didn’t look up from a riveting game of Words With Friends.

  “Nope, you had it first.” Chessie smiled up at him. “Giving your seat away would be a breach of airport protocol.”

  “What about gentleman’s protocol?”

  Oh, a gentleman. A big, hot, sexy, lickable gentleman. “You would set dangerous precedent,” she agreed. “Every man in this place would have to get up and let the ladies sit.”

  “It could start a riot.” He added a smile that was purely unfair.

  “But you’d be a national hero.”

  The smile faded, and he shrugged a little, as if hero status held no appeal for him. Well, he certainly held appeal for her.

  Easy, girl. You’re nursing a heartbreak, remember? But one look at thick black hair that curled over his collar and framed chiseled features and a slash of black brows…and she pretty much forgot good ol’ Matt Whatshisname.

  The seat-stealer cleared his throat without looking up from his iPad. “Do us all a favor and go flirt with each other in the bar.”<
br />
  The man standing in front of her flinched ever so slightly, his eyes flicking to the right but not actually shooting the chair hog a proper dirty look. Instead, he gave Chessie a slow, conspiratorial grin that took him straight to an eleven. And a half.

  For one, two, maybe the span of three insane heartbeats, they looked at each other, and at least one X in every female chromosome in her body climbed out of their breakup funk to momentarily consider what else was out there.

  He openly checked her out for a few seconds, his gaze practically feasting on her face, then the faintest shrug gave her the impression he’d lost some kind of inner battle.

  He nodded toward the concourse. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Chessie opened her mouth to say no. She hadn’t planned on a drink. But she hadn’t planned on a three-hour delay between Boston and Barefoot Bay, either. Gabe hadn’t said she couldn’t talk to anyone, just not share why she was on her way to Florida.

  For once, she should go with the flow because this particular flow was so fine. “Sure, thanks.”

  The man leaned over to grab a duffel bag, then turned and got in the seat-stealer’s face. “I owe you one, dickhead,” he whispered.

  As they walked away, a woman watching the whole exchange gave a loud, slow clap, and a few others joined her.

  Well, what do you know? A drink with a smokin’ hot stranger. That was an interesting change in plan.

  * * *

  Mal knew they’d be watching him from the minute he walked out of Allenwood Federal Correctional Institution and started his journey. But he honestly didn’t think they’d be so damn obvious about it, throwing a tag team at him, using the tired cliché of a sexy woman being mistreated by a smartass stranger.

  They must truly believe he didn’t know how to spot or shake a tail. Maybe they’d forgotten who he really was. Maybe they figured four years on the wrong side of a cell door had destroyed his finely trained skills along with his spirit. Maybe they were all a pack of idiots with no imagination.

  For his part, Mal had taken and dumped two different cars, then boarded a train, followed by a Greyhound to Atlanta, and now he just wanted to fly to his final destination, for God’s sake. But he mustn’t have been clever or deceptive enough, because the babe and her buddy nailed him like a wanted poster on a tree.

  Mal hung back as the hostess led them to a table, taking the opportunity to check out the woman they’d sent to soften him up.

  Well, nothing about him would be soft around this woman, and they’d know that. She had that thick, inky black hair he’d always liked, though sloppily braided and hanging down to the middle of her back. It wasn’t her hair that got his attention, though. Or her ass, though it was perfection, round and high and youthful in faded jeans. It swayed side to side, powered by boots with just enough heel to tap a drumbeat on his stretched-to-the-limits libido.

  All very nice. But it was her smile that drew him closer, and proved the CIA knew him all too well. Somewhere in a file in Langley, it probably said “sucker for a smile that lights up a face.” And hers looked like someone had struck a match in her heart.

  So he followed and played their game. Because he wanted to know how far they’d go. And he wanted to look at that smile. Shit, he wanted to eat it.

  When they sat down, she ordered an Amstel Light but said no to a frosty mug. Beer from the bottle. Okay, that was hot.

  Of course, he was a man six days out of federal prison, and she was the first female he’d talked to in three and a half years who wasn’t washing his clothes or shoveling chow onto a plate. So she could have ordered piss in a bucket and he’d have probably sprung a boner.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” she said after the waitress left, crossing her arms to settle her elbows on the table and lean in enough to treat him to a glimpse of skin thanks to the open top button of an expensive-looking sweater. “I think we shamed him effectively.”

  Yeah, sweet thing. Like you two didn’t plan that since you followed my ass to the gate.

  “He should be ashamed,” Mal agreed. And so should Mal if he let a little cleavage make him forget how not unplanned this meeting was.

  He’d noticed this woman on the tram, then spotted her again in a bookstore. Hartsfield was a big airport, and a double sighting of anyone was unusual, but when she just missed the empty seat five feet from his face and looked right at him for help? They might as well have put it on the loudspeaker.

  Attention, Malcolm Harris. You are currently under surveillance.

  And now he was going to let her believe he was duped by her ruse and awestruck by her baby blues, which got even babier and bluer when she pushed her black-rimmed glasses to rest on top of her head.

  Which meant she didn’t need them and they were just part of her disguise. Amateurs.

  Mal inched just a little bit closer to inspect all the pretty she was showing him. And to be sure her mic could pick up whatever he was saying, so his half-truths would have all her colleagues scratching their heads instead of their balls.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She actually took a little breath before answering, as if she had to think about it. Field rookie, no doubt. “Chessie.”

  “Jessie?” C’mon, girl, get your fake name right.

  She shook her head. “No, Chessie. Short for Francesca.”

  Wasn’t like spooks to use unusual names. “You don’t look like a Francesca.”

  “No kidding.” And there was that smile again, showing perfect teeth and softening her features. “That’s my mother. Frann-ie.” She said it in a nasal, whiny voice and rolled her eyes. “And you?”

  Why lie? She knew damn well what his name was, along with his Social, his former agency rank, his famous fall from grace, and his stellar prison record. Shit, his whole miserable childhood was probably downloaded on her phone and filed under E for Embezzler.

  “I’m Mal.” He added a sly smile and extended his hand over the table. “Pleasure to meet you, Francesca.”

  She slid silken and slender fingers into his grip, and her mouth quirked with a tease. “I think we’re even in the weird-name department. Mal?”

  As if she didn’t know. “Malcolm,” he explained. “Not so weird.”

  “Traveling on business?” she asked, letting go of his hand after an extra second of contact.

  Oh yeah, let’s get right down to what the hell their man was doing crisscrossing the country and headed south. Headed to the Caymans, by any chance? Tapping into an offshore account?

  “More or less,” he replied. “You?”

  “Um…I’m going to see my brother down in Florida.”

  Someone at Langley needed to teach the rookies to lie without hesitation. But he just nodded as the waitress arrived and placed two beers on paper cocktail napkins, and rushed to get the next order.

  Chessie lifted her bottle. “To chivalry. Long may it live in the heart of a perfect stranger.”

  He tapped her amber bottle with his bright green Heineken. “I’m not perfect.” As you well know.

  She locked on him a few seconds too long over the bottle. “Pretty close,” she whispered, and damn it, his body instantly betrayed his head with a low, deep, primal stir. No surprise there. He hadn’t gotten laid in so long, his balls had formed their own picket line to protest.

  He took a long pull on the beer, still snagged by her mesmerizing crystal blue rimmed in navy eyes, knowing he had a challenge in his own gaze. Part of him wanted her to know he was not ignorant of her ploy, and part of him—the protesting-balls part—wanted to see just how far she’d go with this honey trap of an operation.

  “You’re staring,” she observed with a pointed look.

  “You’re gorgeous.” And that was no lie. With the little bit of beer moisture clinging to lips darkened by now-faded lipstick, her mouth was luscious. When she looked down, long lashes lay dark and thick against creamy skin. She brushed an escaped lock of ebony hair off her cheek, just the right blend of self-conscious
and flirtatious.

  Man, those pricks had pulled out all the stops today.

  “Thanks.” She glanced up, all wide-eyed and womanly. “I haven’t felt very gorgeous lately.”

  And now we get the made-up sob story meant to get him to open up and share. He’d stood guard in prison cells when lesser men than he were brought to their knees and made to vomit state secrets. And his training certainly taught him just how effectively the right woman could pull tales, and the truth, from loose lips.

  But he could play, right? Watch this sassy doll work for her paycheck, at least.

  “You haven’t felt gorgeous?” He snorted softly. “Are all the mirrors broken in…where are you from?”

  “New England,” she said, sounding obviously vague. Maybe they hadn’t worked out her cover that thoroughly.

  Time to needle her a little. Time to let her know he wasn’t as dumb as they thought. “Something you’re not telling me, Chessie?”

  A slow burn started down by the pretty cleavage, the blush working its way up to the hollows of her sculpted cheeks. Maybe it was her obvious embarrassment at being so transparent, or maybe four years in prison hadn’t turned him into enough of a dick, because that little flush caused an unexpected twist of pity in his gut. Poor kid would be on the receiving end of a shit storm if they thought she wasn’t ready for field work.

  She picked up her beer and worked hard for nonchalance. “Why would you ask that?”

  He reached for her left hand and thought of a way to save her from herself. “Because I don’t flirt with married women, so if you’re hiding a husband, let me know.”

  Her ring finger was bare—he’d already noted that—but she gave his hand a squeeze. “Not married,” she assured him. “And so nice to meet a solid citizen.”

  He almost snorted at the irony. “Define solid,” he said, shifting his gaze away but still holding her hand because it felt so damn good to touch the smooth palm of a pretty girl, even if she worked for the enemy.