Barefoot With a Bodyguard (Barefoot Bay Undercover) (Volume 1), Page 2

  “One more little leg of this trip and you’ll be all tucked into your villa,” he said with a kind, but yellowed, smile.

  “I just need to check in,” she said, fluffing the collar of a cashmere sweater that was already way too hot.

  “No checking in,” he said. “I’ll take you directly to Caralluma.” When she frowned, he nodded as though he anticipated a question. “It’s a plant from North Africa. All the villas are named after them, and yours is one of the brand new ones. Just finished a few weeks ago.”

  She glanced back at the creamy archways of the main hotel building, a new resentment growing. She didn’t want Dad paying for everything on this trip. “I need to go to the registration desk and give them my credit card.”

  “Are you kidding?” The older man’s eyes grew wide as if she’d suggested running naked down the beach. “You’ll get into that villa without talking to a soul, young lady, or being seen by anyone.”

  Katie opened her mouth to reply and got a single finger of warning. “It’s for your safety, Mrs. Carlson.”

  “Kingston,” she corrected, already thinking of how she’d go see the spa later, after she ditched this guy. “It’s Ms. Kingston.”

  He shot her a look, shaking his head. “It’s Carlson. Mrs. Carlson.”

  She tamped down the argument that welled up. One of her best friends had recently warned that her bitter divorce had left her sounding like a man-hater, and she didn’t want to. You don’t have to pick a fight with every guy who crosses your path, Laurie had told her.

  Of course, her friend was right. She didn’t have to hate them all just because Steven was a Dick With a Capital D, especially this dear little man who was probably a retired cop desperately searching for a purpose in his life.

  “You can just call me Kate,” she said, adding a warm smile to take away any edge in her voice.

  “No, that’s not your name,” he said, reaching into the inside of his jacket. “Not while you’re on this property, which, by the way, you can’t leave.”

  Any thought of warmth or not fighting or lying back and being nice evaporated instantly. “Excuse me?”

  From a pocket, he produced an envelope. “Here’s your identity package. You’ll have to give me your license and passport, plus anything else that might have your name on it. You can keep your phone, but we’ll have to erase all record of your name on it and block all incoming calls, with a few exceptions, like those from your father. Any letters or prescription bottles, also. Nothing on your person can have your real name. That’s very important.”

  Was she actually hearing him correctly?

  “I’ll have everything in a lockbox during your stay,” he added, taking in the look on her face. “Of course we’ll give you new bottles with your new name if you have medicines and, oh”—he glanced at her bags in the back of the golf cart—“tags for your luggage. Do you wear an ID bracelet or anything with your name or initials on it?”

  Kate’s jaw dropped wide open. “You’re serious.”

  “As a stroke.” He frowned. “Or is it a heart attack? I don’t know, but you bet your backside I’m serious. Being undercover is serious business. And that’s why you’re here, right?”

  Wrong. “I’m here to study.”

  “Then study that packet,” he said, indicating the envelope. “Learn your name and use it. Don’t answer to your given name even if someone calls it out. It could be a test or…” He gave her a harsh look of warning. “It could blow your cover.”

  Her cover. Good God, he was serious. “Are you going to tell me I have to dye my hair next?”

  He gave a two-shouldered shrug, his mouth turned down. “Not a bad idea. But that’s just me. Redheads are trouble.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Steven had hated redheads, too. Which was exactly why she’d added the auburn to her brown hair after the divorce.

  “I hope you like the name,” Mr. Rossi said. “I picked it myself.”

  She opened the envelope and found an Illinois driver’s license in the name of Mathilda Carlson.

  “Mathilda?” She couldn’t help choking a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “It was my Monica’s mother’s name. She was German, but…” He waved a gnarled, oversized hand. “We overlook some things for love, you know?”

  She blinked at him, really not sure if she should laugh or slap that hand with her identity packet.

  “Not everything,” she said dryly. “And while I appreciate the thorough security measures, Kate is common enough. I’ll just use Kate Carlson, if I must.”

  “You must use the name you’ve been given.”

  The command prickled her skin, summing up everything she hated most in the whole world. “No, I mustn’t. And I will thank you, Mr. Rossi, not to ever tell me what I must or must not do, is that clear?”

  Mr. Rossi stuck his lower lip out and glowered, a slight flush growing under his crepe-paper complexion. She braced for his next comment, probably something about how her father had warned him she was spirited or maybe how everything everyone did was for her safety. If he did, she’d bound out of this damn cart and get her own ass back to the airport and go right back to Boston with her middle finger raised.

  “Let’s compromise, miss.” His soft voice completely disarmed her. “How about you go by Tilly? It’s young and pretty like you.”

  “It also rhymes with silly, which is what I think of this whole overkill scheme to keep me safe while I’m on vacation.”

  “Not safe. Alive.”

  Irritation pirouetted up her spine, but she really had no beef with this man. “Mr. Rossi, honestly, I know there were some random suggestions to my father that I might be on someone’s hate list, but I plan to spend the entire time I’m here completely alone, studying for a big test I have to take, and avoiding contact with everyone. I really don’t care what you or the housekeeper call me.”

  “Poppy.”

  “Pardon me?” Was that yet another ridiculous name suggestion?

  “The housekeeper is Poppy. A Jamaican lady, and she was specially selected because she can be trusted. Although”—he lifted a shoulder—“she can’t be trusted with everything, I’m learning.”

  At the obtuse comment, she frowned. “But she knows my secret identity?” she asked, only half-joking.

  “She knows you are a client.” There was no humor in the reply. “She does not know your real name. That’s only for the inner circle.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Next he’d be giving her dark glasses with secret cameras embedded in them.

  She stifled a smart-aleck response, using the vista of cobalt-blue water frothing up on a wide stretch of white sand as a distraction. Sunny yellow umbrellas dotted the horizon, with chaises and hammocks and a few gauze-draped private cabanas for the well-heeled guests of Casa Blanca.

  So the circumstances were a little weird. Who cared? The place rocked, and she would not let an octogenarian 007 ruin her satisfaction.

  In a few minutes, he slowed the cart in front of a sand-colored villa that backed up to the beach, the column, arches, and golden, barrel-tile roof looking both brand new and Old World. Any trace of a bad mood vanished.

  “Put me up here, and you can call me anything you want,” she said with a sigh of pure pleasure.

  Straightening a little uncomfortably, Mr. Rossi climbed out and reached for one bag, while Kate grabbed the smaller one, knowing it was heavy with legal books and files for studying.

  At the door, he slipped the card key into the lock, getting a green light. But when he turned the handle, the door didn’t budge. He tried again, grunting a little with the effort.

  “I swear those electronic keys never work,” she said, putting the suitcase down, ready to help him.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s locked from the inside.”

  “How can that be?”

  “For your protection.”

  “How is that protective? I’m out here, locked out and”—she glanced over her shoulder, ge
tting a glimpse of sun-dappled palm fronds and not a stray guest in sight—“trapped in this hotbed of criminal activity.”

  He didn’t even smile at the tease. Instead, he scooped up both suitcases without giving her the chance to get the smaller one. “I assure you that no one else can do this, but there is a back entrance through the gate. Come with me.”

  She followed him around the side of the villa, stealing glances inside the windows, eager to see her new temporary home. They walked along a hedged path to a large metal gate, ornate but clearly not for decoration, locked with a digital keypad.

  “This villa is going to be exclusively for our clients,” he said, gesturing to the security device. “I’m one of the only souls who knows the code.”

  She fought a smile at how solemn he was, her heart softening toward the elderly gentleman who obviously just wanted to be relevant. Where did Dad find this guy? No matter, she was in the mood to humor him, if only to get into the place, strip down to a bathing suit, and soak up some rays. Hopefully, the wet bar was equipped with margarita mix and plenty of tequila.

  For after studying, of course.

  He tapped in a few numbers on the keypad, and the latch released. As she stepped forward, she caught a glimpse of the edge of a natural pool surrounded by stone and a small waterfall tucked behind palm trees. Delighted, she couldn’t help but dart forward, leaving Mr. Rossi behind in her excitement to see her little slice of paradise.

  “Mrs. Carlson!” he called.

  She waved him off and stepped around the side of the house…and froze in shock.

  Who the holy hell was that?

  A man whirred and kicked and sliced his hands through the air. He stood in the shadows under a pergola, the streaks of sunlight and shade bathing him in a constant movement of light and dark, his eyes closed, his fists taut, his legs flying and turning and kicking so hard she could hear them cut through the air.

  He grunted and turned so she could see his face, and she almost stumbled, gasping softly.

  Instantly he stopped, every muscle—and, God, there were a lot of those—suddenly as still as if he’d been carved in stone and put on display to…admire.

  All she could do was take in a mighty male chest inching through the opening of a snow-white kimono-type of jacket tied with a knotted black belt, and hold her breath as ice-cold blue eyes sliced right through her.

  “We used the gate,” Mr. Rossi said, coming up behind her, and not a bit fazed by the man’s presence. “I meant to call and tell you we were on the property, but I got distracted.”

  The man breathed, once and slowly, not a bit winded by that…that fighting dance he’d been doing. Then he nodded once, so slight it was almost imperceptible.

  He came closer then, like an animal approaching its prey, each slow step silent in his loose-fitting karate pants. She tried to take him in, guess who he was, and examine his features all at the same time, but it was impossible to even have a coherent thought in the face of such…such a man.

  Everything was too much. Too many muscles, too many angles, too many tattoos peeking through that top. His nose was too big, his neck too dense, his cheeks too hollow and shadowed, his mouth much too…much.

  “You must be Mathilda.” His voice was low, a rumble in his chest, somehow as terrifying as it was compelling.

  “I’m…” Speechless. Helpless. Breathless. She glanced at Mr. Rossi, who’d suddenly morphed from hapless escort into her lifeline to sanity.

  “She goes by Tilly,” he said smoothly. “And this is Benjamin.”

  Who the hell was Benjamin? Other than a brute who looked like he crawled out of hell and would be more comfortable going back there.

  “Benjamin Carlson,” Mr. Rossi finished. “Your bodyguard.”

  “Bodyguard?” Few words conjured the hated image of a helpless female as much as that one. The only other possessive, soul-sucking title that made her want to gag more was—

  “And your husband.”

  That one.

  Chapter Two

  Alec hadn’t been prepared for beauty. Not on this level. For some reason, he’d expected someone ordinary. Plain. Maybe even unattractive. Otherwise, how could this ruse even work?

  His body still burning from a drill warm-up, sweat rolling down his torso and soaking his gi, Alec ventured one step closer. And he managed not to react to the blow when her spring-green gaze landed on him with the expression of someone who’d just opened a prison door to discover an unwanted cellmate.

  “My husband?” Blood drained from her cheeks, leaving her creamy skin as pale as the sand he’d run on at dawn today. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Nino Rossi cleared his throat. Twice.

  Alec had come to know the man well in the past few weeks of hiding and waiting for his cover to arrive. Throat clearing was a sign the old guy was dying of discomfort, despite his best efforts to seem like he knew his way around the job.

  “Your father knew we were arranging this operation,” Nino said to her.

  She cut him in half with a harsh look. “No one ever told me about an operation or an arrangement or, for God’s sake, a husband.” She flipped a thick lock of auburn hair over her shoulder, looking past Alec at the villa, then around the patio, as if searching for an escape route that wasn’t there.

  Realizing that, she stayed planted, her gaze darting this way and that, to his face, then away again. “Can I get another villa, please?” she asked, tapping her foot exactly like a fallen fighter using the universal signal of submission. “Or a hotel room? Hell, I’ll take a cabana on the beach, but I have to be alone.”

  Alec gave himself a swift mental hammerfist for agreeing to this stupid plan. He had enough shit on his brain and didn’t need some green-eyed goddess looking down her perfect nose at him.

  “And you are not my husband,” she added with a bite in her voice. “Real, pretend, or otherwise. No husband. Let’s just get that clear right now.”

  Alec crossed his arms, hiding his hands, hearing her revulsion at the idea of being married to him.

  Nino put a hand on the woman’s back. “Mathilda.”

  She gave the old man a withering look.

  “Tilly,” Nino corrected, not that the nickname seemed to make her any happier. “A tremendous amount of time, money, and thought has gone into this arrangement, and I assure you we only have your best interests at heart.”

  She closed her eyes for a second, like she needed to scoop up some inner peace and came up empty-handed. “My father.” She shook her head. “He means well.”

  Nino jumped on the opportunity, flicking his hand toward the villa. “Please, why don’t you go inside?”

  She looked from one to the other, the tornado in her eyes fading. After a slight nudge from Nino, she headed inside, disappearing through French doors.

  Alec stayed back for a few seconds, centering himself. “That went well.”

  Nino smile was shaky. “You know what they say? Happy wife, happy life.”

  Alec almost laughed. “So now what?”

  Nino lifted his shoulder. “I’ll go talk to Gabriel. And you make nice.” He turned and left the way he came, through the side yard, the gate clanging behind him.

  Taking one more breath, Alec braced for this new opponent, who, despite her slender size, was obviously going to give him the fight of his life. He suddenly wished he were anywhere other than in a one-bedroom honeymoon villa with a woman who would probably choose solitary in an outhouse over being stuck here with him. He’d rather be anywhere…

  Except on the receiving end of Vlitnik’s knife or pistol. How bad could one beautiful woman be? All he had to do was pretend to be a professional bodyguard, pretend to be her husband, and pretend it didn’t bother him that she seemed to draw back in displeasure every time she accidentally looked at him.

  Damn lot of pretending, so he’d better start practicing.

  Taking her suitcases, he stepped through into the living area, where his new responsibility sat per
ched on the edge of a sofa, madly tapping at her phone.

  “My name isn’t really Mathilda,” she said.

  “I know. Mine isn’t Benjamin.”

  That got her attention. “What is it?”

  “For security purposes, we’re only going to use our cover names. They didn’t even tell me your real name. I’ll call you Mathilda.”

  “My name is Kate Kingston.” She stared at him, the longest she’d looked at him yet, eyes sparking like crushed emeralds. “I see no intelligent reason to call me anything else.”

  He set the suitcases on the floor with a soft thud. “Except that I’ve been instructed not to. Mathilda.”

  She merely pointed at the suitcases. “Don’t take them too far.” Then, into the phone, “Hello, Jennifer? It’s Kate. Is my father available?”

  Kate Kingston. The name suited her. A classy, clean, pretty name that matched her flawless skin and hair the color of a wild sorrel pony. The name of a woman who was attractive and sophisticated and smart and, when she wasn’t mad as a cat, probably very nice.

  But she was pissed now.

  She fidgeted for a second, fluttering her hair, then rubbing her fingers together in silent, impatient snaps. She stood and turned away from him, the sun through the French doors giving her a halo of gold and him a view of a long, lean but surprisingly curved frame in fuzzy pink sweater and tight jeans.

  “Is there any way you can pull him out of that meeting?” she asked, almost looking over her shoulder at him as if she half-expected him to pounce on her. “I have an emergency.”

  So that’s what he was. An emergency.

  “A serious emergency.”

  Alec almost smiled, staying right where he was, locking his hands in front of his body like he would while helping a trainee go through the motions of a practice. Oh, she’d be fun to train.

  Find your balance, Kate. Breathe in rhythm. Move like liquid. Dig for power. Now, let’s get on the mat, Kate.

  He shook off the last one, actually jerking his head from side to side as if he could shake the thought from his brain and body. There’d be none of that.