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

by Roxanne St Claire

  “You owe me money,” she replied, trying to sound like some cool, street-smart con girl instead of a knocked-up eighteen-year-old runaway.

  The fat Russian smiled, the glass he held distorting his skin and making his red, raw pockmarks even deeper. He reminded of her father, a drunk she hated with every bone in her body. Vodka mad her dad mean, too. Meaner.

  “Can you please pay me the ten thousand dollars you owe me, Mr. Vlitnik?”

  He sipped and made a noisy slurping sound with his tongue that turned her stomach. And spit the booze right in her face.

  Jerking back, she swallowed the hot curse that rose up and fought to still the hands that wanted to fly at him. Instead, she closed her eyes and wiped the droplets off her cheek.

  He put the glass down and leaned his large frame forward. “I don’t owe you shit, you little whore.”

  The two meatheads on either side of him moved closer, like trained dogs waiting for the signal to attack.

  Robyn managed to swallow, her throat already closing up. Come on, girl. Don’t let him smell your fear.

  “We made a deal,” she said.

  “But I still don’t have what I want,” he said, slowly moving his girth back in the chair.

  “The reward wasn’t for bringing him to you,” she fought back. “You said ten thousand if someone could tell you where he is. And I did.”

  “You didn’t deliver him.”

  She choked with indignation. “The reward was for ‘supplying the whereabouts’ of the guy with that tattoo. And I did.” She’d seen the flyer not long after her then-boyfriend got a job in Brooklyn and she moved with him from Philly. She’d been sitting in Cole’s new gym, bored out of her mind, when her gaze landed on a picture of a hand she’d seen before.

  $10,000 reward to anyone who can supply the whereabouts of a man with this tattoo.

  There’d been no picture of the man, just that tattoo that she immediately had recognized. She had an eye for things like that, and she remembered the strange letters and could see them in her mind’s eye right now—the big six, the backward N, the capital T and little b.

  бить

  And she’d known immediately that it belonged to that trainer Cole had worked with in Philadelphia. She’d ripped the phone number off the flyer at the time and forgotten about it, until she was broke, pregnant, and abandoned by her boyfriend.

  So she’d called the number on that flyer. and some guy picked her up and brought her here, to this fancy house just outside of town, surrounded by high walls and plenty of trees. Right here in this room, she’d met Dmitri Vlitnik, big, ugly, and scary as hell.

  “You promised to follow up on my information, and I’d get ten thousand dollars.” Her voice rose in frustration. “You promised.”

  “Shut up.” He gulped another drink of vodka, staring at her, thinking. And Robyn braced for another mouthful in the face.

  Cole had taught her that: Don’t let your opponent see you dance around. Look him right in the eye. Defy him.

  A sudden clutching ache for the boy who’d left her high and dry threatened to bring on a rush of unwanted tears. Great. Some tough chick she was, crying and emotional and shit.

  “I really need the money, Mr. Vlitnik.” She wasn’t above begging.

  He narrowed cold, dark eyes. “I really need Alec Petrov, Miss Bickler.”

  She took a slow, stuttering breath. How did he know her last name? She’d never told him that.

  “I already told you where he works in Philly.”

  “He’s not there anymore. Find where he went, and I’ll give you the money.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  Vlitnik’s fat mouth quivered. Then it pulled into a smile. “I like you,” he said.

  She flicked at a remaining drop of vodka on her cheek. “Really. You have a funny way of showing it.”

  “I like you a lot.”

  She felt her stomach clench, suddenly realizing how ridiculously defenseless she was in this room with three giant men who might not realize the baggy shirt she wore hid her pregnancy. Or might not care.

  She tightened her grasp on the sofa cushions, steeling herself for what might come next.

  “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to find him,” Vlitnik said.

  Her exhale came out in a loud rush. A thousand would help. It might cover a clinic visit and some back rent. But it wasn’t close to enough. “You promised ten.”

  “One now.” He inched closer. “And if you can bring me Alec Petrov, I will pay you the rest.”

  “Nine more?”

  He nodded and raised his right hand as if his sausage-fingered oath meant anything. “You have my word,” he said solemnly.

  Without thinking, she put her hand on her stomach. Ten thousand dollars meant a doctor and a safe place to live while she was pregnant. Maybe she could call one of the girls she’d met at that studio and have them look around.

  Vlitnik pushed himself up and reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of cash the size of her fist.

  Before she knew what was happening, he was peeling off hundred-dollar bills until he had ten, and then he handed them to her. She was almost afraid to reach for the money.

  Was this a trick? Would he snag her arm and throw her down so they could all gangbang her for laughs? But there was the money, held out like a real offering. She took it with a shaky hand, and nothing happened to her.

  “Find him,” he said. “You know what he looks like, what kind of places he hangs out.”

  She nodded, squeezing the bills so hard it was a wonder the edges didn’t cut her palm.

  “If you do, I’ll pay the whole reward to you. If you don’t, you’ll be fucking sorry if you come sniffing around here again.”

  She nodded, wondering if she had to shake his hand or something. She stepped away from the sofa, and him.

  If only she could find Cole. Maybe he’d have a cell phone number for his former trainer. And maybe…pigs would land at Newark. Her man had ditched her before she even had a chance to tell him she was pregnant.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, a little disgusted with herself for thanking him, but whatever.

  Nobody moved, so she headed to the front of the house. Were they going to let her walk out of there with a thousand dollars? She waited for one of them to grab her from behind and take it away, but that didn’t happen.

  Instead, she walked toward the door. A hissing sound coming from a darkened corridor to her left made her glance there without slowing her step. She had a grand in her pocket, nothing was going to make her stop.

  “Robyn!”

  Except her name. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder, considering whether or not she should take a step backward and look down the hallway. But maybe it was a trick and someone was going to jump her for the money. She kept walking.

  “Robyn!” The voice made her sway slightly and turn to see a blond head peek out from around the corner. Holy shit, it was him.

  “Cole?”

  “Shh!” He put his finger on his lips and looked left and right. “Meet me at the 7-Eleven down the street,” he whispered, his breathy voice sounding urgent and even scared.

  “Cole?” She put one hand on her stomach, another on her mouth, stifling a scream of joy. It was him!

  “Miss Bickler?”

  She spun all the way around to see Vlitnik standing ten feet behind her. “Yes?”

  “We’ll be watching you.”

  But…Cole. She almost opened her mouth to say something, but the look in Vlitnik’s eyes stopped her. She couldn’t risk that thousand dollars.

  “’Kay.” She kept walking, stealing one more glance back toward the hall, but Cole was gone. It didn’t matter. She finally knew where Cole was, and he wanted to meet her. That’s all that mattered.

  She hustled out the door, doing exactly as she’d been told, practically running the two blocks to the 7-Eleven. She threw herself inside, looked around, got a strange look from the guy behind the counter.


  She rushed up and down the aisles, but there was no sign of Cole.

  She stood outside under the awning and waited. For half an hour. An hour. Two. Then she went back to her car, hid the money under the seat, drove past Vlitnik’s house, rode around the neighborhood, and tried the 7-Eleven again.

  But it was like she’d imagined him. Maybe she had. That’s how bad she wanted to see Cole Morrow again.

  Chapter Six

  Kate finished a half-hour-long shower, stepped into denim cutoffs, pulled a T-shirt over her head, and shook out her damp hair. There was nothing she could do, at least not short-term.

  She needed some lunch, a cold drink, and then she’d hit the books until well into the evening.

  If Ivan the Terrible wanted to sit and stare at her, she’d turn the other way, put on her noise-canceling headphones, and ignore him.

  She opened the door, fully expecting him to be on the love seat, staring at the door, ready to pounce. Instead, a large woman in a housekeeper’s uniform was humming with earphones in, turning down the bed.

  “Well, it’s about time.” The woman popped the buds out and tsked disapprovingly. “You could have bathed an entire orphanage in the time you’ve had that water running. Have you never thought of that?”

  “Uh, no. I never have.”

  “What were you doing in there so long?”

  Really? Now the maid had a say in how Kate lived her life? “You must be Poppy.”

  “I am. And you’re Tilly.” She angled her head and gave Kate a long look of appraisal, up and down and back again. “I can see why Nino backed off the Mathilda business, though he was very excited when Mr. Gabriel agreed to the name. I told him it was the most foolish name I ever heard, but Mr. Gabriel can’t seem to see straight when it comes to his grandfather.”

  Kate nodded, not at all sure how to respond to the company politics of this mysterious stealth firm that suddenly controlled her life. “And you’ll be our housekeeper?”

  A bushy black eyebrow rose. “That’s my cover.”

  “Oh, dear God, isn’t anyone around here who they say they are?”

  Poppy put two hands on rather wide hips, her dark features fixed in a stern expression. “I’m going to give you a pass on that, under the circumstances. Plus, I don’t usually count ‘God’ as a full-on curse, at least if it’s not followed by the D-word.”

  Kate stared at her, frowning, feeling a little more like Alice in Wonderland than Kate in Paradise. “A pass. What are you talking about?”

  “I may be working for Mr. Gabriel now, getting a little extra money on the side as one of his ‘spies’ and the only member of the entire housekeeping staff, including Miss Mandy, who owns the company that runs Casa Blanca housekeeping, who is being trusted with information about Mr. Gabriel’s ‘special guests,’ but…”

  She took a breath and paused, as if she couldn’t remember where she’d actually started that sentence, since it might have gone on for a full minute. “But,” she continued, nodding as she picked up her train of thought, “there is no swearing without a penalty, so bad words in my presence get tallied, and the funds go to the Jamaican Children’s Fund so that I may bring my nephews home.” Another breath, and a big smile of bright white teeth against dark coffee skin. “Rules are rules, and they cannot, will not, and may not be broken, ever.”

  Kate didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Okay, I don’t generally swear too much.” Though she might be starting soon. “But I will tell you that I’m not here to follow or break rules. I’m going to study for the bar, soak up some sunshine, get my head cleared, and then fog it all up again at the end of the day with a good, stiff drink. So, let’s not bog things down with rules, since there are already a number of people determined to get in the way of my plans.”

  “All righty, then, but I’ll need your phone as well as anything that has your name on it, right now. I have a new one here for you that only your father can call.” She reached into her pocket and held out a brand new iPhone. “We’ll monitor your phone in case someone tries to get in touch with you. Mr. Gabriel has it all figured out.”

  “Oh, does he now?”

  Both eyebrows went up now. “He said you were feisty.”

  “He…”

  “Mr. Benjamin.”

  She closed her eyes, her blood pressure spiking with each new comment. He was passing judgment on her now? With the housekeeper/spy lady who charged for curses and scolded people for long showers?

  “This was so not what I wanted,” she muttered.

  “You can’t always get what you want,” Poppy said.

  Kate shook her head as she crossed the room. “So I’ve heard.”

  “But you do have a beautiful home to stay in on a tropical island, a kind man whose entire existence is to make sure you’re safe, and the best housekeeper south of the Mason-Dixon Line and east of the Mississippi.”

  “That may be tr—”

  “And you’re alive and safe.”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  “So be joyful!” Poppy practically shouted, and extended her sizable arms.

  Then Kate did laugh. How could she not? “I’m going to try,” she assured the other woman, heading to the door. “I’ll give you my phone on your way out. In the meantime, I guess I’ll go see what the warden suggests for lunch.”

  Poppy stopped her with a large hand held up in the air.

  “Sorry, I mean Benjamin, my ever-faithful bodyguard.” She winked at Poppy. “See? Joyous.”

  The hand became a single finger pointing up and down Kate’s body. “That’s not very many clothes, Miss Mathilda.”

  Okay, now she was going to swear, because it would hurt when she pulled out her own hair from the roots in abject frustration.

  Instead, Kate lowered her voice and reached for the icy demeanor she hoped she’d exhibit in the courtroom…if she ever passed the damn bar exam.

  “It’s very hot outside,” she managed to say through only a slightly clenched jaw. “And I realize that I’m here under bizarre and mitigating circumstances, which, I might add, continue to get stranger and more palliative with each passing moment, but I don’t need your guidance on my wardrobe decisions.”

  The other woman crossed her arms and let her generous lower lip protrude a bit. “He’s a man,” she finally said.

  “Yes, I noticed.” Maybe more than she wanted to.

  “And these are mighty tight quarters.”

  An old fire shot up her back and seared her brain, making Kate lean closer and stare down Poppy, because this conversation just went from amusing to annoying and was headed straight to a full-blown argument and dismissal.

  “Are you suggesting I adjust the way I dress so as not to tempt him? Forget the fact that he is ostensibly here to protect me. What’s most infuriating about that is…is…” Was it possible this woman was just out of touch with culture so much that she didn’t know any better? She cleared her throat and tamped down her resentment. Instead of chastising Poppy, she should educate her. “There’s an expression for what you’re saying, Poppy, and I bet it won’t pass your language standards.”

  Her frown deepened. “Well, based on the way you talk, I’m figuring that’s a big, long expression with a whole lot of hard to understand words.”

  “Just two. Slut-shaming,” Kate said softly. “And you’re doing it when you blame a man’s inappropriate behavior or thoughts on the way a woman dresses.” She paused to let that sink in. “And it’s wrong.”

  The other woman inched back, searching Kate’s features as though trying to see behind the façade. “You’ll make a good lawyer,” she finally said.

  “Thank you.” Kate tipped her head in the general direction of her law books. “But I have to pass the bar first.”

  Poppy stepped aside and let her walk by with a look on her face that said Kate had won a round today, finally.

  *

  At midnight, after an evening of managing to stay out of her way to do his
job, Alec put down the book he’d been reading and pushed up from the sofa, where, with the patio lights on, he could see the front entrance and the doors to her room. That wouldn’t work for overnight, but he had to give Kate some privacy.

  She’d gone to her room hours earlier—with a bottle of wine and one glass—but had not shut the door, and her light was still on.

  He walked through the vestibule—he’d never forget that one—that led to the bedroom and cleared his throat loudly.

  “You can come in, Leo.”

  He reached the open door to find her sitting in bed, under the covers, surrounded by books, wine in one hand, a pen in the other.

  “Leo?” he asked.

  “Tolstoy.”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “Sorry, no.”

  She took a healthy sip of wine and set the glass on the nightstand next to her. “You’re here for the sofa?”

  “I can’t think of any other way,” he admitted. “If I’m outside, I have a clear view of your doors, but we’d have to leave the patio lights on all night, and I assume that would annoy you.”

  “So does someone sleeping in my room.”

  “This is the best arrangement. I’m close to you if anyone breaks in.”

  She made a face at that. “What if they want you and not me?”

  Fair question. “Either way, I’ll kill them.”

  He saw her tense at that. “Have you?” she asked. “Killed anyone?”

  He ignored the question and lifted his chin toward her books. “How late are you going to study?”

  “Forever,” she said on a long sigh, but flipped one of the textbooks closed. “I have a lot to learn. You can come in.”

  He accepted the invitation, entering slowly. “I saw a quote once that said the amount of time you spend focused on something is directly related to how important it is to you.” He’d applied that quote to martial arts in general and jiu-jitsu in particular.

  “This”—she swept her hand over two textbooks the size of dictionaries—“is my ticket to independence and security and self-reliance. It represents everything I want most in the world.”