“Wait, this is about food?” Gabe shook his head a little, not sure he was following the story.
Nino stared at him. “Of course.”
“What the hell are you two talking about food for?”
“Because…that’s what I do,” Nino said, a little note of disappointment in his voice. Was he disappointed Gabe didn’t realize that’s what he did or because he wasn’t doing food as much as he used to? He didn’t know, but he felt the sadness in Nino’s words.
And he’d promised his family Nino would be happy here.
“It isn’t all you do anymore,” Gabe said. “You did that when you ‘worked’ for Vivi in Boston. Made lasagna for the staff and biscotti for the break room. But you were unhappy there, remember? Now you have a real job. And come to think of it, I have an assignment for you.”
Nino nodded, but Gabe knew the old man well enough to recognize something bubbling under the surface like one of his tangy tomato sauces.
“When do you two talk about food?” Gabe asked.
Nino gave his signature shrug, hands out, Italian-style. “You know, over in the housekeeping bungalow, they have a pretty good kitchen. I pop in and chat with the ladies.”
“I know.” Nino talked about it every night.
“They love me.” He smiled, baring aging teeth and deepening his creases. “Couple of them love you, too, but I’m thinking it’s for a whole different reason.”
Smiling, Gabe reached for a notepad. “It’s impossible to keep you out of a kitchen, isn’t it?”
“Why would you want to?” Nino fired back. “Anyway, I can do the work you ask of me and cook and help a little on that farm. I’m very happy here.”
“Are you?” God, he wanted him to be happy. Needed him to be happy.
“Except for having to work with her.” He stole another look at the door. “Who would even want to eat a piece of fish smothered in that mushy orange fruit?”
What the hell? “Mango?”
“Yeah. Who puts fruit with fish, Gabe? That’s not how an Italian does it. And she says Jamaicans know more about fish than Italians.”
Gabe tried to care, he really did. But he couldn’t muster up a single fuck to give. Nino needed something to get his mind off this crap, and Gabe needed information. He wrote Cuba across the top page. “You know what’s going on in Cuba, don’t you?”
Nino crossed his arms across his once barrel-like chest. “Oh, I sure do. Now those bastards can cook. They do things with a pig that would bring you to your knees.” Nino leaned back, a dreamy smile on his face. “I like a good piece of pork.”
“Nino. Cuba.”
He straightened up. “Right. Communism and Castro.” He frowned. “Isn’t he dead yet?”
Gabe rolled his eyes. “No one really knows, but his brother runs the place now, and the restrictions are changing. Americans are going to be allowed to travel there again. I need you to dig around through any means you have and find out exactly what paperwork an American needs to get into that country, all the papers.”
Nino nodded, finally focused on the task. “Are you thinking about that as a new home for your Russian boy?”
“Maybe.” It could work as a way into the country. “Though I doubt he’d want to go there.”
“Does he have a choice about where he goes?” Nino asked.
“I don’t want to send him somewhere he’ll hate, but—”
“Mr. Gabriel!” Poppy’s wide face—and even wider body—filled the doorway.
Instantly, Nino stiffened and stifled a groan.
“Can I come in?” she asked. “I’m afraid we have a problem.”
Nino pushed out of his seat, a little too fast. “I’m off to my cubicle to start this high-priority assignment.” He waved the paper at Gabe and pointed to the in-box Nino had bought for him when they first moved in because he thought every office should have one. “That pile of crap right there needs—”
“That’s a dollar for the Jamaican Children’s Fund.” Poppy pointed to a glass jar she’d placed on the empty bookshelf against the wall.
“Crap is not a swear word!” Nino and Gabe exclaimed in unison.
“Two more, one for each of you. It counts. It’s a C-word, though not as bad as those other two.”
Gabe dug into his pocket. “Jeez…”
She scowled at him, rocking her large frame in his direction. “Careful, Mr. Gabriel. My Lord and Savior—”
“Costs ten bucks. I know. I got you covered, Nino.” He stuffed a few ones into the jar as his grandfather escaped. “How many nephews you have over there, Poppy?” Gabe asked.
“Three of them, Mr. Gabriel. Isaiah, Ezra, and baby Samuel.”
“A veritable Old Testament of orphans,” Gabe mused.
“And I mean to get them all over here and educated properly, Mr. Gabriel, since my po’ sister went to be with the Almighty last year. Someday, they’ll come here and live with me, and take care of me in my old age.”
Gabe gave her a look. “If I just paid for all that right now, could I swear at will again?”
“Absolutely not. Then I’d start a fund for some other orphans. There are enough of them in Jamaica.” She took the chair that Nino had vacated, spreading her pink housekeeper’s skirt around her legs. “Do you want to make that payment now, Mr. Gabriel?”
“Not yet. But did you come in here because you need to tell me something?”
“Oh, yes,” she said ominously.
Damn it, if this was another food fight, he might swear enough to cover those kids’ tuition for a year. “What’s the issue, Poppy?” he asked, congratulating himself on not asking about the fucking issue. That would have set him back another five bucks.
“That young couple in your villa.”
That got his attention. He might not like the bickering of his only employees, but he did need to make a go of this business, and successfully hiding those two clients was a big part of that. “What about them?”
“People are talking about them.”
“And by people, you mean…”
“The staff. And some guests.”
It had been only a few days, so this could be either good news or bad news. “What are they saying?”
“Well, I heard one of the other maids saying she saw them walking back from the lobby yesterday and they were hardly speaking. So of course she started a rumor that they’re fighting.”
“Because every couple who walks through the lobby is engaged in animated conversation?”
She shook her head. “Not just that, but somebody said that while they were there, he got a little, I don’t know, firm with her.”
“Because there were cameras around, and they shouldn’t have been there. I already know about this.” Alec had texted him and told him within hours of the event.
“But maybe if they get out and play the happy couple, it would end those rumors,” Poppy suggested.
He’d bet the thirty bucks that was already in the Swearing Jar that she wasn’t wrong very often about anything, which was why he needed her on his team.
“Okay, I’ll talk to them.” He picked up his phone to send Alec a text. “Oh, and Poppy?” he asked as she stood.
“Yes, Mr. Gabriel?”
“You should steer clear of food discussions with my grandfather. It gets him, you know, riled up.”
She narrowed her big brown eyes at him. “He’s obstinate.”
“In other news, birds fly.”
“And thinks he’s the only person who ever knew how to cook.”
“Because, in my family, that was true.”
“He’s closed-minded, and I don’t cotton to that.”
He looked up from the text he was sending. “He’s in his eighties, Popcorn. Don’t try to change him.”
She lifted a brow. “That a challenge, Mr. Gabriel?”
“That’s an order.”
But she sashayed out of the office like a woman who’d just been double-dog dared and was on her way out to think of ever
y possible way she could make Nino Rossi’s life hell until he changed. Obviously, the woman never met a stubborn Italian man before. Or else she wouldn’t even bother to try.
Chapter Nine
Kate came out of a deep sleep with a sudden jolt, her eyes popping open with the sensation that she was being watched. But his little love seat was empty already.
She should be used to that by now. Alec generally had gone to sleep after she did and gotten up before she did during these four days in prison.
Blinking into the morning light, she closed her eyes and drifted over their time together, which had fallen into a simple rhythm. Mostly, she managed to kind of sidestep him, studying for most of her waking hours, though she knew he was always around. She’d taken to making her own little meals, even though he’d cooked dinner the night before, and it had smelled wonderful. She’d made a sandwich and drank a couple—maybe a few couples—glasses of wine.
She just couldn’t spend that much time with him, because every time he was near…
He affected her.
There it was. The truth. The cold, hard truth she’d been trying to silence, but simply couldn’t ignore anymore.
She sat up, the cool Egyptian cotton sliding over her sleep pants and tank top. She’d closed the translucent shades over the French doors and windows, so there was enough light to see around the room, but she couldn’t see the outdoors. The whole villa seemed quiet, as it usually did.
Like it would be if she were alone. Which was all she’d wanted when she headed down here. And now? Did she want to be alone now?
Closing her eyes, she let the question fall around her heart. Of course she was dying for solitude. The intrusion of a bodyguard and violation of her privacy were nothing less than infuriating.
But every time she looked at him…
She bit her lip, thinking of his rough face, his huge muscles, his oversized, scarred, tattooed hand. His face was not handsome, his features not even close to conventionally attractive. Everything about him was rugged and harsh, nothing like the men she’d spent her life checking out.
They all seemed like pretty, delicate flowers compared to Alec. And she did find herself looking at him whenever he was near. Looking and…feeling.
But the slightest amount of conversation got ice from him. A little bit of eye contact, and he couldn’t look away fast enough. And that was fine. Except, when she woke up in the middle of the night and wondered if he was awake…a few feet away…so close.
So close she could—
She threw the covers back and sat up at the thought. What the hell was wrong with her? Other than all those years of living in a loveless relationship and self-imposed celibacy had obviously gone on a little bit too long.
Just then, she heard a noise on the patio. She’d seen him out there every morning now, doing his yoga moves and martial arts kicks. She usually managed to look for just a moment, then turn away. Okay, a long moment.
It was quite a sight.
Stepping out of bed, she padded over the cool hardwood to the French doors, moving the sheer covering barely a centimeter.
He was in his gi and loose pants, his torso cut by a black belt that quietly advertised his competence in the sport. The pants were just short enough to reveal strong ankles and big, bare feet. The jacket pulled across his sizable shoulders, open enough to show the breadth of his chest, a blend of honed muscles, a dusting of hair, and the curved edge of a swirling tattoo.
His foot shot up, his leg parallel to the ground, then he spun in a one-eighty turn before withdrawing the kick. Instantly, that was followed by hand movements, sharp, snapping, furious, and fast. The next kick went as high as his head, straight up, then he sliced his leg down and whirled around, as graceful as a damn jaguar.
She could practically hear the air crackling with each smooth move and could only imagine the pain if one hit an actual target.
No, not pain. Anyone on the receiving end of those feet and hands would die…instantly.
He paused for a moment, letting his hands fall to his sides, his body completely motionless. His chest didn’t even rise and fall with a breath. He closed his eyes, or at least cast them down, then folded to the ground, rolling on one hip, then the other, his legs twisting until he jumped back up in one move.
Then he did that again, on the other hip. And about five more times, supporting his whole bodyweight with just his arms. No wonder they were huge.
When he was finished, he stripped off the jacket and stood, bare-chested, in the sun.
Whoa, that was a glorious view. He turned so she could see only his back, her gaze following the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his back muscles painted with a swirl of ink. All of it narrowed into a trim waist. And that ass.
He might not be breathing heavily, but Kate could feel trapped air tighten her chest as she stared. Her heart rate kicked as high as his deadly foot, her hand clenched into a fist at her side. Her blood simmered, heating up sensitive nerves that made her tingle and tighten and tense with arousal.
Great. Now she was a regular Peeping Kate, getting turned on like some kind of creepy voyeur.
And then, he stripped off his pants in one smooth, sexy, satisfying yank and kick. And there he stood, buck naked in the sunshine, just about the most mouth-wateringly desirable specimen of man she’d ever seen. How could she possibly look away?
His legs were like tree trunks, his backside like something Michelangelo had carved out of marble.
Turn around, some evil voice whispered in her head. Him or her? Who was this devil talking to?
She couldn’t turn around…but he did. And everything in Kate that made her a woman melted in a pool of craving.
Now that was a work of art. Before she had more than a second to stare at the nest of dark hair and the thick shaft that raised up out of it, he dove into the pool, barely making a splash.
And Kate finally stepped away from the window. Well, wobbled away.
Pressing her hands against inflamed cheeks, she swore under her breath, closing her eyes to get the image of his hard body out of her head. But it was there, burned forever, teasing and torturing and tempting her.
Oh, God, she had to get under control. She was stronger than this, better than this, bigger than this.
Speaking of big…
“Oh!” She fisted her hands. “Get a grip, Katherine Louise Kingston. Get a friggin’ grip.”
She wanted a grip. Of that.
She marched into the bathroom to drown her face in extra-cold water, burrowing into her soul for some sanity and sense.
Okay, so she was sexually attracted—what a flipping understatement that was—to the man who was supposed to be protecting her. And he clearly had zero interest in reciprocating that attraction; either he didn’t feel it, or it was against his bodyguard rules.
But every once in a while, they had to speak to each other or brush by each other or acknowledge each other. And every time that happened, she had this sense that maybe…maybe he was feeling the same thing.
If so, he sure was good at hiding it.
She shot up from the last splash of cold water, staring at herself in the mirror. Wasn’t it better this way? Why would she invite trouble by—
“Kate? You up yet?”
She startled at the question and the tap on her bedroom door. “Yeah.”
“I’m making breakfast if you want eggs.”
He’d tried to offer her food before, but she’d turned him down. And now she knew why. It wasn’t that she hated the idea of him—well, she did hate the idea of a bodyguard. But the more time she spent with him, the more she started imagining things like…his hands on her breasts. His mouth on her—
“Kate? You okay?”
No, damn it. This wasn’t okay. And she needed to man up, have breakfast with the guy, and crush these crazy sensations.
“Yes, I’m fine.” She went to the door and opened it, hating herself for hoping he was still bare-ass naked. “I would like breakfast,
thanks.” She was only slightly disappointed to see him back in the baggy pants, a T-shirt clinging to some still-damp muscles. “Thanks.”
“And tomato juice,” he added. “It’s good for a hangover.”
“I don’t have a hangover.”
“You drank a bottle of white wine by yourself last night.”
Because nobody would drink with her. She gave a casual shrug and walked by him. “Wine has no effect on me.” Your naked ass, however, made me downright woozy. “I see your hair is wet. Were you swimming?”
She made sure he couldn’t see her face as she continued toward the kitchen, straight to the coffeemaker.
“Poor man’s shower,” he said, coming in behind her.
“Excuse me?”
“Our accommodations have one shower.”
Her jaw loosened. “Ew, you haven’t had a shower in four days?”
“I’m clean. I make do.”
Swimming naked. “You can use the shower anytime. Well, not…” When I’m in there. Wait, hell yes, when I’m in there. She blew out a breath at the direction of her thoughts, frustrated she didn’t have better control.
He didn’t seem to notice, though, pulling out a frying pan and setting it on the gas cooktop. “I’m afraid that’s not a good idea.”
Or maybe he had read her thoughts. Kate cleared her throat and, hopefully, her mind. “Why not?”
“I can’t protect my principal while I’m in the shower.”
“Principal? Is that a technical bodyguarding term?”
“That’s what you call the person who is under protection.”
“Under protection.” She slammed the coffeemaker lid a little too hard. “I don’t want to be under anything.” Or did she?
He threw a look over his shoulder. “I don’t want to take chances.”
Is that why he was so cool to her? “Then what do bodyguards do when they have to shower?”
“Backup,” he suggested.
“The ever-stalwart Poppy?”
He chuckled, cracking an egg. “Use what you got. Scrambled okay?”
Barefoot With a Bodyguard (Barefoot Bay Undercover) (Volume 1) Page 8
