“I want actual names, but I’ll take the e-mails if that’s all you have.”
“Okay.” She clicked quickly. “I made a database and forwarded it to you.”
“Thanks.” He crossed the room and grabbed his laptop, trolling through the supersized spreadsheet Chessie had sent him. “Shit, that’s a lot of names.”
“Think how simple it would be if you would tell me her freaking name, Gabriel Rossi. And don’t try to tell me you’re not looking for a she, because you would not go to this much trouble for another dude.”
He didn’t answer, studying the addresses. “These aren’t in alphabetical order.”
“Sucks to suck.”
Huffing, he started scrolling, easily skimming the sea of meaningless handles, looking for a word or a clue that would strike him.
“So you haven’t asked about Matt,” Chessie said.
“Because I want you to work, not moon over your ex.”
“What makes you think he’s my ex?”
“The fact that you’re here. You wouldn’t have left if you thought there was still a chance with him. He’s a dumbass dickhead cocksucking moron with webbed feet, Chess.”
“No, his feet are fine.”
He smiled. “You’ll meet another guy.”
“I don’t want another guy.”
Gabe didn’t answer as he reached a group of e-mail addresses that used English words, forcing him to look harder for something that felt right. No luck. “They all say they don’t want another guy, Chess,” he murmured. “Then they meet me.” He grinned at her.
She rolled her eyes.
“Seriously, you should stick around here,” he said, back on his campaign to get her to stay. “Lots of hot guys for you to hook up with.”
“First of all, I don’t want to hook up. Second, this place is crawling with newlyweds and nearly deads.”
“Not true. Luke’s hiring bodyguards, and there’s a whole baseball team coming in. You like athletes. And look at what a matchmaker I turned out to be with Alec and Kate.”
She gave him a dreamy look. “They’re so in love, Gabe. Is she really going to live in Brighton Beach with him?”
“Yeah, she’s all fired up. No law firm for her. Now she wants to be a prosecutor and take those Russian bad boys to task. And Alec’s going to step into Gregg’s shoes and mentor the younger ones.” He gave a smug grin. “I totally knew that was going to happen.”
“You’re totally full of shit.”
“The fact that you know that makes me love you even more, Chess.” He abandoned his spreadsheet for a full-court press. He wanted her here. “Luke is really hiring. Maybe he needs a tech specialist.”
She snorted. “Vivi would have a cow instead of a baby.” Then she slammed her hand over her mouth. “Shit, I wasn’t supposed to say that.”
He blinked at her. “Wait…what? They did it? Lang is actually not shooting blanks? I’ll be damned.”
“No, but I will be for telling you. She’s not even two months along yet.” Chessie grinned, but there was a definite sadness in her eyes. “I’m so jelly.”
“Your time will come.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Chessie. You’re a female version of me.” He gestured toward his face. “Impeccable bones, killer dimples, and eyes the color of heaven. The only baby blues in the whole Rossi clan.”
“Yeah, Mom had a lover,” she joked, calling up one of their favorite theories as to why they looked a little different than the other Rossi kids.
“I think it was Bud the lawn guy.”
Chessie giggled. “Or that handyman, Timmy. She was always flirting with him.”
He laughed and gestured toward the computer. “You know, we’d have fun if you were here, Chess. Plus, you could keep Nino and his Jamaican nemesis in line.”
“I can’t leave with Vivi pregnant.”
“Just for a few months? Before she takes maternity leave?” He leaned forward. “You are always doing stuff for someone else in our family. What do you want?”
“A family to do stuff for,” she said. “Of my own,” she added.
“Like a husband, two-point-five, and a picket fence?” That was what his super-brained little sister wanted?
“You make it sound horrible.”
“It just doesn’t seem like that fits with your love of souped-up cars and supercomputers.”
She shook her head. “I want Mom and Dad’s life, Gabe.”
“All those kids, a couple of Italian orphans, and Nino?” He drew back. “I can’t see that.”
“I mean I want the love they have. The permanence. The stability.” She sighed. “I just can’t find the right guy.”
“This from the girl who can find anyone.”
She gave a wistful smile and looked back at her monitor. “Oh, yes, I can,” she said, a smug smile breaking. “And I just did.”
“What?” Gabe shot up and came around the desk, leaving his spreadsheet to break his sister’s cardinal rule of no spying over the shoulder when she was hacking.
“I got the list of couriers. I’ve been trying to get into this for an hour.”
A little zing shot through him. “Those are the volunteers on the ground who distribute the news throughout Cuba.” The activists the young woman at Radio and TV Martí had told him about.
Chessie hit a few more keys and waited while nothing happened on the screen. “You do know that our relations with Cuba are just about normalized now. There is essentially no need for subterfuge.”
“There is always a need for subterfuge in my life.”
The screen flashed, then darkened, then flashed again. Suddenly, it was filled with names, a long list, each with an address and phone number. Gabe’s heart rate kicked up, and he hoped against hope that this was the lead he needed.
He had to find her. He had to.
“And, lookee here, it’s alphabetical.” Chessie scrolled, still in the C’s and D’s. “Tell me when to stop.”
W. “Go way down.”
“Past H, I, and J?”
“Way.”
“Past Q, R, and S?”
His chest was so tight, he couldn’t catch even a shallow breath. It made sense that she’d be a volunteer, an activist, and a courier.
“U, V, W—”
“Stop.” He pushed closer, taking over the touch pad to slow down the slide, reading every single name. Viteri. Vivas. Vives. Ybarra.
“Where’re the W’s?” he demanded.
“Spanish surnames don’t start with W, do they?”
Her name’s not Spanish.
Frustration and desperation clashed like symbols in his chest as he swore mightily, flipping his finger angrily over the touch pad so the list scrolled full speed to the very end, stopping on Zubizarreta.
“Damn it.” He rocked back on his heels, the familiar sensation of bone-deep disappointment rolling through him.
Chessie didn’t respond, probably being too sensitive to his pain or not wanting to get barked at in his wrath. Instead, she scrolled some more as he fought the sting in the back of his eyes.
Son of a bitch, he wasn’t going to let his sister see how much this mattered. There had to be another way. When Mal got out—
“Gabe.”
“It’s okay, Chess. Keep digging around those files, but it’s okay.”
“No, I just want to—”
“I don’t care!” Anger fired through his veins because, shit, he did care. He’d never cared about anything in his life so much.
“Gabe.” She put her hand on his arm, a gentle touch that just made him madder because—
“There are more names.”
He stared at her, his flash of fury subsiding.
“One starts with W. Winter. Isadora Winter. Is that who you’re looking for?”
He froze completely, almost unable to believe what he’d just heard. Had he wanted it so bad, he imagined Chessie saying that name? Very slowly, he crouched back down, vaguely aware that he was shakin
g. All this time. All these years. All the nights of wondering and hoping and, yes, damn it, praying.
He’d found Issie.
“Where?” His voice scraped out of his throat, barely audible, the words dancing before him on the screen.
“Right here.” She pointed to the name, one of five in a group.
Isadora Winter.
Holy, holy shit. He was only somewhat aware that he’d gripped his sister’s hand as he leaned forward and stared at the name of the only woman—
“Gabe.” Chessie’s voice was so, so soft, barely a whisper.
“That’s her,” he said, desperately wanting to share his joy with someone. He looked up at Chessie. “That’s her.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.
“What? Why? You found her, Chessie. You really can find anyone! You found the woman I—”
“Gabe.” Why were Chessie’s eyes filled with tears?
An ice-cold fear slithered up his spine and into his veins, turning him numb. In slow motion, he looked back at the screen, taking a second to find her name and slide his gaze across to the right to—
Deceased.
He blinked, checked again.
No, oh, God, no. Not possible. It had been only five years. Five years since…
No, she can’t be dead.
He inched back, denial blinding him until he looked one more time and double-checked the line.
Isadora Winter …………… Deceased
“Is that who—”
He cut Chessie off by standing and slamming the computer closed. “We’re done here.”
Done. Done. Deceased.
He left the room, walked out into the night air, and tried to breathe. To think. To accept the fucking unacceptable.
He’d never see her again. Never. No chance of good-bye. No chance of an explanation. No chance of exactly the kind of love his sister had been mooning for.
Forever.
He leaned against the rough trunk of a queen palm, sliding down to the ground with a thud.
Now what would he live for? His hope was gone.
“Gabe?” Chessie’s voice cut through the night and his pain.
“Not now, Chess.” His voice broke.
“Gabe, listen to me.”
“Not now, damn it!”
He heard his sister’s footsteps and knew she’d want to comfort him when all he wanted to do was howl in pain and swear in tongues that hadn’t even been invented yet. Nothing could comfort him. Nothing, ever.
“She left behind a four-year-old son.”
“What?”
“He’s still living in Cuba, her son.”
Issie had a son? A four-year-old?
“His name is Gabriel.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Not a sound. But Chessie dropped to her knees. “I’ll help you, Gabe. I’ll do whatever we have to do. I know you can’t go to Cuba, but I can. We’ll find him. I promise. We’ll find your son. Aunt Chessie can find anyone.”
He just reached out and wrapped his arms around his sister, and they both cried.
~
Don’t Miss The Next Barefoot Bay Undercover Romantic Adventure.
A Sneak Peek of
Barefoot with a Stranger
Barefoot Bay Undercover #2
by Roxanne St. Claire
No way. There was no way in heaven or hell she was going to sit in this airport for three hours. Chessie glared at the departures screen, willing the numbers to change with a miraculous digital flash.
But there were no miracles for Francesca Rossi today.
Hers was one of many flights delayed, and the line at the gate desk, along with the grumbles of unhappy travelers, told her getting on another flight was probably unlikely this late in the evening under rain-drenched skies.
All right. She could handle three hours in Atlanta on what was supposed to be a forty-eight-minute layover. But could her older brother handle one more delay?
Scanning the gate area, she couldn’t find a single empty seat, and a glance at the neighboring gates suggested the scheduling problems were widespread and included much more popular flights than her commuter to southwest Florida. Even though it was evening, the concourse behind her bustled with impatient people rolling their bags, and the airport restaurant teemed with captive customers. Leaning against the nearest wall, Chessie pulled out her phone and tapped the screen to text Gabe, instructing him not to send their grandfather to pick her up until takeoff was guaranteed.
Her brother wouldn’t like it, of course. Gabe was chewing nails in his desperation to accomplish “the plan.”
The plan. No fancy covert titles, like Operation BabyLift or Munchkin Mission for this one. Finding a child that Gabe hadn’t even known he had until a few weeks ago was too serious and too real for cutesy code names, especially since only Chessie knew the truth. And not even all the truth, because life with her ex-spook brother meant nearly everyone was on a “need-to-know basis.”
And the only thing Chessie knew for sure, so far, was that Gabe had devised a plan for her to find the kid. She wouldn’t know what it was until she got back to the island off the west coast of Florida, where he was currently running his latest covert op.
Her phone buzzed with his reply. Delayed? WTF? Get your ass on another flight!
Like she could do anything about this. She typed back a sisterly “shut your pie hole” and peered over the gate crowd again, all of whom looked generally pissed to be stuck. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a woman getting up and freeing a seat near the back. Shouldering her handbag and grateful she’d checked her suitcase, Chessie headed straight to the vacant seat, weaving past a few travelers with determination. But she was two feet away when a middle-aged man beat her to it, practically throwing his backside into the chair to make sure he got it before she did.
She stopped her momentum with a soft grunt, a little stunned 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 she could slide into an open seat.
But there were still no miracles for her today.
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 had to take a good look 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 cleft in his chin that was downright lickable. “I…I…can’t.”
At least five people watched the exchange—but not the tacky seat-stealer.
“Please, take my seat. It would be rude for me to let you stand there.” He put the slightest emphasis on rude, more of a deep rumble from that impressive chest, and at least four of the people watching shifted their attention to the really rude guy. Who didn’t look up from a riveting game of Words With Friends.
“I can stand, really,” Chessie said, gesturing to the seat. “Please, you had it first.”
“That doesn’t make it mine when a lady is involved.”
Chessie laughed lightly, aware that her heart tripped a little when she noticed a silver thread or two at the temples of his thick, dark hair. “I’m young and strong,” she assured him. And so was he, despite the bit of frosting, which only made him hotter.
“I see that.” He let those smoky brown eyes drop over her, sending a mix of chills and heat to every inch he eyed.
Easy, girl. You’re nursing a heartbreak, remember? At least that was the excuse she gave for leaving Boston indefinitely on this secret assignment.
“Yeah, well…” Clearly, Tall Dark And Handsome had sucked the pithy right out of her. “Please.” She tried again to refuse his offer of the seat. “
This is getting uncomfortable.”
“It sure is.” The seat-stealer spoke without looking up from his iPad. “Do us all a favor and go flirt in the bar.”
The man standing in front of Chessie flinched ever so slightly, his eyes flickering to the right but not actually shooting the yahoo a proper dirty look. Instead, he gave Chessie a slow smile 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 doubleX chromosome climbed out of their breakup funk to momentarily consider what else was out there.
He 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. But that would be ill-mannered and stupid and, jeez, three hours was a long time. And she was officially single now. And Gabe didn’t say she couldn’t talk to anyone, just not share why she was on her way to Florida. Aaand, holy God, he was hot.
“Sure, thanks.”
The man leaned over to grab a duffle bag, then turned and got right in the seat-stealer’s face. “I owe you one, dickhead,” he whispered.
As they walked away, the woman next to the seat-stealer gave a loud, slow clap, and at least three others joined her.
What do you know? Maybe there was a little miracle today for Chessie after all.
*
Mal knew they’d be watching him from the minute he walked out of Allenwood federal prison 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 worn-out cliché of a sexy woman being mistreated by a smartass stranger.
Or maybe they thought Malcolm Harris had lost any ability to shake a tail during his forty-two-month knuckle-rapping.
Mal had taken two different cars, a train, and a bus to get 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.
Barefoot With a Bodyguard (Barefoot Bay Undercover) (Volume 1) Page 29
