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. She had that thick, inky black hair that 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. Her ass was perfection, round and high and youthful in faded jeans, swaying with a sexy beat brought on by boots with just enough heel to tap a drumbeat on his stretched-to-the-limits libido.
They’d chosen wisely.
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 con 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 cleavage. He appreciated the effort, though it wasn’t necessary. “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 thought this was legit.
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.
Except, if she needed glasses, why not keep them on?
Mal inched just a little bit closer to inspect all the pretty she was showing him. And 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?” Couldn’t even pronounce her fake name?
She shook her head. “No, Chessie. Short for Francesca.”
Wasn’t like them to use unusual names. “You don’t look like a Francesca.”
“No kidding.” Her smile was quick and seemed real, softening her features and putting a nice warmth in her eyes. “That’s my mother. Frannie. And you?”
Why lie? She knew damn well what his name was, along with his Social, his empty bank accounts, his stellar prison record. Shit, his whole miserable life was probably downloaded in her phone and filed under W for Whistle-blower.
“I’m Mal.” He added a sly smile and extended his hand over the table. “Pleasure to meet you, Francesca.”
“Mal?” She slid silken and slender fingers into his grip and lifted one perfectly shaped dark brow. “Then we’re even in the weird-name department.”
As if you 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. Spill the beans, Harris. You’re good at that. Classified beans, please, and then you’ll be headed home to Allenwood, cell block fourteen.
“More or less,” he replied. “You?”
“Um, family. I’m going to see my brother down in Florida.”
Pretty smooth. Only the slightest hitch in her voice. He nodded as the waitress arrived and placed two beers on paper cocktail napkins. When she stepped away, 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 held extended eye contact over the bottle. “Pretty close,” she whispered with the hint of a smile, 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 fallen into a temporary state of dormancy.
He took a long pull on the beer, still locked on her mesmerizing 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—that formerly dormant part—wanted to see just how far she’d go to impress her bosses.
“Um, you’re staring,” she said softly.
He leaned closer. “Um, you’re gorgeous.” And that was no lie. With the little bit of beer moisture, her lips looked luscious, and when she looked down, long lashes lay dark and thick against olive-toned 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 knew the deal. He’d stood guard in the room when lesser men than he were brought to their knees and made to vomit state secrets.
All right, darling. Game on. “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.
“Something you’re not telling me, Chessie?”
A slow burn started down by the pretty cleavage, the blush working its way up to her cheeks. Whoa, she was a rookie. Suddenly, inexplicably sympathetic, he reached for her left hand to save her from herself. “Because I don’t flirt with married women.”
Her ring finger was bare—he’d already noted that—but she gave his hand a squeeze. “Not married. And so nice to meet a solid citizen.”
“Define solid,” he teased, still holding her hand because it felt so damn good to touch a woman, even if she was the enemy.
“I’d define it as a guy who offered his seat, bought me a drink, and doesn’t flirt with married women.” Slipping out of his touch, she searched his face, no doubt comparing the real thing to pictures in her file. “Are you married?” she asked, her voice just the right amount of tentative and hopeful.
“I’m completely free.” Out of prison and on his own. And, man, they were going to do anything they could to change that. Including entrapment, it seemed.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, and this time she didn’t look away. “And you’re from Texas,” she said. At his raised eyebrows, she laughed. “Very subtle, but I hear…Houston?”
You should know, honey. “Dallas. And San Antonio. And…” Where the hell had they lived after that? Some trailer park in some dump. No doubt she knew all the details about his sorry childhood. “Yeah, around Texas.”
“What do you do, Mal?”
Time. He did lots and lots of time, and if it was up to her, he’d do more. He stalled with a long, slow sip of beer. “I’m between jobs now, Chessie.”
“Ahh.” She gave a knowing nod.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I’m in, uh, well, I guess you’d call it computer research.”
He almost laughed out loud. Is that what the kids were calling it today? “You must be smart,” he said, adding a smile for the sheer pleasure of getting one back.
“Well, I work for my family, so I get away with a lot.”
Family. How sweet. He gulped some beer.
“Will you be looking for work in Florida?” she asked.
This was getting tiresome.
Not looking at this pretty woman—he actually could do that for hours. But the volley of lies was wearing him down. He wasn’t going to lose her now, that much was certain. She’d end up next to him on the flight, then follow him after they landed. He’d be wearing her. So what should he do?
His dick, his poor, lonely, unloved, semierect-twenty-three-hours-a-day dick, answered for him. What should he do? Her.
He leaned much closer and ran a light finger over her knuckles. “I’m boring, Francesca. Let’s talk about you.”
She let her gaze drop to where he touched her hand. “No one calls me Francesca.”
’Cause it’s not your name. “It suits you. It’s a graceful name, with depth and class. It’s sexy.”
“You’re good, Mal.” She frowned and eyed him playfully. “But ‘mal’ usually means ‘bad.’”
“I’m a walking paradox, huh?”
She answered with a soft, sexy laugh. If he didn’t know better—and he did—this woman was as turned on as he was. By the wordplay? Or his touch? Or the electricity that had been zinging over this bar table for the past twenty minutes, complicating the whole deal for both of them?
Maybe she just got hot and bothered thinking that she was winning her game.
Didn’t matter; it all worked in his favor.
“Chessie.” He closed his hand over hers. “Why don’t you tell me who made you feel like you weren’t beautiful, and I’ll find the jerk and make him eat my fist.”
“God, you really do work this knight-in-shining-armor thing.”
“I’m serious. Who was this bonehead who let a girl as pretty and sweet as you slip through his hands?”
Emotion, raw and tangible, sparked in her eyes as she looked across the table at him, pulling off awestruck that he’d even asked. Nice touch from the acting coach.
“Matt.”
Frowning, he drew back. “Excuse me?”
“His name was, well, is Matt. He was my boyfriend for the past year. And two months. And ten days.” She gave a self-deprecating eye roll. “Pathetic, right?”
He searched her face for a tell, but couldn’t find one. No color rising, no averted glance, and her hand was utterly still under his. She was damn good.
“He’s the one who’s pathetic,” he said, dying to hear the tale she’d spin. There might even be some truth in it, if he knew anything about these guys. And, sadly, he knew too much about these guys. “What happened?”
She took a drink and looked back across the concourse at their gate, a frown deepening. “Oh, shoot. We have trouble.”
He followed her gaze, wondering if her buddy had blown their cover. But as he watched the flock of people milling about and caught a glimpse of the departure board, he knew exactly what trouble they had.
“The flight’s canceled,” she said, standing up. “Son of a…”
“Come on, let’s go see what the deal is.” He threw money on the table and grabbed his bag, following her out to the gate.
But he knew what the deal was. They’d canceled the flight to see what he’d do next. Yes, damn it, they had that much power.
“There are no more flights tonight,” a man said, sounding disgusted as he walked by.
“I have to find an airport hotel,” another woman said into her phone. “I am not sleeping in the terminal.”
Chessie looked up at him, her eyes wide, as if this news actually surprised her.
He put his hand on her shoulder. How far would she take this little manhunt? “A hotel sounds good, Francesca.”
He felt her shudder under his touch, all the answer he needed.
He’d be gone before she woke up, and then she’d realize she was the one who got screwed. Maybe a few times, if he had anything to say about it.
*
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Books Set 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 (Currently 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 (Gabe’s book!)
Acknowledgments
As is the case with every novel I write, I’m surrounded by a team of amazing people who help bring my imagination to life for you. In particular, I am deeply grateful for one of the best editors in the business, Kristi Yanta, along with copyeditor and proofreader Joyce Lamb, who is ruthless on her hunt for any errors in the work. Also, Amy Atwell and the formatters at Author E.M.S. and incredibly talented cover designer Kim Killion make sure my stories are delivered in the prettiest possible package.
In Barefoot with a Bodyguard, I also called on some experts and want to thank Tatiana Lammers, Russian translator, and attorney Gregg MacGregor, for the research assistance. And a huge shout-out to my awesome assistant, Maria Connor, and my always supportive Street Team (the fabulous Rocki Roadies!) who help spread the word about my books. And, of course, my little family, the best humans and dogs on earth.
About the Author
Roxanne St. Claire is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than forty novels of suspense and romance, including many popular series and stand-alone books. Her entire backlist, including excerpts and buy links, can be found at www.roxannestclaire.com.
In addition to being a six-time nominee and one-time winner of the prestigious Romance Writers of America RITA Award, Roxanne’s novels have won the National Reader’s Choice Award for best romantic suspense three times and the Borders Top Pick in Romance, as well as the Daphne du Maurier Award, the HOLT Medallion, the Maggie, Booksellers Best, Book Buyers Best, the Award of Excellence, and many others. Her books have been translated into dozens of languages and are routinely included as a Doubleday/Rhapsody Book Club Selection of the Month.
Roxanne lives in Florida with her family and can be reached via her website, www.roxannestclaire.com, her Facebook Reader page, www.facebook.com/roxannestclaire, and Twitter at www.twitter.com/roxannestclaire.
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Barefoot with a Bodyguard
Copyright © 2015 South Street Publishing ISBN: 978-0-9908607-2-3
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the copyright. For permission or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author, [email protected]
COVER ART: The Killion Group, Inc.
DIGITAL FORMATTING: Author E.M.S.
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Barefoot With a Bodyguard (Barefoot Bay Undercover) (Volume 1) Page 30
