Caught her staring at him.
Mother of God, she nearly fell over. Blue eyes, vaguely interested, mostly cool, shockingly unemotional, met hers and still pierced her heart.
Okay, it’s okay, Lila. Just stare him right down like any woman with a pulse and a working hormonal system would do.
The eye contact lasted at least five beats of her thumping heart.
Gabe tore his gaze away and slammed his drink on the table, splashing the liquid, an f-bomb easily heard at twenty feet. “I’m not in the mood for Christmas Eve,” he said gruffly. “Give my regards to Nino.”
She, along with others, watched him power through the tables and onto the open sand.
“Gabe,” Mal called, following him.
Lila casually inched a few steps closer to use her well-honed eavesdropping and lipreading skills.
Gabe gave his friend a dark look over his shoulder. “I don’t want to—”
“I have something from Isadora.”
Isadora? Lila sucked in a silent breath, her whole being tensing up.
Gabe turned slowly around to stare at Mal, who held out a blue slip of paper. Good God. The letter.
“I found it in the Country Club when I nabbed that gun,” Mal said. “I haven’t read it, but I’m sure it’s from Isadora to you.”
She didn’t know if she should be relieved or terrified. The note, which she knew verbatim, would certainly support what she was about to tell him. But it also might make him refuse to believe her.
Mal stepped closer to Gabe. “I didn’t know if I should give it to you, or—”
“It’s mine.” Gabe ripped the paper from his friend’s hand.
“I didn’t want to make things worse,” Mal said.
Gabe nodded, his attention already riveted on the note. “Leave me alone. Just…leave me alone.” He started to walk away, already opening the paper and reading the first words, which were simple but strong.
Gabriel, my angel.
Suddenly, he stopped and whipped around. Lila bit her lip, fearing he’d tear it up or shove it back in Mal’s hands like something delivered from the devil.
“Hey, man, thanks,” he said to Mal, sliding into that heartbreaker of a smile that made men want to work with him and women want to strip for him. “Thanks for what you did in Cuba. And thanks for loving my sister. And thanks for…knowing how important this is. Merry Christmas,” he added, walking off.
And now she had her chance to talk to him alone.
She waited, observing his every step, though she made it look like she was admiring the party decorations on the beach. She got a good long look at his broad shoulders and narrow waist as he strode away from the party, music, and lights, toward a deserted part of the beach.
She saw him sit on the sand in the shadows and open the letter. Her brain recited the words he was reading, like a memorized prayer.
You will be told that I’m dead. I am not.
Even from here, she could see him stab his fingers into his hair and pull back hard.
You will be told our son died when he was less than two years old. He did not. I am under deep cover and so is he. I promise you will understand when I explain it to you.
But would he understand? It was time to find out. Lila set out in the same direction, slipping her hand into her shoulder bag as an idea took hold.
Committed, she kept walking as he read, and she imagined each word hitting his heart like fire-tipped darts.
Gabriel, wait for me. Promise me you will wait for me. It might be years, but the very moment I am free, I will find you, I will come to you, and I will tell you everything. But I give you my word, on our love, that I am not dead. And neither is Rafe, who is a carbon copy of you in every way.
She could practically taste his torment. He put the letter down, looked out to the bay, picked up the paper again, hunched his shoulders in pain.
No matter what, my darling angel Gabriel, wait for me. I will come to you as soon as I can. When that day comes, you may not question me. You may not doubt me. And you may not recognize me.
No, he would not, that much was certain.
She cleared her throat to warn him of her approach, and he looked up, not even attempting to hide his disgust at being interrupted during his private moment. Too bad. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and defied him to send her away.
She imagined the string of mental profanity singing through his head. But, to his credit, he didn’t say a word.
She stopped right next to him. She had to make it completely clear who she was. Completely. It was her only shot.
“Gabriel,” she said.
His eyes shuttered in unadulterated disinterest. “Look, lady, I—”
“Like the angel.”
That shut him up, especially spoken not in the Queen’s accent but in Isadora’s unrounded, flat-voweled non-accent.
He drew back a little, narrowing his eyes to slide his gaze over her. “Do I know you?”
There were so many answers to that. So, so many. Her smile was slight and tight.
He started to push up, but she held out her hand as if to stop him, opening her fingers to let her villa card key tumble into his lap. And without another word, she stepped away and headed into the shadows.
He’d follow her. He had to.
You may not question me. He would.
You may not doubt me. Oh, he definitely would.
And you may not recognize me. He would not…until she proved to him who she was and convinced him this was real.
Chapter Two
There were two possibilities. The blonde was a sex-starved lonely heart stuck in paradise and looking for a roll on the sand…or she was an operative sent to contact him and deliver information about Isadora.
Gabriel…like the angel.
Those were the first words Isadora had spoken to him. Right in the middle of headquarters, standing on the iconic CIA insignia, that easy laugh and volley of banter, that gorgeous cleavage over a precious heart. Damn, he might have fallen in love with her that very moment.
Gabriel…like the angel.
He’d been in the business long enough to know a code word when it landed in his lap. Along with a room key. His money was on operative.
Except, her voice…it was identical to Isadora’s.
Gabe inhaled deeply, trying to clear his head of ridiculous thoughts, but the Florida air held more than sickeningly sweet honeysuckle and magnolia tonight. The path to Rockrose was sliced with the spice of Chanel No. 5, a scent that twisted his gut and made him want to howl at the moon.
But he kept walking toward the villa at the northern border of the Casa Blanca property, still checking off possibilities.
Horny tourist with good taste in perfume? Or an agent about to mess with his head? He glanced down at the paper he still held.
You will be told that I’m dead. I am not.
Well, there was one other possibility. One other out-there, patently ridiculous possibility.
“I knew you’d come.”
He didn’t react, even though the voice in the dark—British now—totally took him by surprise. Which didn’t happen often, if at all.
So, a spy. Anyone who could sit on a patio in the moonlight ten feet from him and be so still he didn’t know she was there? Trained. Well trained.
He approached the walk that led up to the deck that wrapped around the villa, the whole house and patio raised off the sand by stilts. He let his eyes adjust to the sight of her leaning into the corner, her arms crossed protectively, her shimmery white clothes catching the moonlight, ghost-like.
Was that what was going down here?
“Of course I came,” he finally replied, pausing at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the deck. The position gave her a considerable advantage of height and power, but he let her have it for the moment. “I find that room keys handed to me by a beautiful woman can open up the most interesting doors.”
She laughed, soft and throaty and…familiar
. Like a favorite old song he hadn’t heard for years. Like a taste of something he used to love but hadn’t enjoyed for a long time. Like…Isadora.
He put his hand on the wood-carved newel, hoping it wasn’t obvious he needed to brace himself thanks to stupid thoughts.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“That you would call me beautiful.”
Using just the moonlight, he took the closest examination of her he’d had to date. He’d definitely seen her on the beach while Mal and Chessie were in Cuba on Mission Miserable. He’d noticed her then and, of course, tonight. The timing of the visits could be coincidence…or not.
She was interesting to look at, not classically, traditionally, by-the-book beautiful. Not like Isa. He shook his head again. Had to get rid of that thought.
“So you agree I’m not beautiful,” she said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
She inched out of the corner, shimmering again, a long, lean woman who was no stranger to the gym but managed to keep it all very feminine. Under the thin silk top, trimmed with rhinestones that flashed and twinkled, he spied small breasts, perky enough to skip the bra, and chilly enough to pop with sweet little gumdrops.
A narrow waist, tiny even. Decent hips, but nothing like…
Damn it, stop comparing, Gabe.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “I’m fluent in body language.”
He stumbled on the first step as a memory flashed in his head. A bar in Beijing. Smoky. Loud. Some karaoke dickwad annihilating a Black Eyed Peas song. And Isa across from him, her emerald eyes full of concern. He could still hear her voice.
I can tell something’s wrong, Gabe. I’m fluent in body language, too.
He regained his cool so quickly, it was possible she hadn’t noticed the slip. Yeah, and maybe Santa flew down from the North Pole and pissed in the middle of the party he’d just left.
“So read me, blondie.” He took the next two steps as one, just to prove how steady he was. “Tell me what my body is saying.”
She came to the top of the stairs, still more than a foot above him, maintaining control of the situation, which he’d have to change. “Let’s start with hello.”
She reached her hand out for a standard shake, but he grabbed her wrist and tugged her down, forcing her off balance. In a flash, he was up two steps and she was down two, and that left them face to face, eye to eye, and mouth to mouth. And she didn’t even ask why he’d done that, so she must not have been too surprised. Come to think of it, she barely lost a moment’s control.
A spy. Definitely a spy.
She held his gaze, her eyes so dark it was impossible to tell where iris ended and pupil began. Smoky, seductive eyes that…looked unusual on a woman with such blond hair.
Was she CIA? Or something deeper and darker?
He tipped his head, feigning casual interest. “This is a pretty elaborate come-to-Mama ploy,” he said. “What gives?”
Her eyes flickered, and she drew back but didn’t retreat completely. If anything, she subtly squared her shoulders and lifted her jaw. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk?” He dropped his gaze, noticing how her chest rose and fell with tight breaths and a little vein in her neck pulsed.
A vein that…
Damn it. Every fucking woman has that vein, stupid.
He brushed by her and bounded up the last two steps, landing on the deck with enough force to announce that he’d officially taken charge. “Great. Let’s talk inside. Got any booze?”
She turned slowly, forced to look up at him, while he loomed over her, openly checking her out. Face to tits to hips and down to the cute red toes that he’d seen on the beach.
While he was reading a letter from a dead woman.
She stayed where she was for a split second, then nodded. “Fine. We’ll do this your way.” She came up the steps and walked across the deck, tipping the power scales again, but he snagged her arm before she got to the door.
“Do what?” he demanded. “Am I going in there to unwrap a Christmas present, or are you planning to slam a bullet in my brain?”
Her eyes widened, the response seemingly genuine. “I’m not going to shoot you. But I might…” She slipped out of his grip and used her free hand to casually graze his jaw, the touch so light it could have been air. Hot, electric air. “Rock your world a little.”
She went inside, and he stayed right where he was. Okay then. World rocking sounded…promising.
A few seconds later, he entered a dark living room, hearing ice clinking in a glass in the galley kitchen, dimly lit by soft, under-the-counter halogens. He followed the sound—and the perfume—to find her pouring amber liquid into two rocks glasses.
Not just any amber liquid. Johnnie Walker Blue. His brand of Scotch.
She set the bottle on the counter and looked right at him. “Single malt Scotch is for try-hards who like craft beer.”
His words—spoken in private more than five years ago—burned like lousy Scotch going down.
“I’ve heard that.” Only, if his memory served him right, he’d said something more like, Single malt Scotch is for snot-flicking hipster try-hards who like craft beer.
She handed him the glass. “And Johnnie Walker is highly underrated.”
What the fuck? Was she just going to toss back random shit he’d said to Isadora all night? And how the hell did she know these quotes? Were the rooms bugged when he’d been with Isadora?
He didn’t reach for the glass, but only because he wasn’t entirely sure his hand would be steady.
She inhaled as if gathering her thoughts, then lifted his drink to her lips, staring at him over the rim. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m more nervous about this than you are.” She punctuated that with a healthy gulp, and no girlie cringe as it went down.
She handed him the same glass, the intimacy of sharing not lost on him. He drank some, swallowed, and set the glass on the counter. “Okay, you’ve proven you’re not poisoning me. Those formfitting clothes aren’t hiding a pistol. What in the name of ever-lovin’ fuck is your deal, woman?”
She flinched. Hard.
“Fair warning. If dirty words turn you off, you picked the wrong guy to lure into your holiday honey trap.”
“No words turn me off,” she said, just pointedly enough to make him pause. Was she trying to remind him of Isadora, who’d loved words?
Because nothing about her reminded him of Isadora. She didn’t have wavy hair or playful freckles or a light in her eyes. She didn’t have a turned-up nose or a delicate chin or luscious D’s and a handful of hips. But she had words and memories and stuff no one but Isadora could have.
Why? Because she knew something about his dead lover? Worked for someone who’d paid her so he’d end up the same way? Or maybe she just wanted to barter information.
Whatever the spy game, he could play. And he would win.
“Then let’s get this party started.” He took the glass and pivoted, heading to the hall that led to the bedroom on his left or the living room on his right. “Sofa or sack? Pick your pleasure, Mata Hari.”
“Living room.”
He headed there and plopped onto an overstuffed sofa, leaving enough space to lure her closer and let her think he was all in for her booty call.
She brought her drink and the bottle in there, and sat in a club chair on the other side of the coffee table. There was just enough light to see her blond locks and sparkly party clothes and pools of dark, dark eyes.
“You read the letter, I noticed.”
A chill hit his veins, but he covered by taking a mighty swig of Scotch. And another. Then he finished the drink and slammed the empty glass on the table so hard he almost cracked the crystal.
“How do you know about the letter?” he asked, easing his head back to the armrest and propping his feet on the sofa, as unfazed as humanly possible for Miss I Can Read Body Language.
She didn’t answer right away but crosse
d her long legs and took a sip, faking plenty of cool on her own.
“Because I wrote it.”
Fuck being cool. Fuck body language. Fuck everyone and everything. He shot straight up and sliced her to pieces with a look.
“What the hell do you mean you wrote it?” He hadn’t had time to process what he’d read, since he was instantly summoned to her lair. Of course, it was possible, probable even, that someone other than Isa had written that letter. But why? Who was left in the world who wanted him that bad?
“Exactly what I said. I wrote every word, and every word is true. I left it in the interrogation room at Gitmo, the Country Club.”
The air and life just seeped out of him, leaving behind nothing but confusion, anger, and a black ball of hate. He leaned forward, squinting at her.
“Who are you?” Rage rocked him, pushing him up to a dominating stand. “Tell me right now. Who. Are. You. And every blasted word better be the truth, or I will get it out of you.”
She stared at him. “You really don’t know.” It was a statement, and one that made zero sense.
He slowly walked around the table to get in front of her, staring down, placing his hands on the armrests of her chair to trap her. “Who the fuck are you, woman?”
“It’s me, Gabe. Isadora. It’s me.”
Chapter Three
He’d never been any good at hiding his emotions. Not around her, at least. And tonight, Gabriel Angelo Rossi was wearing his anger, hurt, and deep distrust of mankind in general all over his gorgeous face. Sapphire eyes deepened and tapered, and under a shadow of whiskers, his jaw locked and throbbed. His neck corded with tension. His chest heaved with indignation and confusion and raw, raw fury.
Lila waited for a blistering barrage of creative curses, but he stayed silent, staring down at her with a glare that was somehow far more frightening than a profanity-laced tirade.
“I told you the assignment was…different,” she said, hating that her voice sounded weak. Lila Wickham was not weak. She was a lot of things Gabe didn’t know and might not like, but she was not weak.
Roxanne St. Claire - Barefoot With a Bad Boy (Barefoot Bay Undercover #3) Page 3
