Barefoot Bound: A Barefoot Bay Undercover Prequel

by Roxanne St Claire

  Barefoot Bound

  Barefoot Bay Undercover Series Prequel

  Roxanne St. Claire

  Author’s Note

  Welcome back to Barefoot Bay and to the whole new world of Barefoot Bay Undercover. To whet your appetite for this spinoff series that adds a splash of suspense to the sun-washed beaches of Barefoot Bay…here’s a sneak peek at how the Undercover concept began. If you’re a fan of my Guardian Angelinos series, you might recognize some familiar faces. If you haven’t read those books, you’ll still enjoy meeting this large and loud family and getting to know the most colorful character in the clan: Gabriel Rossi. This is NOT Gabe Rossi’s love story…at least not with the woman you know will eventually bring this legendary spy to his knees. (Yes, there WILL be a Gabe Rossi full-length love story very soon!) This is a love story, however…family love. So kick off your shoes and slide…undercover.

  Every book in the Barefoot Bay series stands completely alone, so you can start anywhere, but if you want to kick off your shoes and fall in love in order, here’s the list.

  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!)

  Want to know the day the next Barefoot Bay book is released? Sign up for the newsletter! You’ll get brief monthly emails about new releases and book sales.

  http://www.roxannestclaire.com/newsletter.html

  Chapter One

  Casa Blanca? Seriously? Did someone have a Bogart fetish, or had Gabe just landed in Disney Does Morocco, complete with the geometric patterns in the sun-dried bricks and U-shaped archways? Gabe scanned the sprawling resort tucked into a hidden corner of an island so remote it was accessible only by boat and one bridge. There wasn’t a single high-rise, nightclub, shopping mall, or Starbucks in sight. The only people were the poor slobs who worked for the privileged bastards who flew in on corporate jets and helicopters to demand seclusion, anonymity, and privacy.

  And the proximity to a certain island off the coast of Florida? Well, the place was fucking perfect.

  At least, perfect for what Gabriel Rossi had in mind. And that was so not what his old friend from the French Foreign Legion had meant when he’d called and asked for a little security consulting advice in exchange for an all-expense-paid trip to paradise.

  But Gabe would drag Luke McBain over to the right playground soon enough. First, he had to run the final test. Before he could take the next step and kick-start his plan that had been brewing for the past five years, he had to see just what kind of yahoos worked at this joint.

  Time for a game of Test the Staff.

  Standing in the expansive lobby, he scanned his possible targets. A smokin’ blonde with fake lashes and real tits at the front desk had already taken note of him. Twice. Two men, both dressed in custom threads, a Rolex visible on one tennis-tanned arm, talked outside of the spa, probably waiting for their wives. A teenage girl sat on a bench under the mosaic, texting and oblivious.

  None of them was right for what Gabe had in mind.

  To his right, a couple stood in front of an understated Guest Services desk, deep in conversation. The man was about his own height of six feet and had short dark hair, and while he obviously hadn’t done a hundred one-armed pushups at five a.m., like Gabe had, he was buff enough.

  He’ll do.

  Gabe took a few steps closer to the couple to pick up their exchange with a sharply dressed concierge. Staying far enough away not to draw attention, he pulled out his phone and pretended to read messages while listening to their conversation.

  Tapping the screen, he opened the interceptor software he’d, uh, borrowed from the CIA, and tilted his phone toward the woman’s handbag.

  “All right, then, Mr. Carriger,” the concierge said. “Your tee time is confirmed, and our driver will pick you up in five minutes at the front door.”

  The man turned to his wife, a concerned look on a CEO-handsome face. “You sure you don’t mind if we forgo the boat trip today, Beth?”

  “I’m spending the day in the spa, honey. I far prefer that to getting seasick and looking for dolphins.” She laughed and gestured to the concierge. “Married twenty years, you’d think Doug would know that by now.”

  The concierge gave a warm nod as he picked up his phone, but Gabe filed the man’s name, Doug Carriger, and snapped a mental image of how he held himself. He watched the man’s facial expressions carefully and pegged an accent someone with a less-trained ear wouldn’t even hear. South of Philly, not quite Virginia. Baltimore.

  The concierge leaned forward, listening with one ear to the phone. “I’m sorry we can’t get you into Eucalyptus until eleven, Mrs. Carriger. But this treatment is worth the wait, I assure you. We are the only spa in the entire state of Florida that offers it.”

  “I can’t wait. In the meantime, I’ll go back to the villa and sit by the pool. The housekeeper won’t be there, will she?”

  “Let me check,” the concierge said, glancing at his tablet. “Poppy’s doing Bay Laurel Villa in about twenty minutes.”

  “Oh, Poppy,” Mrs. Carriger crooned. “What a lovely housekeeper. I was so touched by the rose petals on the pillow.”

  The concierge smiled as if he’d heard the compliment before. “We do love to celebrate anniversaries here at Casa Blanca. And speaking of celebrations, let’s talk about tonight’s dinner reservations. May I reserve one of our outdoor private cabana tables at Junonia for you?”

  While they discussed dinner, Gabe tapped his phone and did a quick Internet search of exclusive spa treatments available only at Casa Blanca while he walked toward a house phone not too far away. The answer popped up on the screen just as Gabe picked up a house phone.

  “Eucalyptus Spa,” a cool voice crooned in Gabe’s ear. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m afraid I have to cancel my wife’s Ayurvedic treatment. I think she made it for ten, maybe nine thirty? She can’t remember the time.” He glanced at his targets, still arranging their dinner reservations. “She’s not feeling well.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. Is this Mr. McPherson?”

  “It is.”

  Some keys clicked. “Yes, we had her in at nine forty-five so she had a few minutes to prepare. Would Mrs. McPherson like to reschedule?”

  “Not right now, thank you.”

  That business complete, Gabe took a few steps back toward the Guest Services desk, placing himself exactly ten feet away from Mrs. C’s handbag as he typed: We have had a cancellation in the spa for the Ayurvedic Massage at ten o’clock. Would you like this time slot?

  He waited for a phone number to appear courtesy of the interceptor software—a 410 area code, confirming his guess about Baltimore—then hit send. Within a few seconds, Mrs. Carriger reached into her bag and pulled out her rhinestone-encrusted iPhone.

  Nice to see he still had it after a few years out of the game.

  As expected, her face brightened as she read the text. “Well, look at that. They have an opening for me. Don’t rearrange Poppy’s cleaning schedule, then.”

  Without a second’s hesitation, Gabe left the lobby, glancing over his shoulder at the front-desk blonde who was still not so surreptitiously checking him out. Lose the lashes, toots, and
we’ll talk.

  Outside, he nodded to the doorman and walked slowly until he saw the limo turn the corner to pick up Mr. Carriger for his golf game.

  As the glass doors to the lobby opened, he caught a glimpse of Mrs. C heading into the Eucalyptus Spa for her overpriced Indian alternative massage. She’d be there long enough for him to do what he had to do.

  He rounded a lush grouping of palm trees, finding the wide stone path that led to the villas. He’d done enough research to know where Bay Laurel was, the closest and largest of the villas on the property. And enough research to know that this little resort could be the answer he’d been seeking, or at least get him closer to the person he’d been seeking.

  So far, it certainly had potential.

  At a soft hum behind him, Gabe stepped to the side to let an electric golf cart laden with housekeeping supplies roll by. As it passed, Gabe kept his head turned away, facing the sapphire waters of the Gulf of Mexico. He easily snagged a towel from the back, hoping it was big enough. But not too big. Smaller would work better.

  When he reached Bay Laurel, he glanced around and slipped into the shadows created by a hedge of hibiscus that ran alongside the two-story villa. Tucking himself between the wall and the hedges, he unbuttoned his shirt and shook it off. Then his pants, stepping out of them and standing bare-ass naked. He rolled the clothes up and hid them, along with his phone, wallet, and weapon under the bushes. Now he was truly naked, which would be the only way this would work.

  Opening the towel, he had to laugh. It was oversized, all right, an oversized hand towel. Not going to completely cover the Rossi family jewels, but that might make this whole process better and faster.

  Wrapping it around his waist, more or less, he headed back to the path, the warm tropical breeze cooling his head. Both of them.

  If he could do this easily, he might not have the right place. Despite whatever McBain had in mind for security, Gabe had to know the place was fundamentally safe for what he had in mind. He stayed back until he heard another golf cart and quickly moved to place himself exactly where he’d be if he’d come out of the villa in a hurry and locked himself out. Taking a breath, he closed his eyes, pictured Doug Carriger…and became him.

  He slumped his shoulders, jutted his chin, and copped the expression of a man whose plans had been thwarted by his own stupidity.

  The cart moved slowly, driven by a heavyset fortyish woman wearing a bright pink uniform, head buds in her ears, belting the holy hell out of Amazing Grace.

  “Um, excuse me.” He stepped onto the path, strategically holding the tiny towel.

  She ended the tune as she slammed on the brakes, and two espresso eyes popped, dropped, and drank him in. Disgust fluttered her lids.

  Not the usual reaction he got from women, he’d give her that.

  “Can I help you, Mr.…?”

  “Carriger.” He gripped the towel in mock modesty and rounded his vowels like a good Ravens fan, stealing a glance at her name tag to confirm his guess. “Poppy, it’s me, Doug Carriger.” And let out the sigh of a true idiot. “Locked-out-of-my-villa Doug Carriger.”

  Black bushy brows drew closer as she inspected him. “You look different.”

  No doubt Doug didn’t have any ink. “Naked’ll do that to a man.” He winked.

  She gave him a ferocious look and produced a cell phone. “I’ll call security—”

  “No, please. Don’t.” He took a few steps closer and nearly dropped the towel. “I don’t want my wife to know I got locked out, and they’ll call her and make her leave the spa. She’s having one of those Ayu…Aruvu…”

  “Ayurvedic treatments,” she supplied, still frowning at him. “Why are you out here?” she asked, the musical Jamaican lilt in her voice going cold with the question.

  “I thought the flowers were being delivered, and I wanted to be sure I got them.” He gave a sheepish smile. “Twenty roses, one for each of my years with Beth.”

  She wasn’t buying it. Probably could tell he would have had to waltz down the aisle at sixteen to be married twenty years. Points to Poppy for keen observation.

  “I got the idea from the petals you left on the pillow, so I guess I owe you.” He angled his head to the door. “Can you please let me back in and I’ll, uh, tip for the idea?”

  “You don’t have any identification?”

  With each little roadblock, his respect ratcheted up a notch. “Can’t say I regularly stuff my wallet in my backside.”

  She wasn’t amused, but lifted her cell. “Well, I stuff my phone in my pocket, so I can call security every time I see a man locked out of his villa.” She finally smiled, a flash of white teeth that didn’t match the warning look in her dark eyes. “Casa Blanca policy.”

  Every hotel’s policy, except when he was the one charming the housekeeper. Then again, he hadn’t run into Poppy before.

  Voices came from around the bend, the sound of two women chatting, who might swing the momentum in his favor. “Is it Casa Blanca policy to allow guests to stumble on a naked man on their way back from the beach?”

  “Those bridesmaids for the Stanley wedding? Trust me, they won’t mind.” She dialed. “And I could lose my job if I don’t call security. We have a new man on board.”

  He knew the man. Luke McBain was his host for the weekend.

  As the voices came closer, Gabe turned slightly so the women could see everything, and lifted one brow at Poppy, opening all his fingers but the two that held his hand towel in place.

  Poppy barely acknowledged the threat. Damn. Veins of ice. He liked that. A lot.

  “Listen,” he said firmly. “Just pull out the passkey, and you will not have to be responsible for embarrassing the guests. Not the bridesmaids—me.”

  She slid another look up and down his body. “You got nothing to be embarrassed about, child.”

  Child.

  She tapped the phone screen.

  Well, what do you know? Casa Blanca just might pass the final test. The remote location, the privacy, the anonymity, and the transience of the place were sheer perfection, not to mention the possibility of a “security firm” as cover.

  But a staff that had its shit together? Priceless.

  “You know it’ll take security ten minutes to get here,” he said.

  “I can give you a bigger towel.”

  “How about a Benji or two for your trouble?” Surely some crisp hundreds could buy Poppy’s sympathy.

  She threw him a look. “Do I look like a pushover?”

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

  “Hey!” She rocked forward, black sparks in her eyes. “What did you say?”

  “Jesus—”

  She held her hand up. “I heard you.” She flipped her fingers over, palm up and outstretched as she hoisted her not insignificant backside out of the cart. “That’ll be ten dollars.”

  Whoa, that was easy. Hard-Ass Poppy had a price, and it was shamefully low. “Let me inside, and I’ll double it.”

  She flattened him with a look as deadly as any he’d seen in a Gitmo torture cell. “Ten dollars, no more, no less.”

  “As soon as you open that door and—”

  “Oh. My.” A woman’s voice came from behind him.

  “No, mine,” said another.

  Two twentysomethings—one blond, one brunette, both interested—stopped dead in their flip-flops to stare.

  “I call dibs if he’s one of Robbie’s groomsmen,” one of them whispered.

  “He’s not,” Poppy said, phone to ear, hand still outstretched “Move along, ladies.”

  Gabe gave them a pleading look. “I’m locked out.”

  The blonde smiled, raking him with a look. “You can come to my villa.”

  Poppy snorted. “I wouldn’t invite that kind of trouble, ma’am.”

  “I like trouble,” she replied, stepping closer, licking her lips like he was a hot fudge sundae placed in front of a starving woman.

  “I’m calling security,” Poppy sai
d.

  “No need. I’ve got handcuffs in my room.” Blondie winked.

  Poppy waved them on. “To your villas, ladies. Show’s over.”

  They obeyed her—it was kind of hard not to, Gabe thought grudgingly—but not without passing close by.

  “Are you one of Robbie’s groomsmen?” the blonde whispered.

  He sighed and looked skyward. “Sorry to disappoint, ladies, but I’m here with my wife, Beth, to celebrate our twentieth anniversary of wedded bliss.” He made sure Poppy heard every frustrated word.

  The two women’s faces dropped, but the housekeeper marched closer, a warning on her face. “Our new head of security is on the way.” Still not swayed. Another point in her favor.

  The girls walked on, looking over their shoulders.

  Gabe returned his attention to the housekeeper, trying one last tack to see just how tough the woman was. “You still have time to save your job, Popcorn,” he whispered. “Open the door, and I’ll deal with my friend Luke when he arrives.”

  Her brows sneaked up. She was either impressed or surprised that he knew the brand new head of security. But not worried. Because this woman did the right thing, no matter what, and Gabe could practically kiss her for it.

  “Well, shit, Pop—”

  She shoved her palm out again. “That’ll be eleven.”

  “Eleven what?”

  “Dollars. Ten for the first offense of taking my Lord’s name in vain, and another dollar for that S-word.”

  “Listen, let me inside, and I got two hundred that’ll probably buy you a nice new…handbag.”

  “I don’t want a handbag,” she said humorlessly. “You swear, you pay into the Jamaican Children’s Fund.”