Roxanne St. Claire - Barefoot With a Bad Boy (Barefoot Bay Undercover #3)

by Unknown

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you everything,” she said.

  “You’ll tell me everything whether I stand on my head or jump up and down. You’ll talk fast, clear, and if you lie, you die.” He leaned even deeper into her space, his hips at the same level as her eyes, so she either had to look down in deference, look up in need, or stare at his crotch. She’d seen him use the technique on plenty of detainees in Gitmo.

  “Got it?” he demanded.

  She shoved her chair backward, and it scraped over the hard wood, giving her enough space to stand up. He had her by a good five inches, but her move added a tiny bit of power to her side.

  “Who are you?” And that low, slow growl of a barely restrained fury shifted all the power back to him.

  “I am Isadora Winter.”

  He suddenly turned and reached to the end table to turn on the lamp. The golden glow warmed the room, but he marched to the other lamp and turned it on, too. Then he hit the switch for two sconces in the dining area and tapped on the kitchen light.

  “There’s a flashlight in the drawer,” she said. “And I bet I can find a magnifying glass if you’d like to look closer.”

  Still near the kitchen, he stared at her. “I might. Don’t move,” he ordered. “Except your mouth. You can move that anytime. And for the love of sweet baby Jesus, please know that I was associated with the CIA for more than a decade, and there is not a trick of that trade I don’t know.”

  “Then you know about the use of facial-reconstruction surgery to create an undercover disguise.”

  Still staring at her, he took a few steps closer. “Facial-reconstruction surgery, yes. Not body, height, hair, voice and…soul.”

  She let out a sigh. That was it, of course. She didn’t just look different; she was different. “You know there’s more. Body reshaping, chemical changes of hair color and texture, surgical alteration of fingerprints, permanent eye dye. And, of course, training on how to stand, walk, speak, and behave differently. A person can be remade, Gabe. I was.”

  He approached her, openly looking her up and down and up again, and then he began to circle, very, very slowly, examining her with his arms folded, eyes intent, an appraiser looking to see if the art was real or a forgery.

  He reached out and lifted her chin, turning her face one way, then the other, looking for scars she knew were artfully hidden but could be seen if he looked carefully enough.

  He rounded her back, grabbed a handful of hair, and then slid his hand down the length of it, probably unable to feel the artificial straightening that gave her well-colored hair a glassy sheen.

  He stroked a shoulder, one finger grazing her bicep, which she flexed, as she did regularly in weight training after having her once-feminine curves taken away, along with her curls and green eyes.

  Finally, he was facing her again, that finger sliding to her throat, her collarbone, her breastbone, and over the rise of one barely there breast, a mere shadow of its once-formidable glory.

  Of course, he lingered there longer, circling the nipple that jutted against the silky top, his gaze down as he watched his finger torture her. His touch still raised chills on her skin and shot fire through her whole body.

  That much had not changed.

  She breathed slow and steady, waiting out his assessment. She knew Gabe’s tastes, and they didn’t include lean, structured women. He was a big-tits and soft-ass kind of man. He liked laughter and lushness, a woman who’d rest on his shoulder, not on her laurels.

  This new model of an old favorite had to disappoint him.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  “Because you don’t want to believe me. Which, as you know, is the most effective element of any disguise.”

  His eyes flared like she’d turned up the heat on a gas flame. “If you think I don’t want Isadora to be alive, then you haven’t done all your homework, spy girl.” He spat the words, shaking his head. “You can try to convince me you’re Isadora, for whatever effed-up mission you’re on for whatever coal-black op you work for. But I know every trick in the CIA handbook because I either invented them, used them, or rendered them useless. Which I’m about to do with this little game.”

  “I know things only Isadora could know.”

  “You could have interviewed the sweet shit out of her, read her journals, cracked her e-mail, stolen her computer, or dragged conversations from her brain using some Dr. Evil memory-retrieval software.”

  She leveled her gaze at him, knowing her ebony eyes could land a very effective glare, and she decided to make her point by using her natural American accent again. “I am Isadora Winter, your former lover and an undercover agent for the United States government.”

  His jaw and fists flexed as he scrutinized her, his razor-sharp brain obviously in high gear. “What I want to know is why,” he mused, ignoring her statement. “Not that I’m expecting a word of truth from you.” He turned his back on her, then grabbed her barely touched drink on the table and knocked it down his throat. “So I’ll have to figure out a very clever way to get you to tell me the truth. Torture. Coercion. Or maybe I can fuck it out of you. That’s why you brought me here, right?”

  “Why don’t you just sit down and hear me out, like a smart, experienced intelligence agent who knows this is entirely possible?” She put her hand on his shoulder and tried to turn him around, feeling the ice in her words which, for the past five years, felt normal. With Gabe? That cold tone felt wrong.

  “Please listen to me,” she said, softening her voice, letting the tiniest glimmer of Isa come through. “Even if you don’t want what I tell you to be true.”

  He let her turn him, but she almost wished she hadn’t. The fire had dimmed, drenched by the Scotch or her words. Either way, pain was back, and she knew why.

  If she was lying, it hurt.

  If she wasn’t lying, it hurt even more.

  “Gabe, I know you don’t want this woman”—she made a sweeping gesture over herself—“to be Isa. But I am.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “When I read this tonight…” He pulled out the thin blue paper. “I felt alive for the first time since I found out she’d died. Just the chance that she is not dead, that I…”

  The words, or maybe how he couldn’t finish the sentence, almost cost her balance and control, making her close her eyes for a second. He cared. He still cared.

  “Don’t do that,” she said softly. “Don’t go there.”

  “Go where?”

  “I didn’t come here to fall back in love with you, Gabe Rossi.” That would ruin everything; that would put Rafe at bigger risk. “I need help. And only you can give it to me. And Rafe.”

  “Rafe? That would be a child I thought was buried under a gravestone that said his name was Gabriel Rafael?” He got right in her face. “He’s alive?”

  She put her hand on his forearm, squeezing the taut muscle. “I can’t tell you until I am one hundred percent certain you believe me.”

  He wrenched out of her touch, pushing away. “I am one hundred percent certain that you are a fucking liar. Also, one hundred percent certain that this charade has ended. Come and find me when you’re ready to tell me who you are, what you want, and why you went to this much trouble.” He brushed by her, practically knocking her over with his shoulder. “I’m out.”

  “I get that you’re angry but—”

  He whipped around and vaulted right back into her face. “Angry? You haven’t seen anger, babycakes. If I find out you had anything to do with her death…” He inched closer, heat rolling off every cell in his body. “If you, or anyone you know or have ever met, touched one hair on her head or that of my child, you’ll have plenty of scars to show the world. Plenty.”

  She closed her eyes at the threat and kept them closed at the sound of his retreating footsteps and the slamming of the door.

  Letting out a sigh, she lifted the Scotch and took a swig straight from the bottle. Not because he didn’t believ
e her. Not because he threatened her. And not because this would be a hellacious uphill battle.

  But because she still loved him. And if she wanted to stay alive and make sure her son was safe, she could not love Gabe Rossi, not ever again.

  Chapter Four

  Gabe opened his eyes and stared at the position of the moon, trying to guess how many hours he’d been lying on the sand. Long enough for that holiday party from hell to be over.

  Long enough to careen through every emotion a man really ought to be able to avoid.

  Long enough to figure out what that lying sack of sorry woman was really up to.

  But he hadn’t. All he’d done for the past hour, or four, was make side trips into memories best forgotten. Not the ones with Isadora, oddly enough. He’d think that after standing in front of someone who claimed to be the only woman he’d ever loved, he’d be focused only on memories of her.

  And for a while, he had been.

  But the deeper he dug himself into the cold sand just by lying there, the deeper he let his soul drift even further back. Two years before he had the good fortune to bump into Isadora Winter at headquarters, he’d made the mistake of believing who a woman claimed to be.

  He could still feel the blood on his hands and see the shock in Darya Andropov’s eyes as she realized she’d been caught and shot.

  Some spies, the most cynical and darkest, say that the first time you fire a bullet into a traitor, there’s a rush of satisfaction. Even pride. All it had done to Gabe was make him want to throw up, and swear he would never, ever trust anyone again.

  Even on a sleepy beach in a remote location.

  Especially on a sleepy beach in a remote location.

  The fact was, there lived on this planet at least a few people who would like to see Gabe Rossi destroyed one way or another. Sending a woman who claimed to be his former lover miraculously changed by the powers of medicine and counterintelligence, and who knew things she shouldn’t and couldn’t know?

  That could be the most brilliant ploy in the history of spying.

  He didn’t glance over his shoulder in the general direction of Rockrose, but he sure didn’t want to go to the little bungalow he and Nino called home. So he brushed off the sand and meandered back toward the resort, relieved to see the Casa Blanca staff was cleaning up.

  Except he’d sell his left nut for something left to eat. What had he been thinking missing Nino’s signature holiday dinner to listen to some liar who claimed—

  “Mr. Gabriel!” Poppy’s voice yanked him from his reverie, and he looked up to find the housekeeper grinning at him, carrying a tray of dirty dishes. “You jus’ about broke your grandfather’s heart tonight.”

  “And he’s drowning his sorrows in post-Christmas Eve limoncello.”

  “How did you know?”

  “A lifetime of living with him. Please tell me there’s some calamari left. Or a crespelle.”

  Her big brown eyes rolled to the sky. “Those crepes were divinely inspired, it pains me to admit. I saved you a plate up in the restaurant, where some folks moved to the bar. And I covered for you leaving like that, like the good spy I am learning to be.”

  “You certainly have the makings,” he admitted, taking the heavy tray from her.

  Ever since he’d first arrived in Barefoot Bay to start his own privatized witness protection business here, he’d depended on this talkative Jamaican housekeeper’s uncanny ability to know what was going on around the resort. She was observant, obviously, but also had a knack for drawing information out of people. Even him, he had to admit.

  “But I didn’t need a cover for disappearing,” he said, lifting the tray toward the main building of the resort. “To the kitchen?”

  She nodded and put a hand on his back, leading him there. “Mr. Gabriel, I don’t think they all should know where you were. I mean, it’s Christmas Eve, and…” She let out a big sigh. “I know God forgives all your sins. Every time you make one.”

  “Must be a full-time job keeping track of me. But this time, my sin was sleep.”

  She shot up a doubtful eyebrow.

  “On the beach,” he added.

  Both brows lifted.

  “Alone.”

  She tsked noisily.

  “Don’t give me the head shake of judgment.” He elbowed her. “I’m not lying.” Unlike other people he’d met tonight.

  “I saw you, Mr. Gabriel. I saw you talk to the blond lady named Lila.”

  Lila. He snorted at the name. Emphasis on lie.

  “She left, and I saw you stroll like a peacock up to Rockrose and disappear for a long time. Now you are covered in sand and looking a little”—she inched back to rake him with a gaze—“disassembled.”

  “I’m assembled just fine.” He nudged her along with his elbow. “But props to you for observation powers, Pop-Tart. Damn impressive.”

  Instead of looking grateful for the compliment, she scowled at him. “That’ll be three dollars for the D-word.”

  “Oh, sh…shoot me now for hiring you.”

  She put a hand on one of her ample hips. “It’s been lucrative. The swear jar overflows thanks to your filthy mouth.”

  “Why don’t you empty it? I thought you were using those ill-gotten gains to get those nephews of yours to the States.”

  She didn’t answer, but some of the joy left her expression. “Not yet, but working for you, it accumulates. Tell me about Miss Lila. The clean version.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but there was no ahem with the fake”—Isadora—“blonde.”

  “I don’t think that color’s fake. And I’ve looked closely, ever since she asked about you last time she was here.”

  Damn, his game was off. Of course his budding spook resort housekeeper knew shit about Lila Wickham, because she’d mentioned her the last time Lila was here. And why hadn’t Lila jumped all over him then and tried to bury him in her ugly lies?

  He had to clear his head and get intelligence.

  “So, did you notice anything funny about her, then or now?” he asked.

  “Funny?”

  “Just off. That’s what a spy looks for, Poppy. Something that doesn’t quite jive with appearances. Something interesting or weird about her. Unusual conversations or habits?”

  As they reached the back entrance to the resort kitchen, Poppy slowed her step, furrowing her bushy brows to think. “Well, I can tell you that she’s a good mother and puts her son before everything else. It’s so obvious.”

  Gabe stopped, icing up inside and out at the word son. “He’s here? You’ve met him? She really has a son?”

  She gave him a slow smile. “So you talked to her instead of aheming? My prayers were answered.”

  “Answer me,” he fired back. “Have you met this kid? Is he here, on the island?”

  “I’ve only heard her talking to him on the phone. And by talking, I mean reprimanding. That child must be bone-bad, considering the number of times I’ve heard her tell him he shouldn’t do something or try to set him straight. And then tonight, she told me he gives her headaches. What kind of mother says that?”

  A lying bitch of a fake mother. But still, if there was a kid, he had to know if it was his kid. Sure, there was a gravestone in Cuba that covered the remains of a not-yet-two-year-old boy with the first name Gabriel and Rossi as one of three last names. Still…

  “Where is this kid, Poppy? Has she told you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe still up in Washington, DC, where she’s from.” Poppy searched his face and broke into a smile. “You know, Mr. Gabriel, it wouldn’t be so important if you didn’t like her some.”

  It took everything in him not to throw the dirty dishes on the ground and tear ass back to Rockrose and squeeze the fucking truth out of that woman like she was a human tube of toothpaste. Was the kid really alive? Because that would change everything.

  And could that mean…Isadora was, too?

  Hope practically strangled him.

  He could
n’t go demanding answers from her, though. He’d never get them. He’d get more lies and half-truths and tricks. No, he had to be as smart as she was. Smarter.

  “Mr. Gabriel, you are practically vibrating, child.” Poppy put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

  “Have you seen this kid?” he asked. “Even a picture?”

  “Last time she was here, I saw a picture of a little boy on her dresser, but then when I was on my way back to clean her room, I noticed she slipped it into a drawer.”

  “And you didn’t think that was strange?”

  “Strange enough to report to you? No. Lots of people go private when maids come in the room. But I did tell you that she was asking about you and had a picture of you on her camera, remember?”

  He did, and the report had been odd enough for him to go to the villa where the woman had been staying at the time, finding it empty. Except for the lingering scent of Chanel No. 5.

  “I know my job for you, Mr. Gabriel,” Poppy said. “And what I don’t know, I’m willing to learn.”

  “I know you are, and you have boatloads of spy potential, Poppy. In fact…”

  She reached to open the door into the kitchen, but he stopped her. “How would you like a new assignment tonight?” he asked.

  “Before or after I finish cleaning up the party?”

  “Now.”

  “Whatever you need, Mr. Gabriel.” No hesitation in her answer, or a split second of doubt.

  “Get that kid’s picture and bring it to me.”

  She stared at him, a million questions in her big, dark eyes.

  “We can come up with a reason for you to get in the room,” he added. “You can say that—”

  She held a thick finger to his lips. “Shh. I know what to do. You just gotta trust me.”

  Never easy for him, but he nodded. “Okay.”

  “Now take those into the back for bussing,” she ordered. “And you’ll find your plate in the warmer, with extra crespelles.”

  Without another word, she turned and headed toward the sand, her big ol’ hips swaying as she marched off to her mission. God, he loved that woman.