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

by Unknown

  *

  Past midnight, Lila was still on the chaise lounge on the long deck outside her bedroom, a mother of a migraine in full swing. She squeezed her throbbing temples, looked up at the stars and nearly full moon, and then down at the picture on her lap.

  She angled the frame to catch the moonlight, running her finger over the picture of Rafe but seeing his father. The smile was a little higher on the right than the left, a hint of dimple, an overdose of attitude.

  And the eyes. Beautiful, bright, blue eyes the color of the morning sky over Barefoot Bay. She loved him so hard it hurt worse than the headache.

  “This is all for you, buddy,” she whispered. Yes, Gabe had left, but he’d be back. It was just a matter of time.

  A soft hum of an electric engine made her sit up, reach for her weapon, immediately on alert. She recognized the sound as one of Casa Blanca’s golf carts the staff used to get around the expansive resort property. A slow tingle of anticipation mixed with trepidation slipped up her spine as she thought of that last text from Dex.

  You’re never really safe, Lila. There are spies among us.

  Maybe her friend and mentor was being overly cautious by using the phrase she’d heard him say a thousand times as a subtle warning to keep her mouth shut and her eyes open.

  Or maybe he knew something he wasn’t telling her.

  Either way, the sooner she got this plan underway, the better. Even though it meant—

  The golf cart slowed in front of her villa. Was that Gabe back for more information? She let the hope curl around her heart, despite the fact that he’d call a golf cart a walker on wheels.

  And now that vehicle stopped and shut down completely.

  She had a visitor, that was certain. Rockrose was the northernmost villa on the property. She’d chosen it purposely because it backed up to the large gardens and had a lovely wraparound porch built on stilts, giving it the utmost privacy, a wall of shrubbery, and no neighbors.

  So who was up this far on the resort property, and why?

  Her chaise was tucked into the corner of the side deck, impossible to spot from the front entrance. But that also meant she couldn’t see who was coming to the front door.

  Still holding Rafe’s picture, she stood without making a noise and took two silent steps to get close to the railing so she could see the stairs that led up to the deck. She’d stripped out of her white outfit, changing to a simple black cover-up. With her hair pulled back, she could easily hide in the shadows to see who was here.

  She peered at the heavyset woman carrying an armload of towels and one of the Casa Blanca terry-cloth robes draped over the top. Lumbering up the steps to the deck, the maid hummed softly, as if it were perfectly normal for a maid to drop off towels and a robe after midnight.

  It wasn’t.

  There are spies among us.

  Before Poppy spotted her, Lila moved across the side deck, soundlessly, hiding around the corner just outside the French doors that led to her bedroom.

  “Miz Lila?” the housekeeper called out with a tap on the front door, her voice easily carrying around the side of the villa. “Delivering the towels you called for. And an extra bathrobe, case you get chilly.”

  She hadn’t called for towels, and despite the December date, chilly wasn’t common in the tropics. Poppy wanted in for some reason. Lila’s instinct said this wasn’t a hired assassin, but instinct could be wrong.

  Why else would the woman make up a reason to come here at midnight, this woman who was always trying to hook Lila up with…

  Of course. She worked for Gabe. There were spies among us—him.

  He always had an asset or three on the ground and believed firmly in slipping cash to local eyes and ears to help out an operation. She knew Gabe was running a business that was equivalent to a for-profit wit-sec program, which was one of the reasons she was here, so of course he’d enlist a snooping housekeeper for help.

  He’d sent the woman to dig around for information. All right, Poppy, have at it.

  Lila slipped through the French doors and tiptoed down the hallway to the front door, arriving just as Poppy knocked and called again, repeating the whole speech.

  Soundlessly, Lila lifted and opened the security lock, then lightly darted back to her hiding place on the side deck.

  After the third attempt at knocking, Poppy used her passkey and, without the security lock on, opened the door. Heavy footsteps hit the hardwood floor, loud enough for Lila to hear through the open bedroom doors.

  “Anyone here? Miz Lila Wickham? It’s Poppy from housekeeping. Don’t want to scare you.” She continued to use a loud voice, but Lila knew this was not Casa Blanca Resort & Spa protocol. A housekeeper would never walk into an occupied villa after midnight, even if a guest had called for towels. They’d leave them outside the front door and call on the house phone.

  This was a Gabe Rossi B&E if she ever saw one. Lila stayed quiet, tucked into the corner so she could see through the sheer curtains but not be seen.

  “Miz Lila?” Poppy tried one more time, moving noisily into the bedroom, giving Lila a direct view through the sheers over closed doors. Poppy looked side to side and then slipped into the bathroom, presumably to deliver her armload, and a minute later—longer than it took to place towels on a shelf—she stepped into the bedroom and looked around. Then she hustled right to the dresser, opening the top drawer as silently as a professional thief.

  But she wasn’t a thief. She was under the Rossi Spell, a powerful and heady thing.

  Poppy felt around the top drawer, then abandoned it, moving on to the next. She searched that one, then repeated the move on the next two drawers, her shoulders lifting and dropping with frustration. What was she was looking for? A passport? Files?

  She turned and looked around the room again, stepping to the nightstand to try that drawer, and then Lila remembered Poppy walking in just as she had slipped Rafe’s picture into the top drawer. Of course that’s what he wanted. He wanted to see his child.

  Lila looked down at the framed five-by-seven in her hands.

  Poppy gave up her search and left the villa through the same door she’d entered, moving with a little less speed and purpose. Probably sad to have to report a failed mission to her boss.

  As she started up the electric motor and started to drive off, Lila scooted around the corner to the front of the villa. “Poppy, wait!”

  The woman gasped loudly and slammed on the brakes. “Miz Lila!” she exclaimed. “I…I just…just delivered your towels…that you called for.”

  “I fell asleep on the chaise outside the bedroom.” Lila walked down the stairs. “I appreciate you running out here so late at night for me. And on Christmas Eve.”

  In the dim moonlight, she could see the look of abject confusion on the other woman’s face. “Um…yes, ma’am. We aim to please.”

  “One more thing,” Lila said as she reached the side of the golf cart. “Would you mind doing me a favor?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m happy to do whatever you like.” Her Jamaican accent thickened, probably as a result of getting caught red-handed in all kinds of lies and subterfuge. But she held it together, and Lila had to admire Gabe’s instinct and judgment. “What can I do for you?”

  “Give this to Mr. Gabriel Rossi.” She held out the picture frame. “Tell him I said Merry Christmas.”

  Chapter Five

  As the sun rose on Christmas morning, Gabe sat on the edge of his bed staring at the picture he’d held most of the night. Out of the frame now, carefully examined for clues, changes, or photographic trickery that he happened to know quite well, he stared at the freakishly familiar face.

  Oh, hell, yeah.

  Far, far more familiar than the face of the woman who’d ordered the picture to be delivered to him.

  Now he had a plan. A purpose. A reason. And raw, real emotion surging through him again.

  He still mourned Isadora, because no matter what that blonde ice queen claimed, he knew in his
deepest soul that the woman he loved was dead.

  But not their son. All he had to do was look at this kid and he knew what gene pool this boy splashed around in.

  He put the photo down and headed straight to the bungalow’s back patio, restless with newfound energy.

  Everything had changed. In fact, last night was the best sleep he’d gotten since he’d seen those words on the computer screen after his sister Chessie had done her masterful hacking…

  Isadora Winter…deceased

  But moments later, Chessie discovered that his ex-lover left behind a child named Gabriel. Yeah, sleep started eluding him that night. His appetite caved, too. Along with his overall mood as the world seemed to deliberately piss him off at every turn.

  Then, because he was so not welcome in the country of Cuba, Chessie and his friend and fellow spy, Malcolm Harris, had gone there to track the kid down. Shit really sailed south then. Gabriel Rafael Rossi Winter, they’d discovered, had been adopted by a woman he and Mal knew from their days at Gitmo, and the child had supposedly died of a mysterious illness before his second birthday.

  But last night, with a picture of a healthy, living, breathing, cocky-as-shit four-year-old who could be Gabe’s clone, sleep was deep and dreamless. He didn’t know who that human icicle was or what she wanted from him, but Lila Wickham had what he wanted most, so he was ready to play ball.

  He popped down to the wooden deck and dove right into his routine, hitting sixty-two one-armed push-ups when the door opened and his octogenarian grandfather came lumbering out.

  “Buon Natale,” Nino said. The rare use of his native tongue, even to say Merry Christmas, made Gabe stop midway, balancing his entire weight on one arm.

  “Same to you, old man. Why the Italian?”

  Nino harrumphed with the ease of a man who harrumphed a lot, dropping onto a plastic Adirondack chair that had been at this place, sometimes used for staff housing, when they rented it from the resort. The two of them hadn’t done a lot of decorating in the few months they’d been in Barefoot Bay. Hid a few people, set up a couple of new identities and lives, and made some good cash while Gabe used the proximity to Cuba to dig for news about Isadora. But no decorating.

  Nino lifted a cup of coffee to his lips and nodded to Gabe. “All that reminiscing last night and I got cobwebs in my head.”

  “All that limoncello last night gave you the cobwebs. The strolls down the Amalfi Coast circa 1950? Priceless.” He counted in his head while talking, long used to this with Nino.

  “You left the bar so suddenly when Poppy came in,” Nino said. “Why?”

  Because life changed in a heartbeat.

  For one crazy second, he considered confiding in Nino. He told the old man everything he could, on every subject, more than he told anyone else in the world. He trusted him completely and had moved heaven and earth—and exposed the truth about a pesky old lady who tried to set Nino up for disaster—to get his grandfather to come to Bareass Bay with him.

  Bringing Nino along might have ticked off the family they left behind in Boston, but Gabe hadn’t done it just so he could eat well.

  Nino was his best friend, and if anyone could be trusted to know about what transpired last night, it would be him. But Nino was no spy; he wouldn’t understand. And, like Gabe, he’d been by what Chessie and Mal had discovered in Cuba, deeply affected by the loss of a great-grandchild. Yes, he had a few, with more on the way.

  But Gabe’s child would be different, because Gabe was Nino’s favorite. His siblings and cousins might think they were, but Gabe knew the truth.

  “I left ’cause I was tired,” he finally replied in answer to the pointed question.

  “You’re lying.”

  Gabe stilled on push-up number ninety-nine, looking up through squinted eyes at the old man.

  “Something’s up with you.” Nino sipped. “Think I don’t notice when your mood changes?”

  Okay, there was a price for being the favorite. The old bastard knew him better than anyone. Gabe abandoned the push-ups and rolled onto the hard deck, flat on his back, staring at the marbled clouds in the morning sky.

  He couldn’t tell him everything, but he could tell him something. “I met a chick,” he said.

  “Mmm.” Nino’s reaction was masked by another noisy sip. “So that’s why you took off without so much as a bite of scungilli salad.”

  “The blonde in the sparkly white trumped your tasty snails. Sorry.”

  “Actually, scungilli is conch.”

  Gabe rolled his eyes. “So did you see her?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “She’s staying up in Rockrose. I think I’ll go visit her in a little bit.” Gabe turned his head to get Nino’s reaction, who just looked at him over his cup.

  Then Nino sighed heavily and shook his head.

  “What?” Gabe asked. “You’ve been on my case about my general dick-like behavior lately, so I thought I’d…” His voice trailed off at the look on Nino’s face. “What is wrong, Nino?”

  “Gabriel, you haven’t been through all the stages of grief yet.”

  “I’m not grieving.” Not since he saw that picture. “And, for the love of Christmas, stop reading those damn pop psychology books.”

  “There are five stages of grief, you know.” He put the cup on a table next to him and leaned forward. “I remember every one like it was yesterday after my Monica died.”

  My Monica. Sometimes Gabe’s grandmother’s name was like one word in Nino’s mouth. MyMonica. And Gabe knew better than to even consider a sideways comment about her.

  “Well, I plowed through every stage real fast,” Gabe said. “So don’t give me blowback if I want to spend time with the blonde.” A lot of time. Enough time to get his son back, no matter what it took.

  “You’ve been through denial and anger, God knows.” It was like Gabe hadn’t even spoken. “Next, you’re going to try to make deals.”

  He was going to make a deal. With the lying spy bitch who has my kid and probably had something to do with Isa’s death. “How about this deal? We shut up about this, and I get to work out in peace? Is that a deal?”

  “They call it bargaining.”

  Gabe wiped his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands hard against them because he so fucking did not want to have this conversation. He wanted to shower and get over to Rockrose to start the charm offensive. If Lila wanted him to believe she was Isadora, he’d let her win that war. He’d do anything to get that kid, and calling her on her lies wouldn’t help the process.

  “You have a long way to go before you let go of this woman, this Isadora you told me about.”

  Why the hell did he get hammered and tell Nino so much that night Chessie had called him from Cuba with the news that his son was dead?

  “And this little boy,” Nino added. “You have two crosses to burn.”

  “Bear, not burn.” He corrected Nino’s butchered English phrase without thinking, but he couldn’t correct Nino’s mistake about who was dead and who wasn’t. Even though he knew if he showed the picture to Nino, his grandfather would say, Oh, Gabriel, you took that from your mother’s wall of Rossi fame.

  That’s how much the little boy looked like his father.

  But he wasn’t going to show it to Nino. The real thing would be better. “Thanks for the sage wisdom, as always, Gramps, but I got a ton to do today.” He walked by, unable to avoid Nino’s scowl or the giant gnarled hand that reached out to stop him.

  “I know a little bit about grieving, young man. The hole my Monica left in my heart has never been filled in, and you know how I tried. Don’t get taken in by this woman,” he warned. “You know better than anyone that women can smell vulnerability.”

  Gabe lifted his arm and sniffed. “Then I better shower mine off before I go tap the new neighbor, huh?”

  Nino didn’t even smile. “I thought you learned that lesson.”

  “What lesson was that?”

  Nino’s bushy brow went up. �
��It’s very easy to imagine a woman is who you want her to be because she happens to be who you need her to be.”

  Gabe stopped cold. He might have gotten boozy and chatty a few times in the last couple of months, but he was not stupid. He’d never told Nino any other story about being duped by a woman, ever. God knows that couldn’t be tortured out of him. “What are you referring to, old man?”

  “Remember what happened to me in Boston?” Nino asked. “Thinking that woman was free and interested in an old fart like me?”

  Of course Nino didn’t know about Moscow. He had his own checkered past with wily women. “Yeah. Good thing I’m never too far away to save your sorry old ass.”

  Nino gave a yellowed, loving grin. “Which is why I’m willing to get out of this comfortable chair and cook for you. You want breakfast, Gabriel?”

  “No, I want”—answers—“the neighbor. See you later.”

  “Suit yourself, but remember. You’re tender and vulnerable.”

  “My ass is tender and vulnerable.” He headed into the house with one single thought: He hated when Nino was bang on. And he was. Every stinkin’ time.

  *

  By the time Lila returned to her villa, her head felt like a cement truck had been grinding her brain into mush for the last two hours.

  At the time, it seemed worth every second. After all, it was Christmas Day. Who cared if that caused a headache? But now the sun was high, and the heat pounding down made the pain worse. She’d parked her rental car near the main building of the resort and chosen the beach as her route to walk back to the villa, a stroll on the sand exactly what her conflicted soul needed after a morning of the highest highs…and the deepest lows.

  Her jumbled thoughts and fears and plans smoothed out, somehow, as her bare feet touched the sand and a tropical breeze fluttered her linen slacks and loose top. She pulled the elastic free that held her ponytail and rubbed her throbbing temples, letting her hair fall over her shoulders, even though the last thing those shoulders needed was more weight bearing down.