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

by Unknown

  Her voice hitched with emotion, but not enough to mask that very unusual subtlety that, now noticed, was the only thing Lila heard. Had Anne always had that undercurrent of an accent? The woman was as Midwestern as she was. She must be hanging around foreign-language speakers in DC, which, Lila knew, could slightly affect the way someone spoke.

  The inflection was so…

  Russian.

  Lila sucked in a silent breath, the image of the implant flashing in her brain with almost as much pain as the device had caused.

  “So he’s met his father now?” Anne asked, yanking Lila back to the conversation.

  How would she know Rafe hadn’t met Gabe before this? “He has, but we haven’t told Rafe everything. He’s so young.”

  Her mind whirred. Why would Anne Crain have anything to do with Russians? The spy in her surfaced instantly, clicking through all the ways to handle this.

  Information. Answers. Explanations. Anne had what Lila wanted. She just had to be crafty and cool to get it.

  “Tell me about you,” Lila said, dropping on the bed next to her. “I know Bethany is married and has a child. A little girl.”

  Anne smiled. “Lizbeth Anne, the apple of my eye.” She lifted the picture. “But this little guy has a chance of taking her place.”

  Dis…little guy. Of all her languages, Russian was Lila’s weakest. Chinese and any Arabic were second nature to her, but she’d had little use for Russian in her career. Staring at Anne, she rooted for a skill set she’d let go dormant: the ability to recognize the phonology and stress patterns of a native language.

  “Tell me about Lizbeth,” Lila said, trying to get her to relax as much as possible. “Is she walking yet?”

  “Oh, she’s as busy as a little beaver.”

  Forget the American idiom, the emphasis was ever so slightly on the second as…exactly like a Russian would say.

  If Lila had had any hairs left on her neck after the surgery, they would have stood straight up as alarm bells screamed in her head.

  Anne studied the picture one more time, then looked at Lila long enough for her eyes to grow moist. “I can’t believe it’s been so many years.” She blinked, and one tear rolled, and she looked around, but Lila grabbed a tissue from the box next to the bed for her, handing it to Anne. “Tell me, Isa. Are you…healthy?”

  Again, the th was slightly “folded,” as a linguist would say. Or was Lila just imagining things?

  “Isadora?”

  She blinked at Anne, feeling the slow burn that every spy is taught to heed from day one. The fire in the gut that says something isn’t right.

  And something was definitely not right about this. “Of course,” she said, recovering quickly. “I’m very healthy. It’s hard for me to respond to that name anymore.”

  Anne leaned a little closer, examining Lila’s face as if she didn’t believe her. “Nothing’s wrong at all?”

  “Why would it be?”

  “I wondered, when I heard you were alive, if you’ve had any problems with…headaches. Bad headaches.”

  Only the best CIA training kept any reaction off Lila’s face, except for a casual frown as if the question confused her. “No bad headaches. Just the standard fare that comes with a very active four-year-old and a tough job. Why do you ask?”

  “I have to tell you something, dear.” She put her hand on Lila’s arm. “It might shock you.”

  Right that moment, nothing could. Lila inched forward. “Go ahead.”

  “Before…the day. Before 9/11, your mother told me she had a brain tumor.”

  Lila’s eyes popped open, nothing fake about the reaction. “What?”

  “Obviously, that’s a moot point now. But she learned it was…hereditary. And when I learned you were alive and staying down here, I decided I owed you that information, because no one knew but me.”

  Of all the lies Lila had ever heard, this was the most preposterous, and it was Anne’s second real mistake, after the language slip. Because Lila and her mother had been indescribably close. They’d talked daily, sometimes more than once. There was no way Mom would have had a brain tumor and not have shared that with her daughter. No possible way.

  “Well, I’m fine but thank you for telling me. I’m so sorry my mother had to endure that. And so glad she confided in you.” Except that the only woman Mary Lou Winter confided in completely was her own daughter.

  “She didn’t have time to get very sick,” Anne said.

  Lila nodded, thinking of all the possible answers to that. “Maybe I’ll visit a neurologist to be on the safe side.”

  Anne searched her face, doubt in her dark eyes. “You’re positive you’re fine?”

  “Yes.” She patted Anne’s arm, thinking how to keep her here. Make small talk. Figure out her game. “Now tell me more about your family, Anne. How are the boys?”

  “They’re not boys anymore, and I don’t want to talk about them.” They’re. Them. Oh yeah. A perfectly Russian th fold from a woman asking about…her headaches.

  Somehow she got past the bodyguards, possibly by hiding out all night in the dark, and slipping onto the patio when they talked to Gabe. As tempting as it was to go screaming for help, that would ruin her chance to get information she had to have.

  And what about Dexter? Wouldn’t he have texted her to at least warn her that Anne was coming down? Or maybe he didn’t know.

  Or maybe he’s in on it.

  She refused to let the fissure forming in her heart show on her face. “You know, Anne, you did catch me in the middle of something, but…” She glanced at the bathroom door, digging for an excuse to go in there and look at her Dex phone, as she thought of her completely secure cell phone. “Just let me put something away in the bathroom. I was…doing something.”

  Oh brother. Gabe would call her an amateur. And where the hell was he when she needed him, anyway?

  “Of course.” Anne gave her a nudge, almost too encouraging. “I’ll wait here and look at my little almost grandson.” She smiled. “You’re like a daughter to me, you know.”

  Right now, she didn’t know anything. “I know,” Lila said. “And I’m sorry for the grief I caused.”

  “I’m just happy I found you and that we’re together again.” That. Together.

  She stood, anxious to get to that phone. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time,” Anne said with the smile. A genuine, loving, kind, maternal smile.

  Lila stepped into the bathroom, good training making sure she left the door open enough to be able to look in the bathroom mirror and see Anne’s reflection in the mirror over the dresser in the bedroom. From that angle, Anne couldn’t see her at all, through the door or in the mirror.

  As silently as possible, Lila reached into her bag, sliding the hidden zipper to get the phone. Before pulling it out, she looked up to check her unexpected guest.

  Who was looking at the bottom of the tissue box.

  Why? Her heart rate kicked up as more sirens screamed in her head. Not good. Not safe. Not right.

  With a slow inhale to stay perfectly calm, she tapped in Gabe’s birthday and read the last message.

  Twice. Three times.

  What the hell was he talking about? This wasn’t from Dexter. It was nonsense. This was something that someone would…

  And then she saw the timestamp for when it had been read.

  Her knees weakened as at least one of the missing puzzle pieces snapped into place. Gabe read this last night. And spent the following seven hours thinking she’d been lying to him from the moment they met.

  Only years of CIA schooling kept her from running out of the room screaming for him.

  One person could have access to Dexter’s phone. One person who showed up out of the blue, knew too much, had a new and bizarre vocal tic, and just checked the bottom of a tissue box…which, if that’s where she’d planted a bug, would tell her exactly when she could safely arrive. But how?

  Poppy brought that box last
night. A tissue box rejected by the new and difficult guest at the resort.

  Had Anne Crain, the sweet, beguiling, little senator’s wife somehow gotten an implant in Lila’s head? And bugged her room?

  Questions. Too many questions. It was time to get answers.

  Bracing herself for the confrontation, Lila watched Anne put the tissue box down, stand up, and walk out of view of the mirror.

  Damn it.

  Then she heard the dresser drawer open, and she realized her mistake. Anne Crain was now armed, and Lila wasn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  How could he have been so fucking stupid? How could he have trusted anyone?

  Gabe made a lot of mistakes in his life, and he owned up to them. He had a short fuse and liked things done his way. He was secretive and closed off and didn’t trust easily. He fucking swore like a sailor getting his balls cut off.

  And, yeah, he preferred to work alone because most people were idiots.

  But this time? He was the idiot.

  He practically spit out the taste of self-loathing that rose like puke in his throat. He told her he loved her. Stuck his dick in a stranger and said things he’d never imagined saying to anyone except Isadora.

  But she wasn’t Isadora. Until that moment that he learned she wasn’t the woman he once loved, he hadn’t really realized just how bone-deep he wanted her to be telling the truth. He wanted Isadora to be alive. He wanted it like he wanted his next breath. As much as he wanted that kid to be his son.

  But he got played, and easily, too. She was right. Half the power in an undercover gig was that people believed what they wanted to believe. Just like Nino told him.

  It’s very easy to believe a woman is who you want her to be because she happens to be who you need her to be.

  Well, right you are, old Italian man. When was Gabe going to listen to that windbag of wisdom?

  Only fucking morons made the same mistake twice.

  Darya Andropov was first, and she was dead. Now Lila Wickham or whoever the holy fuck she was would be his second. And after he got the answers he wanted, she might be dead, too.

  Someone was going to be dead, and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be him.

  But first, he needed information, and he wasn’t getting it from that lying whore. She’d make up some excuse, tell him that Dexter hadn’t written that, talk him into sex, and make an inside joke that he’d think only Isa could know.

  And he’d go blindly, stupidly, fucktastically forward.

  He physically shook off the fury, channeling all his anger into getting his hands around Dexter Crain’s throat.

  After he left, he dismissed the bodyguards because she didn’t need protection and he didn’t want them breathing down his neck. Then he circled Artemisia twice, studying the lemony-colored villa with a side patio that looked out at the water, searching for signs of life. It was early enough that Dexter could still be asleep, but the place definitely looked closed up, as if no guest had checked in.

  He called the front desk to confirm it had been rented and learned it had, to Anne Porter, who had a reservation and legitimate Canadian ID, which was why he hadn’t been notified.

  Then was his wife in on it? Or some other woman Dex used as a cover?

  He’d find out, and soon.

  Making sure no guests were anywhere near the villa, Gabe made his way closer, peeking in a side window, but all of the plantation shutters inside were closed tight. From the outside, it looked completely empty. He rounded the back to the pool area, also deserted, climbing up to look over the privacy fence, seeing no towels or shoes or empty glasses from the night before.

  Looked like Casa Blanca housekeeping had just left the place.

  If the villa was empty, then the inside security bar would be open and his passkey would work.

  He approached the front door, the Glock he’d hidden outside so Lila wouldn’t see him leaving armed was ready in his right hand. With his other hand, he used the card key, turned the knob, and entered.

  Either no one was here, or someone was stupid. Dexter Crain was stupid. But then, so was Gabe. There was plenty of stupid to go around these days.

  Inside, the rooms were dim from the drawn shutters, since, like all the villas, it was built to either open up to paradise or close off the relentless Florida sun. First, he dead-bolted the security bar so no one could come in while he was here, and then he looked around the living area, again seeing no sign of life whatsoever.

  He scanned it all, satisfied the rooms were empty. He headed down the hall to the master suite, finding a closed door. Was Dex asleep in there on the bed? If he was, he was dumber than Gabe and clueless about personal security.

  Something told him he wasn’t quite that witless.

  Still, Gabe lifted his weapon, braced, and used his elbow to flip the fancy knob and pop the door open.

  The room was empty and dark except for an oversize tote bag resting on the giant four-poster bed, which, like the one in Rockrose, was low to the ground and draped to the floor in layers of sheer fabric. The bag looked like a woman’s tote, bearing the brown and gold insignias of an overpriced Louis Vuitton. Before going to it, he checked the room, the closet, and the en suite. Everything was empty.

  The bag had no tags but was unzipped and stuffed with women’s clothing. He pulled it closer to where he stood at the foot of the bed and, using his free hand, dug around. Just loose, unfolded tops and slacks, a pair of sneakers, and—

  Something cold and square. He pulled out a solid metal cube the shape of a computer hard drive, but that’s not what this was. It wasn’t even steel or iron. This sucker was titanium. He angled it toward the light, peering at the writing on the side.

  Russian writing that even he, a non-Russian speaker, could read. Sevtronics. He’d seen that name on enough electronic devices to recognize the Cyrillic letters.

  Turning it over, he frowned at a blue flashing light and tiny digital numbers. Numbers that were…counting down.

  This wasn’t a hard drive, he realized in horror. This was a—

  Two hands circled his ankles and yanked so hard, Gabe flipped right on his back with a stunning thud. Before he could breathe, two men emerged from under the bed, one nearly breaking Gabe’s arm to get his gun, the other slamming a fucker of a fist right in his face.

  Goddamn son of a bitch! He swung, but that arm was stopped by the brute who got behind him and yanked both arms while the other guy just started going to town. In between fists to his face, Gabe recognized the man pummeling him. The same guy who’d climbed off the boat in the harbor.

  Knuckles smashed into his face and head, and a knee to the balls sent white-hot pain screaming through his body.

  Silent. Brutal. And a fucking bomb was a foot away on the bed.

  He grunted and groaned with every punch, one eye already shut from a hit. And another one to the—oof. His rib cracked, and agony ricocheted to his brain.

  They still hadn’t said a word, but they were professional. Icy. Nasty. Vicious. And thorough. He blacked out for a second, feeling his head fall, and the bastard behind him got in one more frenzy on Gabe’s kidney.

  Fuckface in front of him kicked his shin with a boot and gave one last thwack to his balls, making Gabe moan like a sick animal.

  Then he was down. On the ground. Cracked and beaten and stomped, and finally, there was something on his chest. A boot. A knee. The suitcase with a bomb? He had no idea.

  Everything hurt. Went beyond hurt. Kissed death.

  And one of them lifted his head and smacked it so hard on the wood floor he heard his teeth crack.

  The same question burned in his brain. How could he have been so fucking stupid? How could he have trusted anyone?

  Betrayed. Betrayed. He’d been betrayed. She’d done this to him. She had…

  Then he started to fade. Blackness engulfed him. Pain turned to numbness. And finally, nothing.

  *

  “I’ve thought so much about your mother,
dear. Are you able to talk about her now?”

  Lila took a steadying breath and slowly opened the door fully, finding Anne sitting at the bottom of the bed, letting the messy folds of the comforter casually hide her right hand. Anyone might think she was just sitting there quietly, but Lila knew better. She knew exactly what was hidden under the bedding. She gave a smile and turned her head like she was thinking, stealing the quickest glance at the dresser.

  As she suspected, the top drawer was open just a few inches. Enough for a slender hand to reach in and pull out a gun. But she couldn’t put Anne on alert; she couldn’t give away what she knew. Playing dumb and innocent would be so much better. And give her a minute to gain the advantage she needed.

  “Of course I can talk about her now.”

  First order, find out what was of such interest on that tissue box. Taking a few steps toward the nightstand, she sized up the room, trying to choose a spot for the most strategic advantage to overpower the other woman. She had to be careful. One wrong word and that hidden gun could make an appearance.

  “But talking about my mother still does make me a little weepy,” she added a believable sniffle, taking a step between the bed and the French doors.

  “I imagine it does.”

  “Especially seeing you,” Lila said. “It makes me miss her.” She took a noisy swallow as if a sob was welling up. “And since I’ve mourned someone, I can only imagine how you mourned my death.”

  Anne angled her head and smiled but didn’t get up, which would be the normal reaction. Of course not. Nothing was normal about this encounter.

  Lila sniffed again and slowly reached for a tissue to wipe her eyes, knocking the box off the nightstand with what she hoped looked like a natural move. The box fell on its side, and Lila caught Anne’s quick look at the floor where it landed.

  “Clumsy,” Lila whispered, bending at the knees to get it and not give Anne an advantage. “And still teary, even after all these years.”

  As she touched the side of the box, eyes on Anne, she felt a hard disk on the bottom.

  A listening device.

  That’s how Anne had known exactly when to make the phone vibrate so Gabe would look at it while he was in the bathroom. How she’d controlled them like a puppeteer.