Barefoot With a Bodyguard (40 page)

He left the room, walked out into the night air, and tried to breathe. To think. To accept the fucking unacceptable.

He’d never see her again. Never. No chance of good-bye. No chance of an explanation. No chance of exactly the kind of love his sister had been mooning for.

Forever
.

He leaned against the rough trunk of a queen palm, sliding down to the ground with a thud.

Now what would he live for? His hope was gone.

“Gabe?” Chessie’s voice cut through the night and his pain.

“Not now, Chess.” His voice broke.

“Gabe, listen to me.”

“Not now, damn it!”

He heard his sister’s footsteps and knew she’d want to comfort him when all he wanted to do was howl in pain and swear in tongues that hadn’t even been invented yet.
Nothing
could comfort him. Nothing, ever.

“She left behind a four-year-old son.”

“What?”

“He’s still living in Cuba, her son.”

Issie had a son? A four-year-old?

“His name is Gabriel.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Not a sound. But Chessie dropped to her knees. “I’ll help you, Gabe. I’ll do whatever we have to do. I know you can’t go to Cuba, but I can. We’ll find him. I promise. We’ll find your son. Aunt Chessie can find anyone.”

He just reached out and wrapped his arms around his sister, and they both cried.

~

Don’t Miss The Next Barefoot Bay Undercover Romantic Adventure.

A Sneak Peek of

Barefoot with a Stranger

Barefoot Bay Undercover #2

by Roxanne St. Claire

No way. There was no way in heaven or hell she was going to sit in this airport for three hours. Chessie glared at the departures screen, willing the numbers to change with a miraculous digital flash.

But there were no miracles for Francesca Rossi today.

Hers was one of many flights delayed, and the line at the gate desk, along with the grumbles of unhappy travelers, told her getting on another flight was probably unlikely this late in the evening under rain-drenched skies.

All right. She could handle three hours in Atlanta on what was supposed to be a forty-eight-minute layover. But could her older brother handle one more delay?

Scanning the gate area, she couldn’t find a single empty seat, and a glance at the neighboring gates suggested the scheduling problems were widespread and included much more popular flights than her commuter to southwest Florida. Even though it was evening, the concourse behind her bustled with impatient people rolling their bags, and the airport restaurant teemed with captive customers. Leaning against the nearest wall, Chessie pulled out her phone and tapped the screen to text Gabe, instructing him not to send their grandfather to pick her up until takeoff was guaranteed.

Her brother wouldn’t like it, of course. Gabe was chewing nails in his desperation to accomplish “the plan.”

The
plan
. No fancy covert titles, like Operation BabyLift or Munchkin Mission for this one. Finding a child that Gabe hadn’t even known he had until a few weeks ago was too serious and too real for cutesy code names, especially since only Chessie knew the truth. And not even all the truth, because life with her ex-spook brother meant nearly everyone was on a “need-to-know basis.”

And the only thing Chessie knew for sure, so far, was that Gabe had devised a plan for her to find the kid. She wouldn’t know what it was until she got back to the island off the west coast of Florida, where he was currently running his latest covert op.

Her phone buzzed with his reply.
Delayed
?
WTF? Get your ass on another flight!

Like she could do anything about this. She typed back a sisterly “shut your pie hole” and peered over the gate crowd again, all of whom looked generally pissed to be stuck. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a woman getting up and freeing a seat near the back. Shouldering her handbag and grateful she’d checked her suitcase, Chessie headed straight to the vacant seat, weaving past a few travelers with determination. But she was two feet away when a middle-aged man beat her to it, practically throwing his backside into the chair to make sure he got it before she did.

She stopped her momentum with a soft grunt, a little stunned at his audacity. The man whipped out an iPad and ignored her, leaving Chessie feeling awkward as a few people stared at her. She glanced around on the off chance she could slide into an open seat.

But there were still no miracles for her today.

Her gaze landed on the man in the chair directly across from the one she’d almost snagged, meeting dark eyes that glinted with a mix of dismay and humor. Instantly, he stood.

“Here, take mine.”

“Oh, no, I…” Damn, he was big. Not just tall, but solid and broad. “That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.”

She started to reply, but had to take a good look at his face, which was pretty much a straight-up dime. A rugged blend of chiseled and rough, a strong nose, soft lips, and a cleft in his chin that was downright lickable. “I…I…can’t.”

At least five people watched the exchange—but not the tacky seat-stealer.

“Please, take my seat. It would be rude for me to let you stand there.” He put the slightest emphasis on rude, more of a deep rumble from that impressive chest, and at least four of the people watching shifted their attention to the really rude guy. Who didn’t look up from a riveting game of Words With Friends.

“I can stand, really,” Chessie said, gesturing to the seat. “Please, you had it first.”

“That doesn’t make it mine when a lady is involved.”

Chessie laughed lightly, aware that her heart tripped a little when she noticed a silver thread or two at the temples of his thick, dark hair. “I’m young and strong,” she assured him. And so was he, despite the bit of frosting, which only made him hotter.

“I see that.” He let those smoky brown eyes drop over her, sending a mix of chills and heat to every inch he eyed.

Easy, girl. You’re nursing a heartbreak, remember?
At least that was the excuse she gave for leaving Boston indefinitely on this secret assignment.

“Yeah, well…” Clearly, Tall Dark And Handsome had sucked the pithy right out of her. “Please.” She tried again to refuse his offer of the seat. “This is getting uncomfortable.”

“It sure is.” The seat-stealer spoke without looking up from his iPad. “Do us all a favor and go flirt in the bar.”

The man standing in front of Chessie flinched ever so slightly, his eyes flickering to the right but not actually shooting the yahoo a proper dirty look. Instead, he gave Chessie a slow smile that took him straight to an eleven. And a half.

For one, two, maybe the span of three insane heartbeats, they looked at each other, and at least one X in every doubleX chromosome climbed out of their breakup funk to momentarily consider what else was out there.

He checked her out for a few seconds, his gaze practically feasting on her face, then the faintest shrug gave her the impression he’d lost some kind of inner battle.

He nodded toward the concourse. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Chessie opened her mouth to say no. But that would be ill-mannered and stupid and, jeez, three hours was a long time. And she was officially single now.
And
Gabe didn’t say she couldn’t talk to anyone, just not share why she was on her way to Florida.
Aaand
, holy
God
, he was hot.

“Sure, thanks.”

The man leaned over to grab a duffle bag, then turned and got right in the seat-stealer’s face. “I owe you one, dickhead,” he whispered.

As they walked away, the woman next to the seat-stealer gave a loud, slow clap, and at least three others joined her.

What do you know? Maybe there was a little miracle today for Chessie after all.

*

Mal knew they’d be watching him from the minute he walked out of Allenwood federal prison and started his journey. But he honestly didn’t think they’d be so damn
obvious
about it, throwing a tag team at him, using the worn-out cliché of a sexy woman being mistreated by a smartass stranger.

Or maybe they thought Malcolm Harris had lost any ability to shake a tail during his forty-two-month knuckle-rapping.

Mal had taken two different cars, a train, and a bus to get to Atlanta, and now he just wanted to fly to his final destination, for God’s sake. But he mustn’t have been clever or deceptive enough, because the babe and her buddy nailed him like a wanted poster on a tree.

Mal hung back as the hostess led them to a table, taking the opportunity to check out the woman they’d sent to soften him up.

Well, nothing about him would be
soft
around this woman. She had that thick, inky black hair that he’d always liked, though sloppily braided and hanging down to the middle of her back. It wasn’t her hair that got his attention, though. Her ass was perfection, round and high and youthful in faded jeans, swaying with a sexy beat brought on by boots with just enough heel to tap a drumbeat on his stretched-to-the-limits libido.

They’d chosen wisely.

When they sat down, she ordered an Amstel Light but said no to a frosty mug. Beer from the bottle. Okay, that was hot.

Of course, he was a man six days out of federal prison, and she was the first female he’d talked to in three and a half years who wasn’t washing his con clothes or shoveling chow onto a plate. So, she could have ordered piss in a bucket and he’d have probably sprung a boner.

“Thanks for the rescue,” she said after the waitress left, crossing her arms to settle her elbows on the table and lean in enough to treat him to a glimpse of cleavage. He appreciated the effort, though it wasn’t necessary. “I think we shamed him effectively.”

Yeah, sweet thing. Like you two didn’t plan that since you followed my ass to the gate.

“He should be ashamed,” Mal agreed. And so should Mal if he thought this was legit.

He’d noticed this woman on the tram, then spotted her again in a bookstore. Hartsfield was a big airport, and a double sighting of anyone was unusual, but when she just missed the empty seat five feet from his face and looked right at him for help? They might as well have put it on the loudspeaker.

Attention, Malcolm Harris.
You are currently under surveillance.

And now he was going to let her believe he was duped by her ruse, and awestruck by her baby blues, which got even babier and bluer when she pushed her black-rimmed glasses to rest on top of her head.

Except, if she needed glasses, why not keep them on?

Mal inched just a little bit closer to inspect all the pretty she was showing him. And be sure her mic could pick up whatever he was saying, so his half-truths would have all her colleagues scratching their heads instead of their balls.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She actually took a little breath before answering, as if she had to think about it. Field rookie, no doubt. “Chessie.”

“Jessie?” Couldn’t even pronounce her fake name?

She shook her head. “No, Chessie. Short for Francesca.”

Wasn’t like them to use unusual names. “You don’t look like a Francesca.”

“No kidding.” Her smile was quick and seemed real, softening her features and putting a nice warmth in her eyes. “That’s my mother. Frannie. And you?”

Why lie? She knew damn well what his name was, along with his Social, his empty bank accounts, his stellar prison record. Shit, his whole miserable life was probably downloaded in her phone and filed under W for
Whistle-blower
.

“I’m Mal.” He added a sly smile and extended his hand over the table. “Pleasure to meet you, Francesca.”

“Mal?” She slid silken and slender fingers into his grip and lifted one perfectly shaped dark brow. “Then we’re even in the weird-name department.”

As if you didn’t know
. “Malcolm,” he explained. “Not so weird.”

“Traveling on business?” she asked, letting go of his hand after an extra second of contact.

Oh, yeah, let’s get right down to what the hell their man was doing crisscrossing the country and headed south.
Spill the beans, Harris.
You’re good at that. Classified beans, please, and then you’ll be headed home to Allenwood, cell block fourteen.

“More or less,” he replied. “You?”

“Um, family. I’m going to see my brother down in Florida.”

Pretty smooth. Only the slightest hitch in her voice. He nodded as the waitress arrived and placed two beers on paper cocktail napkins. When she stepped away, Chessie lifted her bottle. “To chivalry. Long may it live in the heart of a perfect stranger.”

He tapped her amber bottle with his bright green Heineken. “I’m not perfect.”
As you well know.

She held extended eye contact over the bottle. “Pretty close,” she whispered with the hint of a smile, and damn it, his body instantly betrayed his head with a low, deep, primal stir. No surprise there. He hadn’t gotten laid in so long, his balls had fallen into a temporary state of dormancy.