Barefoot With a Bodyguard (7 page)

“Robyn!”

Except her name. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder, considering whether or not she should take a step backward and look down the hallway. But maybe it was a trick and someone was going to jump her for the money. She kept walking.

“Robyn!” The voice made her sway slightly and turn to see a blond head peek out from around the corner. Holy shit, it was him.

“Cole?”

“Shh!” He put his finger on his lips and looked left and right. “Meet me at the 7-Eleven down the street,” he whispered, his breathy voice sounding urgent and even scared.

“Cole?” She put one hand on her stomach, another on her mouth, stifling a scream of joy. It was him!

“Miss Bickler?”

She spun all the way around to see Vlitnik standing ten feet behind her. “Yes?”

“We’ll be watching you.”

But…
Cole
. She almost opened her mouth to say something, but the look in Vlitnik’s eyes stopped her. She couldn’t risk that thousand dollars.

“’Kay.” She kept walking, stealing one more glance back toward the hall, but Cole was gone. It didn’t matter. She finally knew where Cole was, and he wanted to meet her. That’s all that mattered.

She hustled out the door, doing exactly as she’d been told, practically running the two blocks to the 7-Eleven. She threw herself inside, looked around, got a strange look from the guy behind the counter.

She rushed up and down the aisles, but there was no sign of Cole.

She stood outside under the awning and waited. For half an hour. An hour. Two. Then she went back to her car, hid the money under the seat, drove past Vlitnik’s house, rode around the neighborhood, and tried the 7-Eleven again.

But it was like she’d imagined him. Maybe she had. That’s how bad she wanted to see Cole Morrow again.

Kate finished a half-hour-long shower, stepped into denim cutoffs, pulled a T-shirt over her head, and shook out her damp hair. There was nothing she could do, at least not short-term.

She needed some lunch, a cold drink, and then she’d hit the books until well into the evening.

If Ivan the Terrible wanted to sit and stare at her, she’d turn the other way, put on her noise-canceling headphones, and ignore him.

She opened the door, fully expecting him to be on the love seat, staring at the door, ready to pounce. Instead, a large woman in a housekeeper’s uniform was humming with earphones in, turning down the bed.

“Well, it’s about time.” The woman popped the buds out and tsked disapprovingly. “You could have bathed an entire orphanage in the time you’ve had that water running. Have you never thought of that?”

“Uh, no. I never have.”

“What were you doing in there so long?”

Really? Now the maid had a say in how Kate lived her life? “You must be Poppy.”

“I am. And you’re Tilly.” She angled her head and gave Kate a long look of appraisal, up and down and back again. “I can see why Nino backed off the Mathilda business, though he was very excited when Mr. Gabriel agreed to the name. I told him it was the most foolish name I ever heard, but Mr. Gabriel can’t seem to see straight when it comes to his grandfather.”

Kate nodded, not at all sure how to respond to the company politics of this mysterious stealth firm that suddenly controlled her life. “And you’ll be our housekeeper?”

A bushy black eyebrow rose. “That’s my cover.”

“Oh, dear God, isn’t anyone around here who they say they are?”

Poppy put two hands on rather wide hips, her dark features fixed in a stern expression. “I’m going to give you a pass on that, under the circumstances. Plus, I don’t usually count ‘God’ as a full-on curse, at least if it’s not followed by the D-word.”

Kate stared at her, frowning, feeling a little more like Alice in Wonderland than Kate in Paradise. “A pass. What are you talking about?”

“I may be working for Mr. Gabriel now, getting a little extra money on the side as one of his ‘spies’ and the only member of the entire housekeeping staff, including Miss Mandy, who owns the company that runs Casa Blanca housekeeping, who is being trusted with information about Mr. Gabriel’s ‘special guests,’ but…”

She took a breath and paused, as if she couldn’t remember where she’d actually started that sentence, since it might have gone on for a full minute. “But,” she continued, nodding as she picked up her train of thought, “there is no swearing without a penalty, so bad words in my presence get tallied, and the funds go to the Jamaican Children’s Fund so that I may bring my nephews home.” Another breath, and a big smile of bright white teeth against dark coffee skin. “Rules are rules, and they cannot, will not, and may not be broken, ever.”

Kate didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Okay, I don’t generally swear too much.” Though she might be starting soon. “But I will tell you that I’m not here to follow or break rules. I’m going to study for the bar, soak up some sunshine, get my head cleared, and then fog it all up again at the end of the day with a good, stiff drink. So, let’s not bog things down with rules, since there are already a number of people determined to get in the way of my plans.”

“All righty, then, but I’ll need your phone as well as anything that has your name on it, right now. I have a new one here for you that only your father can call.” She reached into her pocket and held out a brand new iPhone. “We’ll monitor your phone in case someone tries to get in touch with you. Mr. Gabriel has it all figured out.”

“Oh, does he now?”

Both eyebrows went up now. “He said you were feisty.”

“He…”

“Mr. Benjamin.”

She closed her eyes, her blood pressure spiking with each new comment.
He
was passing judgment on her now? With the housekeeper/spy lady who charged for curses and scolded people for long showers?

“This was so not what I wanted,” she muttered.

“You can’t always get what you want,” Poppy said.

Kate shook her head as she crossed the room. “So I’ve heard.”

“But you do have a beautiful home to stay in on a tropical island, a kind man whose entire existence is to make sure you’re safe, and the best housekeeper south of the Mason-Dixon Line and east of the Mississippi.”

“That may be tr—”

“And you’re alive and safe.”

She couldn’t argue with that.

“So be joyful!” Poppy practically shouted, and extended her sizable arms.

Then Kate did laugh. How could she not? “I’m going to try,” she assured the other woman, heading to the door. “I’ll give you my phone on your way out. In the meantime, I guess I’ll go see what the warden suggests for lunch.”

Poppy stopped her with a large hand held up in the air.

“Sorry, I mean Benjamin, my ever-faithful bodyguard.” She winked at Poppy. “See? Joyous.”

The hand became a single finger pointing up and down Kate’s body. “That’s not very many clothes, Miss Mathilda.”

Okay, now she
was
going to swear, because it would hurt when she pulled out her own hair from the roots in abject frustration.

Instead, Kate lowered her voice and reached for the icy demeanor she hoped she’d exhibit in the courtroom…if she ever passed the damn bar exam.

“It’s very hot outside,” she managed to say through only a slightly clenched jaw. “And I realize that I’m here under bizarre and mitigating circumstances, which, I might add, continue to get stranger and more palliative with each passing moment, but I don’t need your guidance on my wardrobe decisions.”

The other woman crossed her arms and let her generous lower lip protrude a bit. “He’s a man,” she finally said.

“Yes, I noticed.” Maybe more than she wanted to.

“And these are mighty tight quarters.”

An old fire shot up her back and seared her brain, making Kate lean closer and stare down Poppy, because this conversation just went from amusing to annoying and was headed straight to a full-blown argument and dismissal.

“Are you suggesting I adjust the way I dress so as not to
tempt
him? Forget the fact that he is ostensibly here to protect me. What’s most infuriating about that is…is…” Was it possible this woman was just out of touch with culture so much that she didn’t know any better? She cleared her throat and tamped down her resentment. Instead of chastising Poppy, she should educate her. “There’s an expression for what you’re saying, Poppy, and I bet it won’t pass your language standards.”

Her frown deepened. “Well, based on the way you talk, I’m figuring that’s a big, long expression with a whole lot of hard to understand words.”

“Just two. Slut-shaming,” Kate said softly. “And you’re doing it when you blame a man’s inappropriate behavior or thoughts on the way a woman dresses.” She paused to let that sink in. “And it’s wrong.”

The other woman inched back, searching Kate’s features as though trying to see behind the façade. “You’ll make a good lawyer,” she finally said.

“Thank you.” Kate tipped her head in the general direction of her law books. “But I have to pass the bar first.”

Poppy stepped aside and let her walk by with a look on her face that said Kate had won a round today, finally.

*

At midnight, after an evening of managing to stay out of her way to do his job, Alec put down the book he’d been reading and pushed up from the sofa, where, with the patio lights on, he could see the front entrance and the doors to her room. That wouldn’t work for overnight, but he had to give Kate some privacy.

She’d gone to her room hours earlier—with a bottle of wine and one glass—but had not shut the door, and her light was still on.

He walked through the vestibule—he’d never forget that one—that led to the bedroom and cleared his throat loudly.

“You can come in, Leo.”

He reached the open door to find her sitting in bed, under the covers, surrounded by books, wine in one hand, a pen in the other.

“Leo?” he asked.

“Tolstoy.”

He couldn’t help smiling. “Sorry, no.”

She took a healthy sip of wine and set the glass on the nightstand next to her. “You’re here for the sofa?”

“I can’t think of any other way,” he admitted. “If I’m outside, I have a clear view of your doors, but we’d have to leave the patio lights on all night, and I assume that would annoy you.”

“So does someone sleeping in my room.”

“This is the best arrangement. I’m close to you if anyone breaks in.”

She made a face at that. “What if they want you and not me?”

Fair question. “Either way, I’ll kill them.”

He saw her tense at that. “Have you?” she asked. “Killed anyone?”

He ignored the question and lifted his chin toward her books. “How late are you going to study?”

“Forever,” she said on a long sigh, but flipped one of the textbooks closed. “I have a lot to learn. You can come in.”

He accepted the invitation, entering slowly. “I saw a quote once that said the amount of time you spend focused on something is directly related to how important it is to you.” He’d applied that quote to martial arts in general and jiu-jitsu in particular.

“This”—she swept her hand over two textbooks the size of dictionaries—“is my ticket to independence and security and self-reliance. It represents everything I want most in the world.”

Sitting on the love seat tucked into the bay window near the French doors, he considered the sincerity of her confession. It took a lot to come right out and say what you wanted most, and he respected her for it.

“How many hours do you have to study to pass this test?”

“More like months, not hours.” She stacked the books on top of each other, making him think she might be done for the night after all. “I’ve been out of law school for more than five years, so my legal brain is kind of rusty. I have to do considerably more work than the average
Juris Doctor
graduate.”

“What took you so long to take the bar?” he asked. “Isn’t that something you do right away when you finish law school?”

She didn’t answer right away, instead letting the books hit the floor with a noisy clunk. “If I share personal information, then you have to…Nikolai.”

“Nope.”

“Rudolf? You know, like—”

“Nureyev. Got it, but no, not Rudolf.” He smiled at her. “You’re going to run out of famous Russians soon.”

“With all that literature and history?” She reached over and got her glass, settling back into a mountain of pillows like royalty gazing on a subject. She was a little like royalty to him—a judge’s daughter who went to Yale being watched over by the son of a butcher, an MMA trainer who didn’t even finish a year of college.

“But your name
is
Russian, right?” she asked.

Don’t tell her anything about yourself.
He could still hear Gabe’s warning, but it was fading.
And don’t lay a hand on her except in public
.

“Come on,” she said in a teasing voice, tapping the side of her wine glass impatiently. “Break the rules and tell me something.”

He didn’t answer, but could practically taste how much it mattered to her. Probably the lawyer in her who wanted to know everything. “No. It’s not safe. It’s best if you know nothing about me.”