Barefoot With A Stranger

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Un bebé,” the woman said.

  “A baby?” Mal stepped closer, but Chessie was faster, inching next to the woman, who handed her the rosary.

  But the woman had lost interest in the rosary, tapping the money in her hand as she brushed by Mal. She mumbled an offering of ten more minutes and then left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Oh my God, Mal,” Chessie whispered, peering at the stone with the window light behind it. “It is a message! You’re right.” She turned to him, surprising him with eyes wet with tears. She handed it to him, her hands—her whole body—shaking. “Read it.”

  He took the chain and held the cross to the light, the center made up of a round red jewel about half an inch in diameter. Mal squinted at the tiny letters, each word punching his gut.

  Gabriel Rafael Winter 29 Junio 2011

  “Chessie.” His voice was thick in his throat. “We found him.”

  “We haven’t found him yet.” She was already at the computer, fingers flying, typing so hard and fast it was a wonder she didn’t break the keyboard. “But I have a name and a birthdate and a beautiful, working password of chimneyeight—thank you very much—that just opened up a world of possibilities.”

  He stood behind her, putting both hands on her shoulders just to feel the vibrations humming through her body. The buzz of determination and relentless optimism and…hope. The woman was damn near overflowing with the one thing he hadn’t even thought existed.

  “Got it!” She practically jumped out of her seat. “I found him, Mal! I found him! Look.” She pointed to a line of text, and he read it out loud.

  “Gabriel Rafael Winter, nació el vente y nueve de junio, en el año dos mil once, a Isadora Winter.” He squeezed her shoulders and translated. “Born June 29, 2011, to Isadora Winter.”

  “Oh my God, look, Mal.” She pointed to a word on the screen. Adoptado. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “He’s been adopted.”

  She put her hand to her mouth. “Someone adopted my nephew? How can Gabe ever get him back, Mal? How?”

  “I don’t know. But first we have to find him.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  By the time they neared their hostel, they had a plan, which Chessie clung to as tightly as the rosary that had been engraved for her nephew. Ramos was the person who’d given Chessie the rosary, and surely he’d known what he was doing when he handed her that information.

  Mal didn’t one hundred percent agree with that, but he was willing to go back to see Ramos in the morning on the off chance he’d tell them who’d adopted the child. But he was sure that Señor Ramos helped local orphans, which most likely also included getting them out of the country, which would explain his secrecy, and he wasn’t likely to easily spill the name of the family who had Gabriel.

  She put the rosary in her bag and took Mal’s hand as they walked into the dark and dingy building they currently called home. They headed downstairs to the basement and down the hall, but Mal stopped short five feet from the door.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  He pointed to the scruffy thatched mat in front of the door. “I left that corner over the threshold so it would only move if someone’s been in the room.”

  “Housekeeping?”

  Even as she said the word, she knew how ridiculous it was. They hadn’t seen anyone who looked anything like a maid since they got to this dump. He turned, surprising her, suddenly pulling her into a tight, deep embrace.

  “Mal, I—”

  His mouth came down hard on hers, a breath-stealing kiss so unexpected she grunted and tried to pull back, but he was having none of it, pushing her against the wall and devouring her mouth.

  “Listen to me,” he murmured into the kiss. “Don’t talk, just listen.”

  She nodded, her heart suddenly pounding for more reasons than just the pressure of his body against hers.

  He pinned her to the wall, kissed her neck and finally worked his mouth to her ear. “If nothing’s missing, then we have to find what they left behind,” he whispered. “Most likely audio, because I’d spot a camera.”

  The room was bugged?

  “Work with me, Chess,” he said. “We’re going to use sex as our cover. Just follow my lead.”

  She nodded.

  “Act like you like this,” he breathed into her ear.

  She did like it. She just didn’t like…someone watching or listening to just how much she liked it.

  “Please,” he insisted, the word sounding like a plea for sex, but she knew it wasn’t. “You get on the bed while I look for a condom.”

  But he didn’t mean condom. Not for one second, and she knew that. He squeezed tighter, silently telling her what to do.

  “A condom. I like that plan.” She slid her hands up his arms, squeezing his muscles, closing around his neck to tell him she would give him a hundred percent on this. “And you know how I like a good plan.”

  He pulled back long enough to wash her with a look of gratitude. And a little challenge. This was a test, and she was going to pass.

  He kissed her again and went to the other ear to whisper more instructions. “Every word, every action has to be believable.”

  She nodded.

  “And it’s all about sex.”

  Only it wasn’t. It was all about finding a bug.

  “You distract on the bed. Talk to me, seduce me, do what you have to while I search for it.”

  “And then?” She dragged out the words and stroked his head as if begging for sex talk and not a plan.

  “Contingency, Francesca.”

  In other words, go with the flow.

  “I like that,” she said, purposely coy.

  “And then we’ll get out of here,” he murmured. “Just follow my lead.”

  She answered with the openmouthed kiss of a desperate, horny, sex-charged woman, not a determined, deceptive, mission-focused agent.

  But that’s what she was now.

  She dragged her hands down his chest, vaguely aware that his heart hammered like hers. “Whatever you say…” She tried to sound sexy and provocative, but still get her clear message across that he could trust her. “I’ll do.”

  His eyes grew smoky, and his mouth almost tipped in a smile. “In the room, Francesca. Now.”

  She damn near melted from anticipation and the way the demand turned her on.

  That was no good. This had to be an act. A really good act.

  She let him walk her to their door, holding him tight, kissing his shoulder, caressing his back like any lover would while he found the key and opened the door, then banged it hard and dead-bolted it.

  “Are we—”

  “Shut up,” he insisted, punctuating that with a kiss so hard he slammed her right against the wall.

  He cupped her breasts and pushed into her, pretty damn hard for a man who was acting, glancing over to the wall behind the bed before backing away. But she could see his eyes were open, searching everywhere he could while kissing her and turning her around.

  At her ear, he breathed, “Make a lot of noise. I need it for cover. Don’t ever stop talking.”

  Make noise. What the hell should she say?

  “Talk sexy to me, Francesca.” He guided her to the bed and pushed her on it. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me, baby. I’ll get a raincoat.”

  Talk sexy. Make a lot of noise. Of course, she was speechless and frozen like a statue.

  Some freaking spy she made.

  Leaving her on the bed, he backed against a wall and was slyly scanning the room, probably on the off chance there was a camera. Abandoning that, he threw her a look that said everything. Do it, Chessie. Play the part. Be a spy. Be my partner.

  And all she wanted in the whole world was to prove herself to him. And, maybe, to herself.

  Kneeling on the lumpy mattress, she fingered the bottom of her T-shirt. “I can’t wait for you to strip me,” she said, inching the shi
rt up provocatively.

  “Oh yeah. I’m going to strip you.” But he was digging through his duffel bag, feeling around, carefully pulling out clothes and shaking them.

  “Oh yeah, hurry up, baby.” Hurry up, baby? She was going down as the worst dirty-talker ever. What the hell would Gabe do? Gabe would go all-in and fry his partner’s ears.

  “I want you to fuck me, hard.”

  Mal whipped his head up, eyes wide at the words. She saw his mouth slacken ever so slightly. His eyes flickered with encouragement, and then he went back to work.

  Okay, dirty talk. Dirty talk. “I…I…want you…” Hopefully, whoever was listening or watching didn’t speak English.

  Unless they were CIA.

  Oh God. What if Gabe saw this? Well, he’d say she was doing her job in the field. That she came from a family of badasses and…deserved to bear the Rossi name.

  “I want your mouth all over me. Licking. Sucking.” She closed her eyes, slowly pulled her top off so she could finger her nipples over her bra. “Everywhere, Mal. Right here.”

  Mal finished that suitcase and moved to hers, glancing up at her. “I intend to. And you won’t be able to walk when I’m done.” Impatience edged his voice, and she suspected it wasn’t because he was desperate for sex. Where was the bug?

  “I don’t want you to be done…I want you to be inside me all night.” The words were coarse and crude and not what she liked, except…her hands dragged down to her jeans, playing with the snap. “I want you inside me. Your big cock. Hurry!”

  His head shot up with a look that said he was doing his damn best.

  She unzipped her jeans, making it slow and noisy and as stripper-y as she could. “You know what it’s going to feel like, Mal. Heaven.”

  “Hot and wet and tight, woman.”

  It didn’t sound like him. He’d never talk like that to her. Which helped remind her that this wasn’t real—anything either of them said or did was for the benefit of whoever might be listening or watching.

  She pushed her jeans open and slid her hand inside her panties. Well, the words were working on her, at least. She touched herself and moaned noisily with her head back.

  From under her lashes, she saw him look, his eyes flashing for a moment, then he gave her an all-business, nearly imperceptible nod. “Nice.”

  The move or her spy work? “I’ll show you nice. Get over here.”

  “Yeah, baby. Show me,” he said, pressed against a wall and carefully digging through the other suitcase. “And tell me,” he insisted. “Tell me how you feel.”

  In other words, make more noise and cover for him.

  “I feel…” At her long pause, he looked again, the message in his eyes clear. “I feel sexy when I’m with you. It makes me want you so bad, Mal. I’ve always wanted you.”

  He switched to the last bag, not even looking at her as he searched. Okay, here we go.

  “From the moment I saw you…” She caressed her womanhood, half proud of herself, half furious with her body’s response to something that was supposed to be fake. He finished searching her suitcase, tossing it aside and starting on the window casing and vent. “I wanted you—to kiss me, to taste me, to fill me up until I scream for more.”

  That got his attention. He glanced over his shoulder, his brows slightly raised. “Yeah, baby.” His voice sounded gruff. “I want that, too.”

  “Then find that condom, honey.” Because I can’t keep talking like a rejected page from Penthouse Forum for much longer. And I might come.

  “I’m still looking for what I need,” he said. “But you’re making me hot, baby.”

  “I’m hot, too.” Oh man. Lame, Chess.

  He threw her a quick smile. “That’s good.” He gave up on the window and moved to the only other piece of furniture in the room, a cheap dresser. He opened the top drawer. “Maybe they’re in here,” he said.

  “Hurry up, Mal. I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.” She touched her hard nipple, scraping the lace of her bra.

  What a weak-ass she was. No decent spy would actually get turned on by this. Mal was all business, that’s for sure.

  He turned to give her another look, pausing in his search to stare at her. His eyes darkened. His jaw locked. His chest rose and fell with one tight breath. “Keep going,” he said, his voice more than a little rough.

  Or maybe not.

  She pushed the jeans over her hips and shimmied out of them just to make more noise, moaning the whole time, leaving her thong on. “My panties are wet, Mal.” He didn’t even look, working his own way down to the lower drawer. Of course he didn’t look, because a real spy would use a more effective P-word than panties. “Mal, my pu—”

  Suddenly, his fist shot in the air with a thumbs-up, then he beckoned her closer. “C’mere, baby,” he said. “Come over here and see…what I got for your wet panties.”

  She scooted off the bed and stepped closer to see. Under a yellowed, crispy piece of tissue lining the bottom of the drawer, there was a tiny disc she recognized immediately.

  “Sound only,” he mouthed without making a noise.

  “Oooh,” she cooed. “That’s…huge.” Then she held her hands out as if to ask, Now what?

  “Let’s use one right now,” he said, pushing her back to the bed. But there was no condom, and there was no way he meant they were really going to do this. She let him fall on her, knowing he had a plan and she had to trust it.

  He kissed her—noisily—and added a satisfied moan. She did, too, and not just for the benefit of their listening audience. His hands were kneading her breasts.

  “We’re going to fuck, baby,” he said, still using a nickname and a word that sounded so wrong to her ears…so it couldn’t have been for her ears.

  She inched him back with another question in her eyes. They were?

  “All night long. We’re not going to stop until these boxes of condoms are empty and used up and so are we.” He winked at her, silently telling her that it was going to be okay, the cheesy talk was all part of the game.

  Damn it, she liked his game as much as she liked him.

  She responded with a kiss, making it as loud as his, moaning, groaning…faking it until she wasn’t anymore. And neither was he. His hard-on was massive, nearly bursting out of his jeans.

  “Just like that,” he said, grinding against her. “Let me have you just like that.”

  She gasped at the pressure. “Oh!” He knew she’d come like this. He’d made her come like this in the car. She gripped his shoulders and cursed her body for turning into a pool of hot, achy liquid.

  But he was into it, too. As much as she was. Not inside her, but the rough denim of his jeans over his erection grinding against her wet silk panties was taking them both closer to reality.

  “Make it sound good, Francesca,” he whispered in her ear. “Make it real.”

  “It is real,” she hissed in his ear.

  For a moment, he stilled, then pushed against her. “Yeah.” He dragged his hand down her body, between them, cupping her with his palm. “So real,” he murmured.

  He pressed the heel of his hand right on her sweetest spot, making her let out a little cry.

  “Inside,” she demanded. “Inside me.”

  “Perfect, baby. Perfect.” She didn’t know if he meant her acting—which wasn’t acting—or her body’s response to him, but it didn’t matter. She was confused and excited and trying to stay in the moment but desperately, wickedly gone.

  “Like that?” he asked, one finger inching into her. “Or more?”

  Blood rushed so hard, her body lost it at the touch, the danger, the illicit, fake sex that wasn’t fake. Anyone listening would assume they were copulating like crazy and she…oh God, she wanted to.

  Desire crackled through her. “More,” she whispered. “Oh my God, Mal, more.”

  He obliged with two fingers, and it took everything in her not to reach down and grab him and tell him what she really wanted.

  “
Like that, baby?”

  Fire shot through her, an orgasm so close she almost wept. She lost control. Just lost it. She stuck her hand between them, sliding into his pants, clutching his erection as if she could drag it right into her and ride it for hours.

  “Oh.” He grunted and moaned and rubbed her harder, circling and stroking and torturing her. She did the same, squeezing and pumping and pulling an orgasm out of him.

  “Mal…I have to…”

  “Come with me, Francesca. Come. Now.”

  She fell into the climax, still clutching him, still stroking, still dying for his entire manhood to fill her up, and as she rocked with one and another and another physical quake of pleasure, he lost it, too, coming as hard as she did.

  Very slowly, still fighting for breath, he forced himself up. “Don’t move,” he mouthed.

  As if that were possible.

  “I gotta hit the head,” he said, moving around and making way more noise than necessary. “Don’t you get out of this bed, woman.” But he gestured for her to do exactly that, then put one finger on his lips to remind her to move silently.

  Without making a sound, she managed to get one foot on the ground. Damn, her legs were shaking. Couldn’t they have two minutes of postcoital rest?

  Apparently not. Mal was already lifting their two bags, his muscles straining as he picked them up off the ground without making a sound.

  Put clothes on, he mouthed.

  She nodded, glancing around for what she’d been wearing before. Too noisy to get back into jeans. She tiptoed to the dresser, spying a beach cover-up in the open drawer. That would work.

  She gestured to it so he knew what she was doing and lifted the cotton dress, letting it go over her head soundlessly, falling to her thighs.

  He pointed to her bare feet. No shoes, he mouthed. She nodded, then he indicated the bed, and instantly, she understood. She sat on the bed and rubbed her hands all over the sheets, moaning like a woman completely satisfied.

  “Hurry back, sweetheart,” she said, patting the pillow. “There’s more where that came from.”

  He angled his head toward the door, using the suitcases to tell her to go first. She tiptoed by him, snagging her handbag.