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

by Unknown

  “This was a bad idea,” she muttered.

  “This? What this?” He got very close to her face, speaking through clenched teeth. “Showing up claiming to be one woman but looking like another? Dangling my son in front of me and then denying me a chance to be with him? Or is it your whole story that’s a bad idea, Lila?”

  Her eyes flashed. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Rossi? We need you to move your car.”

  He turned to the valet, and almost instantly, Lila slipped away. This time he did grab her. “You’re coming with me.”

  She relented, but her muscles were taut under his hand. “We are not going to see Rafe,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “No, we’re not. Not now.” He guided her to the passenger door and opened it.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded.

  “To meet…” He almost couldn’t say the words, but he knew he had to. Twice in one morning he’d been reminded he had to give up at least some measure of control in order for this to work. And to prove to her he could. “The team.”

  As he rounded the car to get to the driver’s side, he took out his phone to do the one thing he hated most in the whole world. He called in backup.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nino could hear Poppy fussing around cleaning the back bedrooms and bathroom that really didn’t need to be cleaned. Any minute she’d start tsking and getting all judgmental and holy and better than everyone else, especially if she realized Gabe hadn’t slept there last night.

  Not that it was any of her business, but that never stopped Poppy Washington from having an opinion.

  Nino wiped the kitchen counter with a loud exhale, counting the minutes until she finished chores they didn’t need to do but she insisted on doing. Nino could clean his own toilet, thank you very much.

  “I hear you puffin’ out your noisy sighs, wishin’ I’d be gone, Mr. Nino.” Poppy’s voice floated through the small bungalow, coming from Gabe’s room now.

  “I’m not sighing,” he said. “I’m just letting out some wind.”

  A hearty chuckle came from the room, then Poppy appeared in the doorway to the hall. “You might be letting out some air, but wind is altogether different.” She flashed a big strip of white teeth, a smile he wanted to ignore, but, damn it, he couldn’t. It was just always there. Smiling. But today’s wasn’t quite as bright as usual.

  “English isn’t my first language.” He casually flipped his mopina toward one of the stools at the counter. Not that he welcomed her and her know-it-all self in his kitchen, but…anybody at his counter was better than nobody at his counter.

  Even her.

  “It’s not really yours, either,” he reminded her.

  “We speak English in Jamaica, mon,” she said, layering her thick accent to make the point that it was a certain kind of English. “And patois. That’s a little French, a little Creole.” She came closer to the kitchen counter, a can of Lysol in one hand, a sponge in the other. “It’s pretty in Jamaica, Nino. You should go sometime.”

  He snorted. “I got enough damn palm trees here in paradise.”

  She put the can down and held her hand out. “That’s three dollars.”

  He plucked an olive from an open jar and dropped it in her palm. “This should cover me. Put that in your children’s fund.”

  She popped it in her mouth, then made a face as she sat her wide load on the seat. “What did you put on this po’ olive?” she asked, fighting with the pit.

  “It’s cured in oil and dressed with a little hot pepper. The way an olive should be.”

  She spit the pit in her hand and worked to swallow the rest. “That does not cover the money you owe to help me get my nephews to the United States.”

  He gave her an open hand to take her olive pit and throw it away. “You mentioned things weren’t all peachy back at home.”

  It was her turn to sigh, settling in for a chat, which…he didn’t mind. She was annoying, judgy, and knew the answer to everything and anything better than all other people, yes. But Poppy amused him, too. “My Isaiah has some problems, that’s for sure.”

  He waited for her to say more, and when she didn’t, he pointed to the coffee maker and lifted his brows.

  “No, I…” She stopped herself. “Sure. I would love a cup. Strong, rich, and black, like a good man.”

  He smiled at that, turning to make her a cup. “You forgot Italian, who can cook.”

  She harrumphed and leaned over the counter, reaching for his bowl of dressed-up olives. “If you call this cooking.”

  “Can’t be all bad if you’re eating a second one.”

  She helped herself to two. “I need to figure out how you did this so I never make the mistake with my olives.”

  He couldn’t help it—he smiled, placing a steaming cup in front of her. “You’ll drown them in curry and nutmeg.”

  She spit out her pits and set them on the counter. “Did you fight with your wife about food, Nino?”

  He drew back, surprised. He and Poppy bickered regularly, but rarely shared anything personal. “Not about food. Not about much of anything, truth be told. My Monica knew that I was always right.”

  “No wonder she’s in the grave. Died of exasperation.”

  He ignored the dig. “And your husband? Died of goat poisoning?”

  She rolled her big brown eyes. “I noticed you had two helpings of my goat.”

  “The curry was…interesting.”

  “And to answer your question, I never had a husband, Nino. No husband. No boyfriend. No lover.”

  Nino closed his eyes and held up two hands to stop her. “No more, please.”

  She just gave her hearty laugh. “I’m the bride of Jesus, my friend. Problem is, He is just not listening to me these days. Doin’ things His way, which isn’t always mine.”

  Nino leaned on the counter and took a wild guess. “Is this about your nephew? The one in jail?”

  She nodded and sipped her coffee, then inched over the counter to look longingly at the olives.

  He picked up the whole bowl and put it in front of her. “They do cure what ills you.”

  “Ails you,” she corrected, taking one. “I’m afraid Isaiah is guilty and will be staying in jail for a long time.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Other than be forced to take care of little ones when his mama died and his no-good rum-swilling drug-dealing liar of a father took off with the entire savings that was supposed to keep them alive until I could bring them here with me?”

  Nino took a breath for her.

  “He robbed a convenience store outside of Kingston. Not armed, but he might have been high.” Her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes. “Lord Jesus, save his soul.”

  Nino considered the charges and took an olive. “Does he have a lawyer?”

  “Someone who doesn’t care if he does five years or twenty-five.”

  “What about the kids, his brothers?”

  She dropped her head into one hand and moaned. “Living with a neighbor. It’s a mess, Nino, really.” She shifted on the stool, uncomfortable.

  “Maybe you should go visit them.”

  She didn’t answer for a long time, then gave him a harsh look. “And who would do my job around here? And who would be Mister Gabriel’s eyes and ears at the resort if I left?”

  “If you left?” Gabe popped through the open back slider to answer the question. “You better not leave.”

  “Mr. Gabriel!” Poppy pushed off the chair and instantly picked up her Lysol can.

  “Chill, Pop Off. You can take five and chat with Nino. Especially if you’re not killing each other.” He looked from one to the other. “Why aren’t you killing each other?”

  “Poppy was just telling me—”

  “Holiday spirit, Mr. Gabriel!” She bounced off the chair—as much as a woman her size could bounce—and gave a look that Nino could read no matter what language was behind it. Shut the hell up.r />
  “Chessie and Mal are on their way over, Gramps. Staff meeting. Poppy, put your Lysol away and help Nino make us all some food. I’m going to take a shower, and we’ll start when they get here. We have a job to do.”

  When Gabe disappeared into the back, Poppy came around the kitchen counter and put her hand on Nino’s shoulder, looking down at him since she had him by at least two inches. And fifty pounds. “Please don’t tell him what I told you,” she said.

  “You already mentioned it to him last night,” he said.

  “He’s got enough on his mind and can’t worry about me, too.”

  Nino lifted his brows. “Don’t underestimate my grandson.”

  She just shook her head. “And I shouldn’t have gone unloading my troubles on you.”

  “It’s fine, really.” He almost admitted to her how much he liked it, how much he missed his family in Boston and their business and their problems, but then she’d go telling Gabe, and he’d send Nino home, and that boy would be here alone. “Set the table for five.”

  “Set the table? And let you ruin some omelet by putting ground-up basil in it? I’ll cook.”

  He fried her with a look, and she stared right back at him. Then gave him a slow, genuine, bright Poppy smile. “Okay, you win. You cook. I’ll”—she slid a look at the table—“set it for five.”

  She snagged a few olives and walked across the room to the table. “I have to say, these things are tasty.”

  Nino snorted, opening the refrigerator. “They’re good for your soul.”

  “You know what’s good for your soul, Nino?”

  He inched out from behind the door to look at her. “Let me guess. Reading the Bible and saying your prayers?”

  “That. But also friendship.” She grinned at him, folding a napkin. “Friendship is good for your soul.”

  He wanted to argue, but couldn’t.

  *

  Lila looked around the table at the crew that had assembled in Nino’s kitchen. A wrinkled old man who called a certain social-media platform Instantgram, a foreign-born housekeeper whose entire experience with the CIA came from watching reruns of Alias, an ex-con who was on his way back to work for the CIA along with his girlfriend, Gabe’s sister, a hacker whose résumé included exactly one assignment in the field.

  And they all had one thing in common: a willingness to do anything Gabriel Rossi asked. For some reason, just the thought of that made the very first rumble of a headache begin at the base of Lila’s neck.

  But it was Gabe who pushed his hand through his hair and looked around the table again. “So let’s wrap this. You all understand what we’re doing here and why we’re doing it?”

  Nods, mostly. Except Nino, who was frowning. “Basically, it’s the opposite of anything else we’ve done. Instead of hiding someone, making them a new identity, and slipping them out the back door, we’re trying to shine a spotlight on her so that whoever is after her will show up in Barefoot Bay.”

  “Exactly,” Gabe said. “Does everyone know their jobs? Everyone understands that they have an ‘audience’ to get this message out to. Poppy?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve got the current guests. I’m going to tell every single one I come in contact with that Miss Lila Wickham, a genuine female James Bond, is staying at the resort,” Poppy said, folding her arms and looking smug. “I won’t mention which villa, but I’ll be sure to say her name and describe her in great detail. It’s a sin to gossip, but in this case, I’m fine.”

  “Points in heaven,” Gabe said, holding the woman’s gaze with his charming smile. As if Poppy wouldn’t go straight to hell for the man.

  “And Nino?”

  “I have the staff and will be talking to all of them, spreading the same information.” He shot a look at Poppy. “Just talking about a person isn’t actually gossip, you know.”

  Gabe held up his hand. “No discussions. Chess?”

  “I’ll cover social media,” she said, pen in hand, checking her notes. “I can work with the new PR person at the resort and feed her some pictures and posts that get the word out that Lila is here. I’ll hit Insta, Twitter, Facebook, even Yik Yak, in case he’s within two miles. I tap friends to spread the posts, and I’ll be sure they’re not obvious. I got this.”

  Lila studied Gabe’s sister, a longing to connect with her so strong it was physical. Gabe might be a loner in the outside world, but his family—and in this case, she included Mal and Poppy—were never far. That’s what mattered to him, as evidenced by the fact that he’d turned to them for this.

  “And I’ve got the CIA and all my old contacts,” Mal said, reading off a list of names she, of course, recognized. But what mattered most was that Mal didn’t recognize her after all those months they’d worked together at Guantanamo, with Gabe flipping terrorists, Isa doing the translation and interpretation, and Mal undercover as a prison guard. He never even gave her a sideways glance as if she might not be who she sat there saying she was.

  “This is a good plan, and it won’t take long to get results,” Gabe said, finally shifting his gaze across the table to Lila. “You and I will just be out and about and as visible as we can be. Your villa will have three extra men at a distance at all times. Luke McBain, as the head of security, will alert everyone in the front to be extra vigilant regarding strangers on the property, and he’ll increase the level of identity and background checks for every new person who registers.”

  “Okay,” she said, not actually trusting her own voice. Emotion, unexpected and powerful, sneaked up on her. “Thank you all, so much.”

  “Any friend of Gabriel’s is a friend of ours,” Nino assured her, putting an age-spotted and giant hand on hers.

  “This is what we do.” Chessie, sitting on the other side, made the same gesture, and Lila’s temples tightened even more.

  “Well, thank you,” she said, her voice strained. “I’m so grateful for the help.”

  “Get to work, then.” Gabe stood up, ending the meeting abruptly, sending them off on their assignments. She said good-bye to all, unsure if she should leave or stay.

  Gabe walked outside with Nino, and they talked in the front for a few minutes while Lila stayed at the table and sipped her cold coffee, thinking about the plan…and the results.

  “It sure would be nice if we knew who’s after you.”

  She turned at the sound of Mal’s voice, surprised he was still in the house. She’d thought he’d left with the others, but apparently he’d used the bathroom in the back.

  She met his gaze with the confidence of having faced many people who knew Isadora Winter before they knew Lila Wickham. “That would make it easier,” she agreed.

  He came a little closer. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Not at all. I’m happy to go over that list of contacts at the agency again,” she said. “I know most of them personally.”

  “Did you know Isadora Winter?”

  The question froze her as effectively as if he’d dumped ice water on her, shocking her with how totally unexpected it was. “I’ve heard the name,” she said vaguely. “Translator, right?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Not exactly. “Yes, I heard that, too. Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “Just curious if your paths crossed when you were in the CIA.”

  “No, they never…crossed.” She died so I could be born. “Should they have?”

  “Well, you mentioned being in Beijing when Gabe was there. She was there, too.”

  Damn it. How could they have made that mistake? “We hardly talked to each other, at least not on a personal basis.”

  He glanced outside to where Gabe and Nino were talking. “They were pretty tight, Gabe and Isa.”

  Lila looked hard at him, wondering where the hell he was going with this.

  “My guess is they would have gotten married eventually, but…”

  She hoped he didn’t see the chills that rose on her arms. “But what?”

  He shrugged. “I do
n’t know what happened, exactly. He went to Miami for an assignment, screwed up the job, and couldn’t get back to Cuba. Before they ever saw each other again, she was killed in a car accident in Cuba. Had a kid, too, but he, well, he’s passed as well.” Mal closed his eyes as if even saying it hurt.

  Oh God, she’d hurt so many people. She’d made decisions that she thought were right—and they were right because those decisions saved lives. But they’d cost people some happiness, too. And if these people ever found out who she really was, that she sat here at this table and lied to them…it would hurt them all over again.

  Her head hammered, but she ignored it, staying in full Lila mode, not giving in to the emotional storm in her chest.

  “Don’t you agree?” he asked, making her realize she hadn’t heard the question. She put her hands to her temples, desperate with the need to try to press her headache away.

  “That it’s sad?” she asked, taking a guess. “It’s…unthinkable.”

  Mal leaned closer. “I mean, this has been good for him. To, you know, have someone new in his life.”

  Was it her imagination, or had he put an emphasis on new? “This isn’t anything serious.”

  Mal lifted a dubious brow.

  “It’s just physical and meaningless. He’s helping me out of a bind. Haven’t you ever had a relationship like that?”

  “Physical and meaningless?” A slow smile lifted the corners of his lips, and his gaze shifted outside to where Gabe and Nino now flanked Chessie in conversation. “Yeah, once. Didn’t last long, though.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Now she’s my fiancée.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t been expecting that. “And Gabe didn’t kill you?”

  He laughed and pointed at her. “You know Gabe pretty well. He got over it.” Outside, the conversation was breaking up, and Mal stood. “And we all want him to get over the grief of losing Isadora and their son. So thanks for anything you do to help with that.”

  She searched his face and looked hard for a tell that he…knew. But Mal was too good a spy to give away a thing.

  Still, they wouldn’t be able to pull off this charade forever. The sooner this bait worked, the better.