Barefoot With a Bodyguard (2 page)

“Then you get yourself a new name and move your ass to a new country. There’s nothing cowardly about keeping yourself alive.”

Alec let the advice sink in, pinching his throbbing nose as he tried to think. “Okay, what do I have to know about this chick?”

“That she’s not a chick. She’s the daughter of a high-profile judge who wants his precious girl protected. You have to act like her husband in public and treat her like daddy’s little princess in private. Hands off.”

He looked down at his raw, bruised knuckles and his ugly, blistered fingers. Hands that could do nothing but hurt and maim and fight and…kill. Hands that wouldn’t know how to touch a bride if he’d even deserved one.

“No problem,” he promised.

“But in public, the two of you are madly in love.”

Alec looked in the mirror and saw his bruised and battered face, shadowed with the pain he was either receiving or inflicting. “Hope she has low standards,” he muttered, but Gregg had already hung up.

*

Kate Kingston leaned back into the leather sedan seat and exhaled with the exhaustion of travel, pulling the elastic from her ponytail and shaking out her hair as an act of pure relief. As she rubbed her head and gave in to a satisfied smile, her driver, Mr. Rossi, a little old man with a slight accent she guessed to be Italian, occasionally glanced into his rearview mirror to make sure she had everything she needed.

Or to evaluate her. Despite his efficiency and kindness, she couldn’t help but feel the man was examining her.

She shrugged it off, determined to wallow in what she craved: silence, sunshine, salt air, and solitude. And, staying with her mental alliteration, a chance to study. Don’t forget safety and security, a voice in her head whispered. A voice that sounded an awful lot like Dad. Okay, if it made him happy to think she’d be safer outside of Boston, so be it.

For the first time since she signed her married name for the last time—on divorce papers—five months ago, Kate actually let go of her personal mantra:
No man, no husband, no
body
takes care of Kate Kingston except Kate Kingston.

She unclenched her hands as if she could physically remind herself that independence should be clung to with both hands. And this journey along a mile-long causeway over the Gulf of Mexico on her way to a place with the precious name of Barefoot Bay was not
exactly
an infringement on her independence.

Yes, she’d compromised her principles and mantra when she let her father make these arrangements, but, as he noted over and over again, it was his fault that some weirdo kept leaving him untraceable messages and notes that threatened Kate. In thirty years on the bench, Judge Kingston had never had anything like this happen, and he’d certainly dismissed plenty of cases due to lack of evidence, which seemed to be what launched the threat campaign.

That was enough to get her to agree to what was essentially a vacation that gave her time to study for the Massachusetts Bar Exam. She’d stay under the watchful eye of Mr. Rossi, who Dad claimed was some kind of legendary former spy and security specialist.

She fought a smile, doubting the little old man could fend off any attackers in his ill-fitting jacket and crooked, red bow tie. If he’d been a spy, it was probably in World War II. But she didn’t think there would be any attackers fifteen hundred miles from Boston, so she didn’t question the age or capabilities of the nice man who’d met her at the regional airport in southwest Florida.

He certainly took his job seriously, expertly guiding her through baggage claim, rolling her luggage to a neatly appointed black sedan with the words “Casa Blanca Resort & Spa” printed in tiny letters on the driver’s door. He kept conversation to a minimum, which Kate appreciated. She didn’t come here to talk or make friends or even to hide from some nut job in Boston. She just wanted to study for the test she should have taken five years ago. She was finally going in the direction she should have gone before Steven Douglas Jessup III derailed everything by persuading her to marry him and give up her dream to practice law.

It didn’t matter, she reminded herself, enjoying the deep-blue waters of the gulf below instead of wallowing in past mistakes. The future was bright with possibilities, especially once she passed the bar and started practicing. She would never, ever again let a man make decisions for her, run her life, control her actions, or trample all over her independence. And she sure as hell would never be anyone’s
wife
.

Live and learn, Katie. Live and learn.

She watched a formation of sea gulls take flight over the sun-sparkled water, a few pleasure craft leaving long, white wakes in the cobalt waves. All beautiful, peaceful, and calm. By the time they arrived at the resort, she was practically humming with happiness over this lovely turn of events, secretly thanking the anonymous note-leaver, especially since he seemed to pose no threat to her father.

It had all worked in her favor.

Mr. Rossi parked in a far corner of a large lot, a good distance from Casa Blanca’s main hotel building. With effortless competence that belied his age, he unloaded Kate’s bags and ushered her onto a waiting golf cart.

“One more little leg of this trip and you’ll be all tucked into your villa,” he said with a kind, but yellowed, smile.

“I just need to check in,” she said, fluffing the collar of a cashmere sweater that was already way too hot.

“No checking in,” he said. “I’ll take you directly to Caralluma.” When she frowned, he nodded as though he anticipated a question. “It’s a plant from North Africa. All the villas are named after them, and yours is one of the brand new ones. Just finished a few weeks ago.”

She glanced back at the creamy archways of the main hotel building, a new resentment growing. She didn’t want Dad paying for everything on this trip. “I need to go to the registration desk and give them my credit card.”

“Are you kidding?” The older man’s eyes grew wide as if she’d suggested running naked down the beach. “You’ll get into that villa without talking to a soul, young lady, or being seen by anyone.”

Katie opened her mouth to reply and got a single finger of warning. “It’s for your safety, Mrs. Carlson.”

“Kingston,” she corrected, already thinking of how she’d go see the spa later, after she ditched this guy. “It’s
Ms
. Kingston.”

He shot her a look, shaking his head. “It’s Carlson.
Mrs
. Carlson.”

She tamped down the argument that welled up. One of her best friends had recently warned that her bitter divorce had left her sounding like a man-hater, and she didn’t want to.
You don’t have to pick a fight with every guy who crosses your path
, Laurie had told her.

Of course, her friend was right. She didn’t have to hate them all just because Steven was a Dick With a Capital D, especially this dear little man who was probably a retired cop desperately searching for a purpose in his life.

“You can just call me Kate,” she said, adding a warm smile to take away any edge in her voice.

“No, that’s not your name,” he said, reaching into the inside of his jacket. “Not while you’re on this property, which, by the way, you can’t leave.”

Any thought of warmth or not fighting or lying back and being nice evaporated instantly. “Excuse me?”

From a pocket, he produced an envelope. “Here’s your identity package. You’ll have to give me your license and passport, plus anything else that might have your name on it. You can keep your phone, but we’ll have to erase all record of your name on it and block all incoming calls, with a few exceptions, like those from your father. Any letters or prescription bottles, also. Nothing on your person can have your real name. That’s very important.”

Was she actually hearing him correctly?

“I’ll have everything in a lockbox during your stay,” he added, taking in the look on her face. “Of course we’ll give you new bottles with your new name if you have medicines and, oh”—he glanced at her bags in the back of the golf cart—“tags for your luggage. Do you wear an ID bracelet or anything with your name or initials on it?”

Kate’s jaw dropped wide open. “You’re serious.”

“As a stroke.” He frowned. “Or is it a heart attack? I don’t know, but you bet your backside I’m serious. Being undercover is serious business. And that’s why you’re here, right?”

Wrong
. “I’m here to study.”

“Then study that packet,” he said, indicating the envelope. “Learn your name and use it. Don’t answer to your given name even if someone calls it out. It could be a test or…” He gave her a harsh look of warning. “It could blow your cover.”

Her
cover
. Good God, he was serious. “Are you going to tell me I have to dye my hair next?”

He gave a two-shouldered shrug, his mouth turned down. “Not a bad idea. But that’s just me. Redheads are trouble.”

“So I’ve heard.” Steven had hated redheads, too. Which was exactly why she’d added the auburn to her brown hair after the divorce.

“I hope you like the name,” Mr. Rossi said. “I picked it myself.”

She opened the envelope and found an Illinois driver’s license in the name of Mathilda Carlson.

“Mathilda?” She couldn’t help choking a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It was my Monica’s mother’s name. She was German, but…” He waved a gnarled, oversized hand. “We overlook some things for love, you know?”

She blinked at him, really not sure if she should laugh or slap that hand with her
identity packet
.

“Not everything,” she said dryly. “And while I appreciate the thorough security measures, Kate is common enough. I’ll just use Kate Carlson, if I must.”

“You
must
use the name you’ve been given.”

The command prickled her skin, summing up everything she hated most in the whole world. “No, I
mustn’t
. And I will thank you, Mr. Rossi, not to ever tell me what I must or must not do, is that clear?”

Mr. Rossi stuck his lower lip out and glowered, a slight flush growing under his crepe-paper complexion. She braced for his next comment, probably something about how her father had warned him she was spirited or maybe how everything everyone did was for her safety. If he did, she’d bound out of this damn cart and get her own ass back to the airport and go right back to Boston with her middle finger raised.

“Let’s compromise, miss.” His soft voice completely disarmed her. “How about you go by Tilly? It’s young and pretty like you.”

“It also rhymes with
silly
, which is what I think of this whole overkill scheme to keep me safe while I’m on vacation.”

“Not safe.
Alive
.”

Irritation pirouetted up her spine, but she really had no beef with this man. “Mr. Rossi, honestly, I know there were some random suggestions to my father that I might be on someone’s hate list, but I plan to spend the entire time I’m here completely alone, studying for a big test I have to take, and avoiding contact with everyone. I really don’t care what you or the housekeeper call me.”

“Poppy.”

“Pardon me?” Was that yet another ridiculous name suggestion?

“The housekeeper is Poppy. A Jamaican lady, and she was specially selected because she can be trusted. Although”—he lifted a shoulder—“she can’t be trusted with
everything
, I’m learning.”

At the obtuse comment, she frowned. “But she knows my secret identity?” she asked, only half-joking.

“She knows you are a client.” There was no humor in the reply. “She does not know your real name. That’s only for the inner circle.”

Oh, for God’s sake. Next he’d be giving her dark glasses with secret cameras embedded in them.

She stifled a smart-aleck response, using the vista of cobalt-blue water frothing up on a wide stretch of white sand as a distraction. Sunny yellow umbrellas dotted the horizon, with chaises and hammocks and a few gauze-draped private cabanas for the well-heeled guests of Casa Blanca.

So the circumstances were a little weird. Who cared? The place rocked, and she would not let an octogenarian 007 ruin her satisfaction.

In a few minutes, he slowed the cart in front of a sand-colored villa that backed up to the beach, the column, arches, and golden, barrel-tile roof looking both brand new and Old World. Any trace of a bad mood vanished.

“Put me up here, and you can call me anything you want,” she said with a sigh of pure pleasure.

Straightening a little uncomfortably, Mr. Rossi climbed out and reached for one bag, while Kate grabbed the smaller one, knowing it was heavy with legal books and files for studying.

At the door, he slipped the card key into the lock, getting a green light. But when he turned the handle, the door didn’t budge. He tried again, grunting a little with the effort.

“I swear those electronic keys never work,” she said, putting the suitcase down, ready to help him.

“No, it’s not that. It’s locked from the inside.”

“How can that be?”

“For your protection.”

“How is that protective? I’m out here, locked out and”—she glanced over her shoulder, getting a glimpse of sun-dappled palm fronds and not a stray guest in sight—“trapped in this hotbed of criminal activity.”