Barefoot With a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover Book 2) (14 page)

Of all the bruising former military guys he knew, he had to pick one who turned Chessie’s hormones into a sizzling pot of need. But she’d cool off…every time she thought about why he seduced her.

Gabe put his hand on her shoulder and gave a squeeze, “Don’t fall for him, Chessie. You’d never have a normal life.”

She snorted and wormed out of his touch. “No worries there, big brother.”

And, really, she’d never meant anything more in her whole life.

Chapter Ten

Sunset washed Barefoot Bay in a mellow golden glow, dimmed by a rain shower that drenched the sands and bathed paradise in a dreary gloom. It suited Mal’s mood just fine. Gabe and Nino had gone out, leaving Mal behind with the aroma of the older man’s latest tomato-saucey creation wafting through the little bungalow.

Mal wasn’t the least bit hungry.

He was tense, pissed, and itching to square things away with Chessie before they got on that flight to Cuba. But she’d disappeared and didn’t answer her door when he’d knocked around dinnertime.

When the downpour let up to a misty drizzle, Mal decided to try again. From the cul-de-sac, he walked east through the small farmette that served the resort and along a deserted beach toward her villa, where he’d try one more time to set things straight.

He had to tell her that by the time she’d come to his hotel room, he knew she wasn’t a spy. Would she believe him? Would she understand that he had to be suspicious of everyone?

The rain made his T-shirt stick to his chest and back, so he stripped it off and tossed it on the sand to let the mist wet his chest. It wasn’t quite dark enough to take everything off and swim off his frustrations, but the sunset-tinted water looked inviting.

He got closer to the cluster of the villas where she was staying, smaller than many others on the property, but still luxurious and private. This grouping all backed up to the beach, so their pools had unobstructed water views, and guests could walk right out to the sand.

In the distance, a woman caught his attention, emerging from the water wearing a black bikini.

Not a woman.
The
woman.

Chessie twisted water from her hair, then scooped up a thigh-length white shirt and slipped into it, the cotton immediately clinging to her wet body. She bent again and grabbed a hat from the sand, perching it on her head, a red scarf around the brim floating down her back.

She stood still, apparently unaware of him, staring out to the water and the lone orange ball about to disappear below the horizon.

Even a football field away, Mal felt a primal response to Francesca Rossi, and it wasn’t just the normal reaction of a man who’d spent four years celibate in prison. This was a deeper hunger. A craving for…
more
.

Maybe it was better if she believed the worst about him. Better if she thought him a thief who’d tricked her into sex. Because if she felt anything like he did, if she wanted another night in bed as much as he wanted it, then they weren’t going to get from Havana to Caibarién without pulling over and giving in.

She glanced in his general direction, but he noticed she didn’t have her glasses on, so she likely didn’t see him. Or she was just ignoring him—a very distinct possibility.

She walked along the water’s edge in the other direction, her bare feet kicking up wet sand. The hat protected her from the drizzle, but the light rain only made the shirt completely transparent, which made him more anxious to…peel it off her.

She stopped after about twenty feet, letting the gulf water swirl around her ankles. She seemed not only oblivious to the rain, but kind of enjoying it. As if the outdoor shower were washing away crappy thoughts, ones he put there because of his broken ability to trust anyone.

He approached her soundlessly from behind, trying to think of an opening line that would make her laugh or take down her guard. Maybe something that would—

“I know you’re back there.”

He stopped, fighting a smile.

“Do you really think you can sneak up on me?” she asked, still not turning around. “I was raised in a family of bodyguards, cops, FBI agents, and investigators.”

“And one particularly cagey spook.”

“Definitely made for interesting dinner conversation with a table full of tough talkers, that’s for sure.”

“I bet you talked some of the toughest.”

She snorted softly. “I was the overprotected baby, as you surely figured out during our lovely exchange with my brother.”

He came closer, but stayed behind her. “And how do you feel about that?”

“The exchange with Gabe or life at the bottom of the Rossi food chain?”

He’d meant their conversation, but both topics interested him. Hell, everything about her interested him. “Let’s start with how you feel about your unfortunate birth order in your family of overachieving world-savers?”

“Funny.” She gave a soft laugh, toeing the sand and water. “I was just asking myself the same question.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he waited, staring at her back and the lines of neat muscles curving down to her ass, all revealed through the wet shirt.

Yeah. Gonna be a tough few days in Cuba together.

“So,” he prompted when her silence lasted too long. “What’s your answer?”

She sighed. “Being the youngest of five siblings, plus two just-as-protective older cousins who were raised with us, is my lot in life, I guess. I will be forever viewed and treated by them as the baby. That pisses me off. Gabe pissed me off.”

“Hey, he’s your brother and he cares about you. Anyway, let’s talk about who you’re
really
pissed at right now.”

She slid a glance over her shoulder, just enough that he could see a bemused expression under that hat rim. “There are no words.”

As he suspected.

“Did you come to apologize?” she asked, finally turning to face him.

“Define apologize,” he replied, slipping into one of his favorite ways to deflect a conversation he didn’t really want to have.

“Usually it starts with ‘I’m sorry’ and ends with ‘I owe you one.’”

He took a step closer, tempted to lift the hat so he could see her face without shadows. “Well, I’m not sorry,” he finally said.

Her mouth opened so far it was almost comical.

“Let me rephrase. I’m not sorry that you had the ‘best sex of your life.’”

She dropped her head back with a disgusted grunt. “I knew my little rally cry for independence was going to bite me in the ass.”

“For the record—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “If you say that was the best sex of
your
life, I swear to God, I’ll hit you.”

“Why?”

“Because you had an agenda, Mal Harris,” she ground out. “How good could it have been when it wasn’t anything but…but…a
job
to you? An exploratory mission? Or, worse, a little vendetta?” Each word exploded in his gut.

“It wasn’t any of those things,” he insisted, earning a sharp bark of disbelief. “I swear, Chessie, once I knew for sure—”

“You never really knew,” she said, marching away to walk along the water. “Not until I told you my name.”

“I knew before that,” he insisted, following her. “When we were in the hotel lobby, there was something in your eyes. Something real. Innocent, even.”

She snorted. “Please. There was nothing innocent about that encounter. We were eyeing condoms like little kids in a candy store.”

“Okay, innocent is the wrong word,” he allowed. “But, when we were in that store, I knew. I knew that I had let my inability to trust anyone get in the way, and I knew right then that you were exactly who you said you were, and I…” He reached for her, turning her around to face him. “I wanted to be with you more than…more than…” He swallowed the admission, only because he didn’t want to sound desperate. “Anything.”

She rolled her eyes. “Nice speech. Did they teach you that at Langley?”

He bit back a curse, shaking his head. He deserved this. “If you hadn’t come to my room, I’d have probably knocked on every damn door in the Marriott till I found you.”

“And then our room wouldn’t have been bugged,” she said wryly.

“And you might not hate me.”

“I don’t…” She stopped herself, her gaze dropping over his bare chest, then she shifted her attention to the water. “Jeez,” she muttered.

“Jeez, what?”

“It’s just my luck to have my very first field job with the same person I had my very first
hookup
with.”

The confession surprised him only a little. “I could tell,” he said.

She scowled at him. “I wasn’t a virgin, Mal. I’ve had sex before, but not with a perfect stranger I was pretty sure I’d never see again. No, not part of my life plan. Never was, anyway. And never will be again.” She shook her head vehemently. “And this whole thing is proof that shit goes down the drain when I go off plan.”

“Look, the first thing I can tell you, field rookie, is that plans are nothing but contingent out there in the real world.”

She sliced him with a challenge in her eyes. “Sex with me was a
contingency
plan?”

He leaned closer. “Sex with you was
amazing
,” he said, his voice a little husky. “And if you want an apology, I’ll give you this: I’m not sorry it happened, but I’m sorry if you feel I duped you.”

She searched his face for a long time. “Huh, look at that. You do know how to define an apology.”

He managed a smile. “Do you know how to accept one?”

“Maybe.” Her eyes narrowed with the next question. “Would you have hit on me if you weren’t being hounded by God knows who?”

“I don’t know.”

Her shoulders sank a little. “Gee, thanks.”

“I mean, I don’t know how else to live, so I’m going to assume everyone is out for me. Once I trust someone, Francesca…” He tipped her chin to lift her face toward his.

“You can
liaise
?”

“Frequently.” He took a chance and inched closer.

“No.” She shook off his touch. “Can’t do that. Stop flirting with me.” She backed away some more, pointing at him. “And quit calling me Francesca.”

“I can’t call you by your name? Why not?”

“The way you say it is entirely and unfairly sexy.”

Really. He’d have to hide that away in his arsenal of things he might need later. “Well, I never want to be sexy, that’s for sure.”

“And no more inside jokes and almost kisses, and please,
please
, put a shirt on for the rest of your life.”

Her humor gave him a little hope, and relief. “Are we good, then?”

“Define good,” she fired back, just enough of a smile in her eyes that he knew she was yanking his chain.

“I’d define it as—what was the phrase again?—‘the best sex—’”

She slammed her hand over his mouth. “Do not push your luck, Malcolm Harris.”

He kissed her palm and watched her eyes flutter the tiniest bit. So, he pressed his hand over hers and kissed again. And once more, because even kissing the inside of her hand was pretty much the best thing his mouth had done for hours.

She didn’t move her hand. “And yet you continue to push your luck.”

He turned her hand and threaded their fingers, keeping her knuckles close to his lips. “I don’t know how to stop doing any of those things you want me to stop doing,” he admitted. “I know you probably are thinking ‘never again,’ and I don’t blame you for one second, and I have no idea what kind of promises you made to Gabe, but—”

“No promises,” she whispered, holding his gaze, the connection as fiery and real as it had been in the hotel room. “I haven’t made any promises.”

“Good.” He kissed her knuckle. “’Cause contingency planning means anything can happen, Francesca.”

“Contingency plans and liaisons. Can’t you call it what it is?
Sex
.”

“It could be,” he agreed, leaning in to capture her mouth. She let go of his hand and placed it on his cheek, letting him pull her rain-dampened body into his chest.

And she felt every single bit as real and soft and sweet and warm as last night. Their mouths just fit so perfectly, her tongue against his teeth, his lips over hers. Everything just fit and felt so damn good.

“What the hell are we doing?” she murmured into his mouth.

“Kissing.” He nibbled her lower lip. “I think it’s a standard part of any apology.”

She smiled into the next kiss, less tentative, but still not fully
happy
about the direction her little walk in the rain had taken, he could tell. “Don’t forget the ‘I owe you one’ part.”

He kissed her again. “I owe you one.”

“One what?”

“One more kiss. One more…” He lifted his head. “One more night.”

She closed her eyes and sighed, her resignation practically palpable. “What the hell
is
it about you?”

“Francesca.” He pulled her even closer. “I know you’ve never had a one-night stand or hookup or fling or whatever the hell you want to call it, but have you ever just had sex for fun? No strings. No promises. No commitments. No expectations or hopes?”