Barefoot With a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover Book 2) (28 page)

“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.

“I’ll be back,” he said pointedly in the direction of the listening device. “You just stay right there and wait for me.”

He nodded to the door, and she snapped the dead bolt. The minute they were in the hall, she closed the door tight.

“Run,” he ordered in a hushed whisper. “Straight to the car. Run!”

She flew down the hall and up the stairs, saying a thankful prayer that there was no one around. She darted outside, turned left, and bolted to the Prefect, yanking the door open. He was right on her tail, tossing the bags in the back, then starting the engine.

Which sputtered.

“Holy fuck, not now,” he growled. “Come on, girl. Come on.” He sounded very much like he had in bed, cajoling an orgasm out of her. His jeans still hung open, his T-shirt stuck to his body with sweat from their pseudosex.

Finally, the Prefect engine hummed to life, and Mal threw it into drive and shot down the alley, flying through the streets of Caibarién like a hunted, wanted man.

Which, she had to remember, he was.

Chapter Twenty-two

Mal took a roundabout, convoluted, mangled trip over deserted roads, through wooded areas, and deep into the farmland of Cuba and lost anyone who might be on their tail. Yet, he was barely fifteen minutes from town and making his way to Ramos’s farm.

Except for helping him navigate the winding, unpaved roads without benefit of headlights, Chessie had been quiet, even when she found out where they were going. Was she upset about the bug in the room and what they did to escape? Brimming with questions she knew he couldn’t answer? Or, as he was, fighting the feeling of slipping closer to someone who was wrong on so many levels?

Still silent, she reached over the seat and dug into her bag, producing a pair of sneakers. After she put them on, she resituated herself against the passenger door, far away from him.

Too far away. Mal lifted his hand along the bench seat, letting his fingers graze her bare shoulder. His need to touch her—constantly—was more intense than ever. Real sex, fake sex, hopeless sex—whatever the hell they called it—had done nothing to satisfy his craving for her. It only made things worse.

“C’mere,” he said, giving her bra strap a little tug. “There has to be some advantage to no seat belts and no console. Sit next to me, Francesca.”

Before she moved, she shot him a look. “I know what you’re doing when you say my name like that.”

“Addressing you?”

“You want to get intimate.”

“While driving without headlights? I think we’ve had enough adventurous sex for one evening.” Although, he always wanted more.

She scooted over and dropped her head on his shoulder. “There are other kinds of intimacy,” she said.

Like a sweet girl laying her head on his shoulder as if she depended on him for security and happiness and love and a whole host of other things a guy like Mal couldn’t supply.

“For example,” she continued. “Sharing the
truth
with a person.” She sat up straight and looked at him, but Mal kept his concentration on the dark road ahead. “Truth with a person who just proved she’s up to field snuff.”

He gave her a squeeze. “You were amazing. I’d brag to your brother about what a great spy you’d make, but I like my balls and don’t want him to cut them off.”

“Gabe of all people would know you do what you have to, right?”

“True,” he agreed. “And, Francesca Rossi, don’t listen to the voice inside your head telling you that you don’t have what it takes to do what your siblings and cousins do. You’re rock solid.”

He could practically feel her smile. “Then tell me the whole Robin Hood story because you know you can trust me.”

He didn’t answer, but turned onto another side road, glancing in the rearview, confident they hadn’t been followed.

“Then I’ll just ask questions and figure it out on my own,” she said, impatience adding an edge to her tone.

After watching her in action at the
municipal
, he didn’t doubt that she had the intelligence and determination to do just that.

“But you have to make me a promise,” she said.

Whatever it was, he already knew he’d say yes, just like he knew she was going to get the whole story out of him one way or another.

“That you’ll tell me when I’m right or wrong. Like twenty questions.”

“Okay,” he agreed, because he knew she’d start the process with or without his consent. “Log on and start hacking my brain.”

She shifted as if she needed to settle and get comfortable. “Okay, you stole five hundred thousand dollars from a government account that funded certain activities at Guantanamo Bay when you were a guard there, except you were not a guard, you were an undercover spy for the CIA. And you stole that money to help someone in trouble, right?”

He stayed perfectly still, then he shook his head.

“Oh, really? Something in that statement wasn’t right?” She turned to him. “You stole five hundred thousand…”

He swallowed. Hard.

“You didn’t steal five hundred thousand dollars?”

He let out a slow, low sigh, and she put both hands on his thigh and squeezed. “You stole more?”

“No.”

“Less?”

“No.”

“Ohhh.” She had that nice, satisfied tone in her voice, like when she tore down a firewall with her flying fingers. “You
didn’t
steal the money. Someone else did, and you took the blame.”

He ripped his gaze from the road to give her a look. “You sure you didn’t train to be a spy, or is interrogating a genetic gift in your family?”

She gave a dry laugh. “Okay and, wow,
okay
.” She dragged out the last word with the sound of appreciation in her voice.

“What does that mean?”

“It means my lover isn’t a thief.”

Something in the vicinity of his chest felt like it cracked a little. Her lover? Not a thief? As true as both those statements might be, he didn’t dare hope. “Tell that to the US government.”

“Someone should.” She turned in her seat to face him again. “And your name would be cleared.”

“If only it were that easy.” If Alana got arrested for the crime, there was no telling what would happen to the kids. Maria was twelve now, so she’d be shipped off to some heinous place near Havana. Jorge would be ten, so he’d go to military training. And Solana had been two the last time he’d seen her, and she was just a little heartbreaker.

“The money was never recovered,” he added, mostly for the reaction he knew he’d get.

As expected, she gasped. “So where is it?”

“Beats me. But they think I know, so I’m on a watch list just to be sure I don’t suddenly buy an Aston Martin.”

“Nice car choice,” she said. “But if we found the money, couldn’t you be cleared then?”

He couldn’t help giving her a squeeze. “Your optimism is charming. Downright adorable.”

“Don’t be condescending.”

“I’m not. It really is charming. It’s…infectious.”

“Okay, then tell me the whole story, Mal, if you’re so damn infected by me. Don’t make me guess anymore.”

He was infected by her.
Affected
by her. Ready to open up in a way he’d never done before, and he hadn’t known her a week.

He slowed the car, almost stopping at a pitch-black section of forest and farm, not far from that Poinciana tree now. But he had enough time to tell her the truth, and deep inside, he knew he owed that much to her.

“I didn’t steal the money. A woman named Alana Cevallos did, or someone close to her.”

“How did she do it?”

“I’m not entirely sure. She worked as a high-level admin at Gitmo, a secretary to my boss and a liaison with the local community, since she’s Cuban. She and I became friends while I was there, and she came to me in a panic because she claimed she had found an enormous sum of money in an offshore account her husband had opened before he was taken away.”