Barefoot With a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover Book 2) (18 page)

“Moon’s strong enough for me.”

She peered up at the half-moon, neatly sliced as if Nino’s chef knife had cut it in two. It shed just enough light to show gathering clouds. And definitely not enough to—

“Hang on,” he said, reaching over to hold her arm with his right hand while he whipped around a turn she had never seen.

As they made it around the corner, the moon cast light over a wide body of water. It was too dark to make out what it was, but they were able to see waves caused by the wind. “I don’t remember seeing a river on the map,” Chessie said.

“I took a little detour because I actually know this road, and, believe me, very few others do.”

“And you’re driving from memory in the dark with no headlights?”

He shot her a smile. “Found that farm stand before you crashed, didn’t I?”

“Reminds me I’m starving.” She twisted to grab the bag they put on the backseat, her empty stomach screaming for attention. She pulled out a peach and dropped it back, hungry for something more substantial. But the bananas were hard and, she guessed, green, and the sweet bell peppers were not the least bit appealing. “Was kind of hoping for a
medianoche
.”

He gave a dry laugh at the fantasy of a Cuban sandwich. “We’ll find one in Caibarién. Tomorrow. Eat a pepper.”

She made a face at the suggestion, which turned into a big smile when her fingers hit something hard at the bottom of the bag, then closed around a bottle. “Hot damn, Mal Harris. You bought booze from that guy?”

“While you were in the bathroom.”

Bathroom? “And we use that term generously when referring to the horse stall with a hole.”

“Welcome to rural Cuba.”

She pulled the bottle out, immediately recognizing the snap cork that Nino had used for the homemade wine she grew up drinking. “Mama’s milk,” she cooed, holding the bottle up to the dim dash lights, but it was tinted brown, hiding the color of the wine. “I like it dark, thick, sweet, and tasting like the earth and sweet plump grapes.”

“Really.” He slid her a look she couldn’t quite read. “And here I took you for an Amstel Light girl.”

“When the situation calls for beer, I am.” She pushed the bar of the swing-top cork, which opened with a satisfying pop. “I don’t suppose that farmer had plastic cups.”

“Put on your big-girl panties, Francesca, and take a swig. See how you like the…what did you call it?”

“Mama’s milk. I was raised on homemade wine.” She lifted the bottle to her mouth, the fragrance far sweeter and a little stronger than what she expected, but she tipped the bottle and took a good, long—

“Pffff!” She managed not to spit it out, but swallowing the bitter, disgusting stuff wasn’t easy.

“This isn’t”—she choked as her throat burned like someone had stuck a sparkler in her mouth—“wine.”

He was laughing, damn him. “They don’t grow grapes in Cuba, at least not out here. There are some imported plants that service the few wineries on the island, but that, my friend, is—”

“Rum.” She smacked her lips noisily as the burn wore off and left her numb. “God, I hate that shit.”

“Sorry. It was this or nothing. I thought we might need a drink.” He held out his right hand. “In fact, I do.”

“While you’re driving with no headlights inches from rushing water?” She turned to hold the bottle far away. “Not on your life. Not on
mine
.”

“Give it to me, Francesca.”

She puffed a breath. “I love when you go all alpha on me.”

He didn’t move his hand, waiting, driving around the next turn—that she hadn’t even seen, thank you very much—with one hand.

“Oh, what the hell. Apparently I’ve proven I can’t say no to you.” She handed him the bottle.

After drinking a decent gulp, he gave it back. “You can say no any time, by the way.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

That made him smile. “Good. Can I have a pepper now?”

She complied, handing him a whole red pepper that she brushed on her shirt to clean. He ate it like an apple and drove like a boss. And Chessie took another sip of the rum, letting the tiniest little buzz hum through her as her eyes finally adjusted and she was able to see the road. Sort of.

“Thought you hated rum,” he remarked.

“It’s growing on me.” But she corked the bottle after the next sip.

“Don’t let it grow too much, that stuff can knock you on your ass.”

It hadn’t, but she could feel the first sensations of heavy arms and a lovely relaxation in her neck. “Are we almost there yet?” she asked with the pretend whine of a child.

“Maybe…five more hours.”

“All this to avoid people we don’t even know were following us.”

He didn’t reply, but a distant rumble of thunder echoed, making Chessie lean forward to check out the sky. Thick with clouds now, there were no stars, and the half-moon was just about obliterated.

“Are you going to stop if it rains?”

“Depends how hard it pours.”

“Do the windshield wipers work?”

He reached to the dash and felt around, but she already spotted the dial. “It’s here.” She twisted it and…nothing. Tried again, nothing. “How many pesos did you part with for this beauty, again?”

“You can’t put a price on freedom, honey. Ask any Cuban you meet on this trip.” He took a slow curve up a slight rise in the road, then down again. The car still bumped and rolled over potholes, and every once in a while they slid through mud and the tires shmooshed in the slush.

And then the heavens opened up and mocked them completely.

“Son of a bitch,” Mal muttered as he slowed when visibility dropped to zero.

“We should just stop until it clears. Maybe until morning.”

He considered that, inching along and leaning forward with a frown. “Not out in the open.”

They hadn’t seen another car since she woke up, and she seriously doubted they would, but she knew better than to argue with a spy. “Maybe we can find a secluded place in the trees.”

“I don’t want to get stuck in mud. Hang on.” Fully concentrating, he eased them through a small lake. “If we can get to higher ground, we can see lights coming in either direction.”

“And then what will we do? Drive in the opposite direction so they don’t see us?”

“No, we’ll get out and hide, and anyone who finds this will think it’s an abandoned car.”

“That they will steal.”

“We’ll take our bags,” he said with the confidence of a man who clearly thrived on these kinds of situations. “They’re right there in the backseat, easy to grab if we have to run. And there is no higher ground, I’m afraid, so here we are.”

“The fun never stops.”

He threw her a heart-stopping smile and pulled off the road. “Baby, it hasn’t even started yet.”

And her stomach dropped down and fell right through the creaky floorboards.

Chapter Fourteen

Mal didn’t think anyone had followed them after leaving Havana, but he would have bet good money there’d been a tail in the airport.

So as much as he started to relax, eating green bananas and listening to the rain on the roof, he paced himself carefully on the Cuban firewater, barely taking the occasional sip.

But Chessie was enjoying the booze, and he was enjoying watching her drink it. She held the bottle high, which, with adjusted night vision, he could see was respectfully, but not shockingly, dented.

“This could make a rum drinker out of me,” she said. Looking past the bottle, he could make out her features in the dark car. She’d abandoned her glasses, and he could see her eyes were brighter than they’d been, her smile looser, her hair tousled from the long day.

Goddamn beautiful is what she was.

“Why do you have that look on your face?” she asked.

“What look?” Longing? Lust? Or just garden-variety admiration? He was too tired to hide any of it.

Plus, they had that deal…though he’d prefer a proper bed and a totally sober lover.

“That look,” she said. “Like you really don’t want to tell me what you’re thinking, but you’re going to have to tell me, and I’m not going to like it.” She took a quick breath and leaned forward to see through the rain-washed windows. “Did you see someone? A light? Do we have to run?” She nodded, as though trying to psych herself up. “It’s okay. I’m ready. I’ve been planning this. First, I’ll take my stuff from the back. One bag because I already put my purse into the suitcase. I’ll swing that over my back—so glad Gabe told me not to bring a roller—and then I’ll—”

“Stop.” He put his fingers over her lips. “Stop planning.”

“That’s like asking me to stop breathing.”

“Then stop doing it out loud.” He brushed her lower lip with his finger, lingering there a second longer than necessary. “I think we’re safe enough to try and get some sleep. You can, anyway.” He finally let his hand fall in the large open space between them on the ancient Ford’s bench seat.

“You sleep,” she said. “I had a nap, so I’ll be on guard.”

“I think you’ve had too much rum to be on guard.”

“I have not!” she denied hotly, holding the bottle up to eyeball the contents. “We’re splitting this. You’ve had just as much.”

“I outweigh you by sixty pounds at least.” He took the rum from her hand and tipped his head toward the backseat. “Go get some rest. You’ll need it tomorrow.”

She didn’t move. “You want me back there, don’t you?”

“There’s space to stretch a little, and you can use your bag for a pillow.” He thumbed in the direction of the back. “Go.”

With a sigh that held a mix of frustration and resignation, and proof she really
couldn’t
say no to him, Chessie knelt on the bench seat. She lifted her leg over the seat back and hoisted herself the rest of the way. Automatically, he reached to give her a boost, his hand closing over her buttocks. He almost sucked in a breath at how firm and sweet her curves felt to grip.

He could have sworn she lingered just a moment too long before pushing herself to the backseat. She landed softly and stretched out, resting her head on their two soft-sided bags behind the passenger seat. She’d had plenty of rum. She’d sleep and that was good.

Because ten more minutes in the front seat of this Ford and—

She suddenly popped up, inches from his face. “I’m not going to be able to sleep.”

“Just try.”

“I cannot possibly sleep without first going to the bathroom. I don’t think I ever have in my whole life.”

“Not in the plan, huh?”

She flicked her finger at the arm he’d draped over the top of the seat as he leaned into the door. “Don’t knock plans. If we’d had better ones, we might not be sitting in a downpour with no headlights, no windshield wipers, no food, no bathroom, and no hope.”

“We have hope. And a flashlight if you want to use the ladies’ tree.”

She squished up her nose, as if considering the pros and cons of the rainy, dark non-facilities. “I’ll wait until the rain slows down, but I honestly can’t sleep. I’d rather talk.”

“I talked you right to sleep on the way down here. Anyway, don’t you have rules about that?”

Even in the dark, he could see a flicker in her blue eyes. “We’ve already butchered the ‘no intimate conversation rule,’ and since you just copped a feel of my ass, there goes the ‘no unnecessary contact rule’ down the drain. And you insist on calling me Francesca, despite the fact that I specifically asked you not to.”

“You like it when I call you Francesca. You told me so.”

“It puts me off-balance.”

He smiled at her. “That’s the rum.”

“Yeah?” She took the bottle and helped herself to one more swallow, as if to say she wanted to be off-balance. “So…” She pushed a lock of dark hair out of her eyes, but it fell right back and partially covered her brow. “Talk to me, Malcolm Harris.”

“You may have underestimated the potency of the local rum.”

“
Pah
.” She blew the hair, but it fluttered over her eye again. “Maybe. I am starting to like you, and I told you not to make me do that.”

“Which of my grand gestures won you over? The going off route, buying a car you hate, or waiting until we were in a rainstorm in the dark to discover the windshield wipers don’t work?”

She gave a slightly loopy sideways grin, suddenly looking a little like Gabe when he was in a playful mood. “The rum.”

He leaned a little closer, the cracked leather seat back making an effective barrier between their bodies, but it was low enough to get face-to-face and mouth-to-mouth.

“You’re a little tipsy, Francesca,” he whispered.

“Not really…but we could play a drinking game.”

He laughed. “That won’t help things.”

“Might even them out and get you tipsy, too. Here’s the game,” she said. “Every time you say something that makes me like you, I’ll take a drink. And vice versa. And we’ll just…talk.”

“Or pass out.”

She reached for the bottle. “Okay, that was funny. Cute. Drink-worthy. Gimme.”

He watched her take a tiny sip, barely enough to wet her lips.