Barefoot With a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover Book 2) (20 page)

Wordlessly, she slid to the side like the whole thing was choreographed, giving him the driver’s seat. He pressed the gas, and they shot forward, spitting rooster tails on either side of the car.

“We’re not stopping again until we get there,” he announced.

Chessie clutched the seat, wishing like hell the old beast had a seat belt she could drag over her bare breasts. “And you wonder why I don’t want to work in the field.”

“Like I said, gotta go with the flow. Or flood, as the case may be.”

An utterly unfamiliar sensation thrummed through her, as strong as the sexual desire that had just rocked her, and every bit as thrilling. She didn’t dare admit it, she couldn’t. It was so off plan.

She liked the rush of this job. A lot. And, holy shit, she liked Mal Harris more than any man she’d ever met.

* * *

Roger Drummand leaned against the stiff leather sofa outside his father’s office, tapping his shoes on polished oak floors and glancing out the colonial-style panes to see the bare trees of early December in Georgetown.

Why the hell had he been summoned here? It couldn’t be good. It couldn’t be. If that bitch outed him…

From behind the closed door, he couldn’t hear Bill Drummand’s voice, of course. He was a spy through and through, using only a soft voice and a few well-placed words. He elicited information more than he gave it, and although long retired from his work at the agency, he was, at ninety-one, still interested in everything that went on there.

But why had he called in one of his least favorite supervisors for a meeting? It wasn’t like they had a warm father-son relationship. It wasn’t like they had any relationship at all. Ever. After all, if Roger hadn’t been born, Donna Lee Drummand would likely have survived the appendicitis that she developed when he was only four days old. And if given a choice between the two, Bill would have picked Donna Lee over Roger in a heartbeat.

The old sting still hit, though he was used to the fact that he’d never pleased Big Bill. But if his operation succeeded? Well, he’d please him then, all right.

The door opened, and a beautiful young woman in a black suit stepped out, an electronic tablet in one hand. Bill didn’t remarry after his young wife died fifty-five years earlier, but rumor had it that from that day on he lived like the original James Bond and fucked every gorgeous woman he could get his hands on. Still? Shit, who knew? Anything was possible with the old bastard.

She gave Roger a warm smile.

“Mr. Drummand can see you now.”

Yeah, the way all sons want to be greeted by their father’s assistant. “Thanks.” He stood and entered the ultimate man cave, a library stacked with rich leathery first editions, a desk that matched the importance of the man behind it, and a view of Georgetown that gave the town house its three-million-dollar price tag.

Maybe he should ask his father for Lila’s blackmail money since the man commanded hundreds of thousands for a speech and still gave them frequently.

“Hello, Bill.” He knew better than to call him Dad or Father. From childhood, he’d been instructed to use his first name. It was a wonder he didn’t have to call him Mr. Drummand.

“Roger, have a seat.”

He didn’t get up to come around the mountain of mahogany to hug his son, of course. His body was still strong, if smaller, and even his face, though wrinkled, maintained its handsome structure. Roger hadn’t inherited that. None of his father’s “presence,” in fact.

“Did Ashley offer you coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Smoky eyes narrowed. “Are you.”

It was not a question. “Last time I checked. Why?”

He folded his arms and leaned forward to put his elbows on the desk. “I’ve heard something, Roger, and I feel it’s only fair to go directly to the accused source to find out the truth.”

Son of a bitch, she told him. She didn’t wait for the money, she didn’t go to Florida, she fucking told him. Shame and fear heated his whole body. He would deny everything. The one thing he was positive of was that Lila Wickham was working on conjecture, not fact. That made her a good spy, but not a great blackmailer.

“What would that be, sir?”

“I’ve heard you’re spending agency money and time and personnel to track the man you discovered embezzling from Guantanamo Bay.”

A modest amount of relief cooled his gut. “The money was never recovered, and I feel certain he knows where it is. If I catch him accessing it, not only do we have him red-handed again, but we could return five hundred thousand to the US government and put that thief back in prison where he belongs.” And where he could do the least amount of damage to Roger if he ever talked to the wrong people. “I think that’s the right thing to do.”

His father nodded slowly, never one to argue about what’s right. Doing the work of the government was what was right; his unwavering loyalty to the cause was what kept Bill Drummand alive.

“You need to stop.”

“Why? You don’t think he’ll lead me to the money?”

“I don’t care, and neither should you. It’s not a priority any longer and successful agents look forward not backward. You know how I feel about rear view mirrors.”

Fighter pilots don’t use them.

He’d heard the words in every speech. “The government is short a half a million dollars, sir.”

“The government has enough money, Roger.” His glare shut down the argument far more effectively than the words. “Enough to pay for an agency chief of staff position opening in a month, and I want you to have it.”

Roger’s jaw almost dropped. Oh, he’d enjoyed his share of nepotism in his career—his last name opened plenty of doors within the CIA. But his father had never actually gotten him a top-level job. “That would be wonderful, sir.”

Bill’s steely eyes narrowed. “There will be, of course, the usual process to vet you and an in-depth investigation of all your current projects.”

Shit. “Of course.”

“But there will be nothing untoward,” he said confidently. “You are my son.”

Roger blinked. Had he ever, in fifty-five years, heard Bill say that with any amount of pride? He couldn’t remember, but just the hint of it actually tightened Roger’s throat. His father’s approval was all he ever wanted, and all he never had. Until now.

“I am indeed you son, sir.” He cleared his throat and willed himself not to get emotional. Bill hated emotions.

“You’ll have to be approved by the director himself, but we’re golfing next week.” In other words, Bill had that approval in the bag. The golf bag.

“I’m happy to meet with the director myself.”

His father laughed, enough to show he didn’t think that meeting would amount to a pile of shit. “I’ll handle it.”

Then Bill stood, meeting over. “You’ll do a good job, Roger. Don’t waste money. Don’t waste time going after things that are already done. Don’t forget that the United States of America pays your salary and your job is to keep it safe, not rich, so prioritize. Prioritize.”

Bill’s favorite word. “I certainly will, sir.”

Bill nodded and gave a slight gesture of dismissal toward the door. Without so much as a handshake, Roger turned and left, his shoes echoing in the wide, high entryway and out the door into the chill of Washington, DC.

If he didn’t pay Lila Wickham, he could lose this opportunity. He’d lose the chance to gain his father’s approval. He had to pay her. And, irony of ironies, she was the one in Florida trying to get a lead on Mal.

He dialed a number he knew by heart and listened to half a ring before it was picked up.

“What?” Lila Wickham’s bitchy English accent jarred him, even though he was expecting it.

“Why haven’t you checked in?” he demanded.

“Too busy having sex with the pool boy while I get a European facial. What do you want?”

“An update.”

“I could make shit up, Roger. Would that make you happy?”

He closed his eyes. “It would help.”

“I think you’re forgetting who’s calling the shots now.”

“Have you found Mal Harris?”

“I have not.”

“Gabe Rossi?”

Nothing for a millisecond, then, “I wouldn’t know him if he walked into me, so I couldn’t tell you. But I’ll keep digging around. Meanwhile, you better find some other way to get that money, Mr. Drummand. Your father’s assistant just texted me to confirm our meeting.”

Roger drew in a slow breath, wishing he had an answer. As he exhaled, his other phone buzzed. He pulled it out to read a text of his own.

Harris is in Cuba with a woman. See picture. Report on locations attached.

He instantly recognized Francesca Rossi, the hacker from the family of do-gooders. Of course he knew why Mal was taking her there. Of
course
.

He almost told Lila what had just come in, but thought better of it. She didn’t need to know he had a backup plan, and the longer she stayed out of his way, the better. “Keep looking,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

He hung up before she replied, already knowing what he had to do.

He had to beat Mal Harris at his own game. He had to get back to Cuba before little Miss Happy Fingers could dig into the wrong information. He had to get that money, pay off Lila, and eliminate any evidence of his secret program to place former terrorists in the US to uncover new cells. Then he’d take his new job and do his name and father proud.

He texted the spy who’d sent him the information, knowing his words would go into an official file.

This project is closed and Harris is no longer a person of interest. You may close the reports and stop following him.

He sent the same instructions to two other agents, then skimmed the report on Mal’s whereabouts in Cuba. A documentary producer, huh?

Roger knew how to get the money, and he knew Mal Harris’s weaknesses. And if the bastard and his hacker pal died in the process…well, that would be Cuba’s problem. The US wouldn’t blink if “Mitchell Walker” and “Elizabeth Brandt” disappeared in Cuba. As far as the US was concerned, they didn’t even exist.

He turned around and glanced at the multimillion-dollar row house and thought of the powerful man inside. He had to be worthy of being his son. He had to be. No matter who died in the process.

Chapter Sixteen

Mar Brisas was even worse than Mal had feared.

The hostel had a shower in the hall that offered a dribble of water, a used bar of soap that smelled a lot like a goat, and a towel the size of a napkin. But at least he could wash off the mud and clear his head after a long drive to Caibarién.

Maybe Mother Nature had been sending a message with her flash flood:
Bad idea, Mal. This woman deserves better than hopeless sex.

How did his nice little arrangement manage to get a handle like that anyway? She’d called it hopeless sex…but she seemed pretty hopeful to get it. And he was starting to entertain something that felt a lot like hope, too. Like hope there could be more time with her after this assignment was over. Which didn’t make any sense.

Except now he didn’t just like her or have the hots for her, he
admired
her.

Plenty of experienced intelligence agents couldn’t have handled the mess they’d gotten into last night. But an untrained civilian? Any effects of the rum had instantly disappeared, and she’d silently dressed and helped him navigate the dark drive, working as a dependable partner in every way.

She hadn’t complained when they pulled up to a “hotel” in a town that was little more than a decrepit village famous for crabs that walked around on the streets narrowly avoiding being crushed by the horses and carriages that were as common as old rust-bucket cars.

Yes, he admired her. That wasn’t the same as—

“No mas! Basta!”

Mal squinted into the lukewarm, slightly yellowish water that he was being ordered to stop using. If it even was water. But he shut off the spigot and dried.

He stepped into jeans, the only thing he’d grabbed from his duffel bag when he left Chessie in their basement room down the hall. He didn’t want to leave her alone for long, anyway. It wasn’t safe. And it wasn’t…what he wanted.

Shaking the thought along with his wet hair, he headed back, slowing when he noticed the door was slightly ajar. Had he left it that way? Inching it open, he peered into the room lit by only a hint of the morning sun coming through one jalousie window near the ceiling.

The bed was empty. Damn it, that was exactly where he wanted her.
Now
.

He spun around, wondering if there was another room that she’d taken. She hadn’t even blinked when the owner told Mal they had only one available room. Another bathroom? She’d taken a shower first, right after they’d arrived, and warned him that the only bathroom had lousy water and the owner timed the showers.

Mal took two steps to the bed, since the room was not much bigger than the undersized double bed, spying her soft-sided bag, but not her purse. There was no closet, no other door.

Why would she leave? A slow burn of worry slid up his chest, overpowering anything like disappointment or frustration. Maybe he shouldn’t have left her alone even for five minutes. He snagged his satellite phone from the dresser and bolted, slamming the door behind him.