Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(11)
It was all good. Her big mistake was nothing but a bad memory.
Define bad. She could still hear his baritone voice and his clever little expressions. Define okay, Francesca. Define solid.
Here’s how she’d define bad: going off plan. And she would never, ever do that again.
Chapter Four
Ninety-eight…ninety-nine…one mothereffing hundred.
Gabe bounced to his feet after the last one-armed push-up and shook out his burning tricep, stomping around the fifteen-square-foot back porch he’d turned into his simple home gym, complete with a punching bag and set of weights under the awning, and one bench. No matter where he lived, or what hellacious country he woke up in, Gabe figured out a way to take care of his temple.
He squinted into the sun, already nearly in the middle of the sky over Bareass Bay, as he’d taken to calling his prison in paradise. He used to get up early, but these days? He didn’t even sleep, so he’d start working out at dawn just to get the hell out of his misery.
He wiped his face with a T-shirt and looked around the tropical cul-de-sac. Palm trees swayed against achingly blue skies, the breeze heavy with the ever-present salt smell of the bay just on the other side of a lush garden. Beyond that, the high-end villas and expansive private beach of Casa Blanca Resort & Spa sat like a jewel in the Gulf of Mexico.
It was still a prison for him now that his only reason for choosing to live in this out-of-the-way playground was…deceased. Well, technically, his reason was proximity to Cuba, but the reason he wanted that proximity was…dead.
Unless the child she’d left behind really was his. Then he had another reason to be here. Another reason to live at all.
In the days that’d passed since he learned that he’d never see Isadora Winter again, the pain still burned a hole in his heart, infusing every breath he took with the unfamiliar blackness of mourning.
But he refused to let it break him.
Not until he found out if her four-year-old son was his. The name Gabriel was only one clue. And the age, of course. Now came the hard part, and if his team would just get here, he could get them briefed and started.
He had to know. Had to. If he had a son, well, he’d move heaven, earth, and the whole f*cking island of Cuba to get that kid. If he didn’t, then it was time to accept the loss of Isa forever. Until then, he lived in limbo, which felt a lot like hell, despite the postcard surroundings.
He pushed open the back door into the bungalow’s kitchen and sucked in a noisy breath. And got nothing but the lingering aroma of last night’s veal Marsala.
At the sound in the hall, Gabe turned to find his grandfather lumbering toward him, his white hair brushed as neatly as the mop could get, his crisp shirt—Pepto pink today—buttoned like he was on his way to the Oval Office for a press conference.
“Do you want some breakfast, Gabriel?”
“You look too dolled up to cook, old man. I’ll wing it.”
“Pffft!” Nino yanked an apron from a hook and waved one of his massive, gnarled hands. “I dress for my job, Gabriel. And part of my job is feeding you.”
Gabe stifled a smile, not bothering to tell the octogenarian that no one expected him to show up in his office dressed for a funeral. Gabe rarely wore anything but board shorts and an old T-shirt, but then he was only a “consultant” to McBain Security. And by consultant, he meant that Luke McBain gave him free office space in exchange for the occasional bit of advice on how to run the resort’s security firm.
That way, Gabe had a safe cover for his real work of helping people who needed to stay off the radar and turn up with new lives. The US Marshals might think they owned that space with wit-sec, but Gabe knew shit that put those jokers to shame. And, based on the number of clients ready to throw money at him for private-sector witness protection, his idea was freaking genius.
But he couldn’t do the job alone. He’d brought his grandfather into the fold for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the old man was possibly his favorite person on earth. Well, his favorite person still living on earth.
So Nino Rossi, commonly known as Uncle Nino to the family, became Gabe’s personal assistant, a job the eightysomething-year-old man did with surprising vigor.
But only for a half day. The rest of the time he puttered in a corner of the farmette that belonged to the resort and he cooked. Like a god. And he was Gabe’s only sounding board on most days, which meant…he should know what was about to happen.
When Chessie showed up, he couldn’t hide the truth from Nino, and he honestly didn’t want to. He just wasn’t sure how the old guy would respond to a great-grandchild currently locked in Cuba. But it was time to find out. He loved Nino too much to keep him in the dark, and his grandfather had proven himself to be beyond trustworthy with the secrets of their undercover business. If he could just get Nino to get along with the one other woman on the resort staff, a housekeeper, who was “in the know” about the business, then they might have a good thing going here.
But first, the news.
“I have a surprise for you today,” Gabe said, walking to the refrigerator. “Since you’re hitting the stove to do your thing, l’ll dish up good news.”
Nino put his hand on the refrigerator door, holding it closed. “If you gulp down milk from the bottle, I’ll…” He made a fist. “You’ll eat this instead of eggs.” The words rolled out with an Italian accent as faint as the threat itself.