Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(16)

“You are traveling to Cuba as a production duo to make a documentary on how the new political climate is changing life for the common man and children,” Gabe said, urging Mal into the chair next to Chessie.

They were so close, Mal had to make an effort not to touch her. Which was damn hard as her scent—a sexy, feminine, peppery scent that reminded him of last night—teased his nose.

He stole a look, close enough to see traces of makeup under her eyes, smudged during her overnight drive here. His gaze dropped to the top button of a black sweater he had stripped off her about twelve hours ago and landed right on a tiny hickey under her collarbone.

Holy shit. Talk about a dead giveaway. He tried to give her a look, to tell her to cover it, but she refused to look directly at him.

“All right, then,” Gabe said, taking the other seat and picking up some papers.


Under the table, Mal bumped her with his leg, forcing Chessie to look at him. He surreptitiously flicked his T-shirt collar, trying to silently tell her to button the sweater and cover the evidence.

She just gave him an incredulous look. And he gave her one back. It was only a matter of time before Gabe—

“Is that a f*cking hickey on your neck, Chess?”

Instantly, Chessie yanked her sweater over the mark that Mal would have bet a grand she hadn’t even known she had. Mal gave the slightest I tried to warn you side-eye.

“I thought you broke up with Matt the Asswipe,” Gabe said.

So there really was a Door-Matt who broke her heart. Of course there was. Because when he was busy assuming she was a lying spy making shit up, she was a perfectly innocent woman sharing her personal history.

And he took her to bed.

And she…didn’t hate it.

“Shut it, Gabe,” she said, finally closing the top two buttons. “I…it was…” She looked anywhere but at Mal. “It was…nothing.” She put too much emphasis on the last word. Way too much.

But Gabe wasn’t letting it go. “He’s not good enough for you, Chess. You deserve better.”

“He’s not that bad.” She lifted one judgmental eyebrow in Mal’s direction. “I mean, he’s never been in jail or anything.”

Damn, the woman had a mean underhand zing.

Gabe pushed a paper to the side. “No, but I will be for killing him if he puts his turd-eating mouth on your neck again.”

She puffed out a breath. “Do you mind?” she demanded.

“I mind like hell,” Gabe continued. “I hate that little scum-sucker and—”

“It wasn’t him!” she exclaimed.

For a long moment, no one said a word. To Mal, the only sound was the sizzle of eggs in a pan, and the steady beat of his pulse as he waited for her to make the call. Gabe would go bat-shit crazy, no doubt about it. But if she wanted the truth out there, Mal would own up to what happened.

Gabe lifted one brow. “You’re seeing someone already? You just dumped that douche.”

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Can you please stop? Either you get off my case and stop treating me like I’m thirteen, or I’m back in my rental driving to Boston. Which is it, Gabe?”

They both stared at each other, sibling sparks crackling. So the whole clan could hold their own in a fight, Mal mused.

Finally, Gabe looked down at the map. “You’ll fly into Havana,” he said.

Chessie leaned back, crossed her arms, and shot Mal a warning look, and this one he could read like a billboard. Don’t mess with me.

And all that did was make him want to.

* * *

Breakfast had been finished and cleared, and Nino had gone off to work. Gabe had reviewed the plan multiple times, and Mal seemed to fully understand it.

But Chessie was having an impossible time focusing, her brain still stalled on the fact that she was going into the field—something she’d never wanted to do—with a man she stupidly had a one-night stand with the night before.

“You get this, right, Chess?” Gabe demanded, no doubt sensing her lack of concentration on the maps and paperwork in front of them.

“Yeah, I get it.” Don’t like it, but I get it. “We’re flying into José Martí International from New York, with press passes and these passports, posing as two independent producers filming a spec documentary about how the new relations with the US are affecting the everyday man in Cuba with a focus on the children and their future.” She looked up, kind of proud of herself. “I get it. But how do we stay in contact with you?”

“Satellite phones will work, maybe outdoors in the more rural areas. I’ll give you two. You can take your computer, but Internet is unreliable.”

“Unless you’re on Gitmo or you know how to access a Canadian server,” Mal added.

“I can do that,” she said brightly, thrilled that someone was finally speaking her language. Even if it was him.

“You have all the clearances lined up, Gabe?” Mal asked, his deep, sensual voice a constant reminder of the things he’d whispered to her last night.

Kiss me, Francesca. Do you like that, Francesca? I want to taste you, Francesca.

“Francesca!”

Her head popped up at the sound of the very word she’d been thinking, but it wasn’t Mal’s sexy use of her full name. It was Gabe, looking dark and angry.