Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(38)

He just gave his head a quick shake.

“Can’t you even tell me what she was like? I mean, she was the mother of my nephew. Maybe.”

“No maybe about it,” he said softly. “The chances of Isadora being with someone other than Gabe after they met are somewhere between zero and zero.”

“Really?” She leaned closer, so fascinated by this woman who elicited such an emotional response from Gabe. “And it went both ways?”

He laughed. “Yes. If anything, he was more nuts about her.”

Chessie tried to grasp that, and failed. “I’ve seen a lot of girls lose their minds and hearts, and other parts, over Gabe, but not ever the other way around. How long were they together?”

“I don’t know, honestly. They were already a secret couple when I met Gabe and were still together when I left.”

“Secret?”

“No one knew, only me and only because Gabe and I were close.”

That, too, was surprising. Gabe must really trust this man. “How did you meet him?” she asked.

“I met him at Guantanamo,” he said simply.

“I know that, but how did you two get to be such good and trusting friends? Gabe doesn’t let a lot of people into his private circle.”

“We had an unusual assignment,” he explained in a soft whisper meant only for her ears. “Gabe was there to butter up the detainees and make them fall in love with the US, and I was there as a guard to watch them. We developed very different relationships with detainees, then we had to share what we learned. Plus, I was undercover to them, and he wasn’t.”

She considered that, and gave into a thought that had plagued her for a long time. “Please tell me he didn’t torture any prisoners.”


Mal’s laugh surprised her. “Detainees, and no. Quite the contrary. He made friends with them.”

“So they would tell him secrets,” she guessed.

“Essentially. And so they’d consider switching sides.” He folded up the paper. “It doesn’t matter, Chessie. The program he worked on is long closed. And we’re not going to Guantanamo, we’re going to Caibarién.”

“What about Isadora? Was she a spy, too?”

He smiled at her relentlessness. “Yes. Isa was CIA. A translator and language expert. She must have spoken ten or twelve different languages. Farsi, Arabic, Persian, Kurdish, Chinese, Japanese, and every Romance language you can imagine. Perfect dialect, just an incredible talent. And they worked side by side, day and night, Gabe and Isa.”

Isa…who could have been her sister.

The importance of what they were doing hit again, and Chessie vowed to put her fantasies about hopeless sex out of her mind for a while. Right now, she was here on a mission of hope. Hope for her brother, and for this child of a woman she’d never know but somehow knew she would have loved.

She couldn’t forget that.





Chapter Twelve





So far, so good.

But then, Mal knew that Gabe would have covered every base with the documentation to get into the country. Posing as Mitchell Walker, executive producer and owner of Green River Productions, Mal sailed through customs, and from his vantage point, it looked like Chessie, aka Elizabeth Brandt, had done the same.

He’d briefed her on how to act with the Cuban officials—humble, innocent, and warm—and prepared her for the questions she’d be asked. Leaning against a wall in the tight hallway, he checked his watch against the next flight’s departure time, looking up when a man approached him.

“Got the time?” he asked, as American as Mal.

Mal told him, and the man blew out a sigh. “Damn, I’m late.” He glanced around the short, enclosed area, and Mal could have sworn his gaze lingered on Chessie, who was putting away her paperwork and just about finished at her counter. “Can I get a favor?” the man asked.

Mal’s internal alarm went off, of course. He looked at the guy in silent response, taking in his thinning hair, a paunch, inexpensive clothes. Yet he had the money to travel to Cuba.

The man fumbled to get something out of his pocket, and Mal instantly stiffened. But he pulled out a phone and brought it to his face, tapping a button. The sound of a camera clicked.

Instinctively, Mal held up a hand. “Hey—”

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “New phone and I’m not sure how to work it. Can you take a picture of me with that in the background?” He pointed over his shoulder at a large “Welcome to Cuba” sign above a row of customs officials. “You know, for my Instagram account? Proof that I was actually in Coo-bah.” He used a crappy Spanish pronunciation.

Mal started to say no, but then realized by taking the phone, he could delete the picture the * had just taken. “Sure.” He took the device and touched the camera icon on the screen, but no picture of him appeared. He scrolled, but it was like the guy hadn’t just snapped a shot.

Maybe Mal was just being paranoid, as usual.

“Here, I’ll show you,” the guy said, reaching for the phone.

“I got it,” Mal told him, holding it up to take a picture with the sign.

The man stood still and then pointed up to the sign over his shoulder, like a tourist. Mal snapped it.