Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(40)

A minute passed, two. The man the blonde left behind was studying his menu, oblivious to everything around him. Another two minutes, and the woman came out of the bathroom, walking toward her table slowly, her attention riveted on Mal. Something about her clothes and stature said Euro to him, maybe northern Italian, but definitely not American.

Her eyebrow flicked, and the hint of a smile tipped up one side of her lips. Was she trying to communicate something? She’d talked to Chessie? She’d warned Chessie?

She’d hurt Chessie?

Shit, where was Chessie? Each passing second ticked his heart rate higher, making him wonder who the hell thought this was a good idea. Cuba was crawling with CIA. It was their damned second home.


He shot up and headed toward the hallway in the back where the bathrooms were.

As he came around the corner, the men’s room door opened, nearly hitting him in the face. “Oh, hi,” a man said as he stepped out.

It was the camera guy.

Son of a bitch.

The other man gave a funny look and brushed by, reminding Mal that he was doing exactly the wrong thing by doing anything at all. Battling the urge to yank the women’s room door open—the very dumbest thing he could possibly do—he waited a few seconds until it creaked slowly, and Chessie stepped out.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He grabbed her arm. “What took so long?”

She pointed her index fingers to her face. “Sue me for a touch-up on the blush and mascara, bro. I’ve been traveling all day.”

He nudged her back into the restaurant, his gaze landing on the blonde’s table. The now empty table. “Why did they leave?” he asked under his breath.

“I heard her on the phone in the bathroom. Heavy German accent, but she spoke English. They stopped for coffee and were meeting friends at a hotel in Havana. They’ve been here for ten days, on holiday, and she’s bored with her husband.” She grinned. “How’s that for field work?”

“Impressive.” But what was the camera guy doing there? “Who was she talking to, do you know?”

“Gosh, I’m not that good. Yet.” She sat down, and then she shifted slightly to follow Mal’s gaze out to the street.

“That’s her,” she said.

“Talking to the guy who ‘accidentally’ took my picture at the airport.”

“Shit,” she whispered.

“No kidding.”

“What do we do?” she asked.

Mal reached over and touched her hand. “Everything I say. Got it?”

Silent, serious, she nodded.

“We’re going to get up very casually, walk to our car,” he told her. “We’re going to drive it around Havana and watch for a tail. When we’re sure we don’t have one, we’re returning the Kia and then buying something else they have on the lot, for cash. Then we’re driving out of town, and no one is going to follow us.”

He could have sworn she paled.

“And we’re not going to talk in either car until I give the all clear. Not a word in any language. Got it?”

“Yes.”

Chessie did exactly as she was told, silent during the whole process of driving and exchanging the car, until she climbed into the passenger seat of the new car.

“You can talk now,” he said, confident no one could have bugged this baby.

“You mean complain.”

“About what?”

She tapped the torn leather of the bench seat. “A 1959 lime-green Ford Prefect?”

“Is that good or bad?” Mal turned the ignition, and the engine choked before starting. Then he tested the gas, which didn’t do a whole lot.

“It hurts my very soul. So close to cool, but so very far away.”

“Cool wasn’t on my list of criteria,” he said, turning to scan the area and make sure they weren’t followed.

“I was picturing a souped-up Fairlane 500 convertible with an ass-kicking V-8. Not the little engine that couldnot.” As if offended, or warning her to shut up, that engine sputtered, and she shot Mal a look.

“I think it was an inspired choice,” he said, giving the skinny wooden steering wheel an affectionate squeeze. “We’ll fly under the radar in this.”

“There is that,” she agreed. A bright pink Impala, ’58 or ’59, cruised by. “I could fly anywhere in that,” she said, longingly eyeing the wing flare in the back. “Anywhere.”

He ignored her, continuing a thorough scan of every car and pedestrian within twenty feet as he drove.

“Do you really think they were following us?” she asked.

“I think there was a good chance of it.”

“It might have been a coincidence.”

He fired a look at her.

“Hey, we met by coincidence.”

“We were both traveling to the same place to meet with the same person, and Atlanta is a major hub.” He turned again and eyed the guy behind them in a Peugeot. “Not a coincidence.”

She opened a map Gabe had supplied—which was a good thing since the rental car guy had actually laughed when Mal asked for one, suggesting they pick up a hitchhiker for help getting where they were going—and studied it quietly, then looked up at the road they were on.