Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(41)

“I’m not sure this is the fastest way to Caibarién,” she said.

“There are three ways to go,” he told her. “Safe and fast, slow and treacherous, or uncertain and possibly deadly.”


She laughed a little. “I hope you’ve completely ruled out door number three.”

“Yes, so we’ll take slow and treacherous.”

“And what exactly is wrong with safe and fast? I like safe and fast. It’s how I drive, how I work, and how I live.”

“Question for you, rookie: Why do you think I’m taking the slow and treacherous route?”

“Because it has the least likelihood of us being followed.”

He grinned at her. “Give an A to the pretty girl in the front row.”

“Pretty, my ass.”

“Your ass is pretty, too.”

She looked skyward. “So how slow and treacherous is this route that guarantees we won’t be followed?”

“First, no guarantees. Second, it’ll add a few more hours to the drive, so it’ll be quite dark when we go over the roads that are the most likely to wash out in a rainstorm. But, big picture, we’ll be safer, I promise. And when I see somewhere to grab food, we will, but we’ll eat in the car.”

“Okay.” She leaned her head back and gave a sigh. “What else can you teach me about being a spy?”

“Why do you want to know?”

She closed her eyes. “You know, in case we get into trouble. More trouble. Anyway…” She reached over and put a hand on his arm. “Your voice is sexy.”

He couldn’t help smiling. “No one’s ever told me that before.”

“Then no one was listening to you.”

He just smiled, wishing they could take the fastest route, because the sooner they could start hopeless sex, the better.





Chapter Thirteen





Gabe put his fork down and glowered across the table. “Do I have basil hanging out of my mouth or something?”

Nino instantly looked down at his plate. “There’s no basil in this, Gabriel.”

“Then do you want to tell me why you have been scrutinizing me for this whole meal like I’m a research monkey under observation?”

Nino just shook his head and stabbed at the chicken. “I’m worried she’s right.”

“Who?”

“Poppy.”

Gabe resumed eating. “This again. You and that woman have to work it out, old man, because she’s a natural spook and isn’t going anywhere.”

“She’s all under my business, Gabriel.”

He smiled at this latest malapropism. “You mean up in your business. ’Cause if she’s under your business, you’ve been holding out on me, you dirty dog.”

Nino ignored the tease. “She’s always looking for trouble.”

“Makes her a good spy. People think she’s sharing inside info, and they do the same.”

“She thinks she knows everything.”

Gabe grunted, already sick of a conversation that hadn’t really started. “Oh, for crap’s sake, if this is about some Jamaican-Italian kitchen showdown between you two, I’m going to—”

“She’s not right about food,” Nino insisted, underscoring that with a bite of chicken pointed directly at Gabe. “She actually thought she knew a better way to make pollo Romano than this. I said to her, ‘It’s called Romano, woman.’ Like Rome. Not pollo Kingston.”

“Look at you, knowing your capitals of foreign countries.”

Nino harrumphed and straightened the dish towel that hung from his collar. In Gabe’s entire life, including La Vigilia on Christmas Eve, he’d never seen Nino use a napkin. He wore his mopina and never got a spot of sauce on his shirt.

“So what’s the problem?” Gabe asked, spinning through the possibilities like the pasta on his fork despite his shitty appetite. It pained Nino when he didn’t eat with gusto. “She doesn’t know where Chessie and Mal went, or why. We don’t have a client on site at the moment, and I haven’t asked her to do anything but take the fresh flowers out of our bathroom because they’re too f*cking happy in the morning.”

“That’s what she’s right about,” Nino said, nothing but seriousness in his deep-brown eyes.

The flowers? “They’re pink, for crying out loud. On the bathroom counter where two guys live. Is that necessary?”

“She’s right about…” Nino swallowed hard like a chicken bone was caught in his throat. “You and the happy… You’re not happy.”

“Damn right I’m not happy about the flowers.”

“No, Gabriel. You’re not happy about anything.”

He snorted softly and picked up the juice glass of homemade wine that Nino had brought from his stash in Boston. “Dude.” He downed the wine. “Shit’s real, and you know it.”


“Shit, as you say, is always real with you,” Nino countered. “But I suspect this whole child thing in Cuba is affecting you more than you realize.”

Oh man. Really? He started to reply, but nothing came. No quip, curse, or comment. What could he say? He never lied to Nino. By omission, of course. Gabe lied by omission by breathing. But flat-out lie? Not to Nino.