Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(49)

But why had he called in one of his least favorite supervisors for a meeting? It wasn’t like they had a warm father-son relationship. It wasn’t like they had any relationship at all. Ever. After all, if Roger hadn’t been born, Donna Lee Drummand would likely have survived the appendicitis that she developed when he was only four days old. And if given a choice between the two, Bill would have picked Donna Lee over Roger in a heartbeat.


The old sting still hit, though he was used to the fact that he’d never pleased Big Bill. But if his operation succeeded? Well, he’d please him then, all right.

The door opened, and a beautiful young woman in a black suit stepped out, an electronic tablet in one hand. Bill didn’t remarry after his young wife died fifty-five years earlier, but rumor had it that from that day on he lived like the original James Bond and f*cked every gorgeous woman he could get his hands on. Still? Shit, who knew? Anything was possible with the old bastard.

She gave Roger a warm smile.

“Mr. Drummand can see you now.”

Yeah, the way all sons want to be greeted by their father’s assistant. “Thanks.” He stood and entered the ultimate man cave, a library stacked with rich leathery first editions, a desk that matched the importance of the man behind it, and a view of Georgetown that gave the town house its three-million-dollar price tag.

Maybe he should ask his father for Lila’s blackmail money since the man commanded hundreds of thousands for a speech and still gave them frequently.

“Hello, Bill.” He knew better than to call him Dad or Father. From childhood, he’d been instructed to use his first name. It was a wonder he didn’t have to call him Mr. Drummand.

“Roger, have a seat.”

He didn’t get up to come around the mountain of mahogany to hug his son, of course. His body was still strong, if smaller, and even his face, though wrinkled, maintained its handsome structure. Roger hadn’t inherited that. None of his father’s “presence,” in fact.

“Did Ashley offer you coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Smoky eyes narrowed. “Are you.”

It was not a question. “Last time I checked. Why?”

He folded his arms and leaned forward to put his elbows on the desk. “I’ve heard something, Roger, and I feel it’s only fair to go directly to the accused source to find out the truth.”

Son of a bitch, she told him. She didn’t wait for the money, she didn’t go to Florida, she f*cking told him. Shame and fear heated his whole body. He would deny everything. The one thing he was positive of was that Lila Wickham was working on conjecture, not fact. That made her a good spy, but not a great blackmailer.

“What would that be, sir?”

“I’ve heard you’re spending agency money and time and personnel to track the man you discovered embezzling from Guantanamo Bay.”

A modest amount of relief cooled his gut. “The money was never recovered, and I feel certain he knows where it is. If I catch him accessing it, not only do we have him red-handed again, but we could return five hundred thousand to the US government and put that thief back in prison where he belongs.” And where he could do the least amount of damage to Roger if he ever talked to the wrong people. “I think that’s the right thing to do.”

His father nodded slowly, never one to argue about what’s right. Doing the work of the government was what was right; his unwavering loyalty to the cause was what kept Bill Drummand alive.

“You need to stop.”

“Why? You don’t think he’ll lead me to the money?”

“I don’t care, and neither should you. It’s not a priority any longer and successful agents look forward not backward. You know how I feel about rear view mirrors.”

Fighter pilots don’t use them.

He’d heard the words in every speech. “The government is short a half a million dollars, sir.”

“The government has enough money, Roger.” His glare shut down the argument far more effectively than the words. “Enough to pay for an agency chief of staff position opening in a month, and I want you to have it.”

Roger’s jaw almost dropped. Oh, he’d enjoyed his share of nepotism in his career—his last name opened plenty of doors within the CIA. But his father had never actually gotten him a top-level job. “That would be wonderful, sir.”

Bill’s steely eyes narrowed. “There will be, of course, the usual process to vet you and an in-depth investigation of all your current projects.”

Shit. “Of course.”

“But there will be nothing untoward,” he said confidently. “You are my son.”

Roger blinked. Had he ever, in fifty-five years, heard Bill say that with any amount of pride? He couldn’t remember, but just the hint of it actually tightened Roger’s throat. His father’s approval was all he ever wanted, and all he never had. Until now.

“I am indeed you son, sir.” He cleared his throat and willed himself not to get emotional. Bill hated emotions.

“You’ll have to be approved by the director himself, but we’re golfing next week.” In other words, Bill had that approval in the bag. The golf bag.


“I’m happy to meet with the director myself.”

His father laughed, enough to show he didn’t think that meeting would amount to a pile of shit. “I’ll handle it.”