Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(50)

Then Bill stood, meeting over. “You’ll do a good job, Roger. Don’t waste money. Don’t waste time going after things that are already done. Don’t forget that the United States of America pays your salary and your job is to keep it safe, not rich, so prioritize. Prioritize.”

Bill’s favorite word. “I certainly will, sir.”

Bill nodded and gave a slight gesture of dismissal toward the door. Without so much as a handshake, Roger turned and left, his shoes echoing in the wide, high entryway and out the door into the chill of Washington, DC.

If he didn’t pay Lila Wickham, he could lose this opportunity. He’d lose the chance to gain his father’s approval. He had to pay her. And, irony of ironies, she was the one in Florida trying to get a lead on Mal.

He dialed a number he knew by heart and listened to half a ring before it was picked up.

“What?” Lila Wickham’s bitchy English accent jarred him, even though he was expecting it.

“Why haven’t you checked in?” he demanded.

“Too busy having sex with the pool boy while I get a European facial. What do you want?”

“An update.”

“I could make shit up, Roger. Would that make you happy?”

He closed his eyes. “It would help.”

“I think you’re forgetting who’s calling the shots now.”

“Have you found Mal Harris?”

“I have not.”

“Gabe Rossi?”

Nothing for a millisecond, then, “I wouldn’t know him if he walked into me, so I couldn’t tell you. But I’ll keep digging around. Meanwhile, you better find some other way to get that money, Mr. Drummand. Your father’s assistant just texted me to confirm our meeting.”

Roger drew in a slow breath, wishing he had an answer. As he exhaled, his other phone buzzed. He pulled it out to read a text of his own.

Harris is in Cuba with a woman. See picture. Report on locations attached.

He instantly recognized Francesca Rossi, the hacker from the family of do-gooders. Of course he knew why Mal was taking her there. Of course.

He almost told Lila what had just come in, but thought better of it. She didn’t need to know he had a backup plan, and the longer she stayed out of his way, the better. “Keep looking,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

He hung up before she replied, already knowing what he had to do.

He had to beat Mal Harris at his own game. He had to get back to Cuba before little Miss Happy Fingers could dig into the wrong information. He had to get that money, pay off Lila, and eliminate any evidence of his secret program to place former terrorists in the US to uncover new cells. Then he’d take his new job and do his name and father proud.

He texted the spy who’d sent him the information, knowing his words would go into an official file.

This project is closed and Harris is no longer a person of interest. You may close the reports and stop following him.

He sent the same instructions to two other agents, then skimmed the report on Mal’s whereabouts in Cuba. A documentary producer, huh?

Roger knew how to get the money, and he knew Mal Harris’s weaknesses. And if the bastard and his hacker pal died in the process…well, that would be Cuba’s problem. The US wouldn’t blink if “Mitchell Walker” and “Elizabeth Brandt” disappeared in Cuba. As far as the US was concerned, they didn’t even exist.

He turned around and glanced at the multimillion-dollar row house and thought of the powerful man inside. He had to be worthy of being his son. He had to be. No matter who died in the process.





Chapter Sixteen





Mar Brisas was even worse than Mal had feared.

The hostel had a shower in the hall that offered a dribble of water, a used bar of soap that smelled a lot like a goat, and a towel the size of a napkin. But at least he could wash off the mud and clear his head after a long drive to Caibarién.

Maybe Mother Nature had been sending a message with her flash flood: Bad idea, Mal. This woman deserves better than hopeless sex.

How did his nice little arrangement manage to get a handle like that anyway? She’d called it hopeless sex…but she seemed pretty hopeful to get it. And he was starting to entertain something that felt a lot like hope, too. Like hope there could be more time with her after this assignment was over. Which didn’t make any sense.

Except now he didn’t just like her or have the hots for her, he admired her.

Plenty of experienced intelligence agents couldn’t have handled the mess they’d gotten into last night. But an untrained civilian? Any effects of the rum had instantly disappeared, and she’d silently dressed and helped him navigate the dark drive, working as a dependable partner in every way.


She hadn’t complained when they pulled up to a “hotel” in a town that was little more than a decrepit village famous for crabs that walked around on the streets narrowly avoiding being crushed by the horses and carriages that were as common as old rust-bucket cars.

Yes, he admired her. That wasn’t the same as—

“No mas! Basta!”

Mal squinted into the lukewarm, slightly yellowish water that he was being ordered to stop using. If it even was water. But he shut off the spigot and dried.

He stepped into jeans, the only thing he’d grabbed from his duffel bag when he left Chessie in their basement room down the hall. He didn’t want to leave her alone for long, anyway. It wasn’t safe. And it wasn’t…what he wanted.