Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(70)

Except for helping him navigate the winding, unpaved roads without benefit of headlights, Chessie had been quiet, even when she found out where they were going. Was she upset about the bug in the room and what they did to escape? Brimming with questions she knew he couldn’t answer? Or, as he was, fighting the feeling of slipping closer to someone who was wrong on so many levels?

Still silent, she reached over the seat and dug into her bag, producing a pair of sneakers. After she put them on, she resituated herself against the passenger door, far away from him.

Too far away. Mal lifted his hand along the bench seat, letting his fingers graze her bare shoulder. His need to touch her—constantly—was more intense than ever. Real sex, fake sex, hopeless sex—whatever the hell they called it—had done nothing to satisfy his craving for her. It only made things worse.

“C’mere,” he said, giving her bra strap a little tug. “There has to be some advantage to no seat belts and no console. Sit next to me, Francesca.”

Before she moved, she shot him a look. “I know what you’re doing when you say my name like that.”

“Addressing you?”

“You want to get intimate.”

“While driving without headlights? I think we’ve had enough adventurous sex for one evening.” Although, he always wanted more.

She scooted over and dropped her head on his shoulder. “There are other kinds of intimacy,” she said.

Like a sweet girl laying her head on his shoulder as if she depended on him for security and happiness and love and a whole host of other things a guy like Mal couldn’t supply.

“For example,” she continued. “Sharing the truth with a person.” She sat up straight and looked at him, but Mal kept his concentration on the dark road ahead. “Truth with a person who just proved she’s up to field snuff.”

He gave her a squeeze. “You were amazing. I’d brag to your brother about what a great spy you’d make, but I like my balls and don’t want him to cut them off.”

“Gabe of all people would know you do what you have to, right?”

“True,” he agreed. “And, Francesca Rossi, don’t listen to the voice inside your head telling you that you don’t have what it takes to do what your siblings and cousins do. You’re rock solid.”


He could practically feel her smile. “Then tell me the whole Robin Hood story because you know you can trust me.”

He didn’t answer, but turned onto another side road, glancing in the rearview, confident they hadn’t been followed.

“Then I’ll just ask questions and figure it out on my own,” she said, impatience adding an edge to her tone.

After watching her in action at the municipal, he didn’t doubt that she had the intelligence and determination to do just that.

“But you have to make me a promise,” she said.

Whatever it was, he already knew he’d say yes, just like he knew she was going to get the whole story out of him one way or another.

“That you’ll tell me when I’m right or wrong. Like twenty questions.”

“Okay,” he agreed, because he knew she’d start the process with or without his consent. “Log on and start hacking my brain.”

She shifted as if she needed to settle and get comfortable. “Okay, you stole five hundred thousand dollars from a government account that funded certain activities at Guantanamo Bay when you were a guard there, except you were not a guard, you were an undercover spy for the CIA. And you stole that money to help someone in trouble, right?”

He stayed perfectly still, then he shook his head.

“Oh, really? Something in that statement wasn’t right?” She turned to him. “You stole five hundred thousand…”

He swallowed. Hard.

“You didn’t steal five hundred thousand dollars?”

He let out a slow, low sigh, and she put both hands on his thigh and squeezed. “You stole more?”

“No.”

“Less?”

“No.”

“Ohhh.” She had that nice, satisfied tone in her voice, like when she tore down a firewall with her flying fingers. “You didn’t steal the money. Someone else did, and you took the blame.”

He ripped his gaze from the road to give her a look. “You sure you didn’t train to be a spy, or is interrogating a genetic gift in your family?”

She gave a dry laugh. “Okay and, wow, okay.” She dragged out the last word with the sound of appreciation in her voice.

“What does that mean?”

“It means my lover isn’t a thief.”

Something in the vicinity of his chest felt like it cracked a little. Her lover? Not a thief? As true as both those statements might be, he didn’t dare hope. “Tell that to the US government.”

“Someone should.” She turned in her seat to face him again. “And your name would be cleared.”

“If only it were that easy.” If Alana got arrested for the crime, there was no telling what would happen to the kids. Maria was twelve now, so she’d be shipped off to some heinous place near Havana. Jorge would be ten, so he’d go to military training. And Solana had been two the last time he’d seen her, and she was just a little heartbreaker.

“The money was never recovered,” he added, mostly for the reaction he knew he’d get.