Barefoot With A Stranger

  “Got the time?” he asked, as American as Mal.

  Mal told him, and the man blew out a sigh. “Damn, I’m late.” He glanced around the short, enclosed area, and Mal could have sworn his gaze lingered on Chessie, who was putting away her paperwork and just about finished at her counter. “Can I get a favor?” the man asked.

  Mal’s internal alarm went off, of course. He looked at the guy in silent response, taking in his thinning hair, a paunch, inexpensive clothes. Yet he had the money to travel to Cuba.

  The man fumbled to get something out of his pocket, and Mal instantly stiffened. But he pulled out a phone and brought it to his face, tapping a button. The sound of a camera clicked.

  Instinctively, Mal held up a hand. “Hey—”

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “New phone and I’m not sure how to work it. Can you take a picture of me with that in the background?” He pointed over his shoulder at a large “Welcome to Cuba” sign above a row of customs officials. “You know, for my Instagram account? Proof that I was actually in Coo-bah.” He used a crappy Spanish pronunciation.

  Mal started to say no, but then realized by taking the phone, he could delete the picture the asshole had just taken. “Sure.” He took the device and touched the camera icon on the screen, but no picture of him appeared. He scrolled, but it was like the guy hadn’t just snapped a shot.

  Maybe Mal was just being paranoid, as usual.

  “Here, I’ll show you,” the guy said, reaching for the phone.

  “I got it,” Mal told him, holding it up to take a picture with the sign.

  The man stood still and then pointed up to the sign over his shoulder, like a tourist. Mal snapped it.

  “Thanks,” the guy said, extending his hand to get the phone back.

  But Mal didn’t give it up. “Let’s check it,” he suggested, but the guy snagged the phone immediately.

  “Nah, I’m late. I’m sure you got it. Thanks!” He took off just as Chessie came up, shouldering her bag.

  “All set?” she asked.

  He tamped down the bad taste the guy had left, and nodded. “How about you?”

  “A little hassle checking the laptop because I had to register it.”

  “You’re not going to be able to use it anyway,” he reminded her.

  “Not true. You told me I can tap into Canadian servers, and if there is a way, I will do it.” She added a grin and adjusted her glasses. “Anyway, I’d sooner go naked than travel without a laptop.”

  Which would be fine, but distracting as hell.

  As they walked out of customs through a bright, modern terminal, Chessie leaned closer. “No issues with the docs?”

  He shot her a warning look. “Not a word. Elizabeth.”

  “Got it. Mitch.”

  Another man made quick eye contact with Mal as he passed, setting off the old familiar warnings again. Everyone was suspect, damn it. Everyone.

  A few minutes later, after a stop to exchange American dollars for enough CUCs to pay for everything they’d need, they had rented a Kia—much to Chessie’s vocal dismay, because she really wanted a 1959 sea-foam green Chevy convertible with gull wings. Before taking off, they stopped at a café across the street from the rental place to grab a bite for dinner.

  Food would be scarce on the drive down to Caibarién, and they were both starved. Across from him, Chessie sipped a steaming espresso, menu in hand, but her attention was on the colorful, noisy surroundings.

  Of course, Mal was paying more attention to the patrons and passersby than the food listing.

  “Why didn’t I take Spanish?” Chessie flipped a page of the menu, then closed it and put her elbows on the table. “Nino said when in doubt, get plantains and beans. Or a medianoche. Can never go wrong.”

  A couple sat down at another table, out of hearing distance, but when the woman threw Mal a long look, he turned away, barely acknowledging what Chessie had said.

  “Eyeing the blonde at the next table?” she teased.

  “Was she blond?” He winked, keeping things lighter than he actually felt. “Didn’t notice.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Only because she’s a potential threat.”

  Chessie started to slide her glasses down from her hair to her eyes to get a good look, but Mal stopped her with a light hand on her arm. “Don’t.”

  “Do you really think I would be that obvious?” She didn’t look, but instead put her glasses on the table to look hard at him. Which was so direct and intense, it might have been better for her to look at the other woman. “Can’t you do something, anything at all, to put a stop to it? I mean, you paid your dues, right?”

  Without her glasses, he could really see the concern in her expression, the caring about his welfare that made her eyes endlessly blue. Had anyone ever really looked at him that way? He’d spent a lifetime keeping people at an arm’s distance, and this would be a dumb time to stop that practice.

  “That’s not a question someone who wants to keep things hopeless should ask,” he said.

  Chided, she looked down, her long lashes brushing against her cheekbones. He loved the way that looked. Probably because it reminded him of when he’d been buried inside her and she’d closed her eyes, lost to pleasure, her mouth open as she took ragged breaths and moaned for more.

  “Mal?” she asked.

  He shook the fog off. “Mitch,” he reminded her quietly.

  “See what I mean?” She picked up her espresso and blew on it. “I’m so not cut out for this kind of work.”

  “You’re doing fine,” he assured her, glancing to the side. And that damn woman staring at him again. He had to change the subject. “What are you ordering?”

  “Look,” she said, leaning closer and keeping her voice at barely a whisper. “I know you are always watching your back, and I get that. But that chick over there? She’s—”

  “Looking at me.”

  “Because you’re hot. I don’t blame her.”

  He started to argue, but laughed instead. “You just like me.”

  “As if I would break a rule like that.” She gave a sly grin and pushed back from the table. “Order me plantains, and I’ll split a rice and beans with you. Be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She lifted both brows. “Bathroom. Is that okay?”

  “Be careful. And fast.”

  “Promise.” She scooped up her handbag and glasses, then threaded through the tables, avoiding a route that would have taken her near the staring woman.

  The server came to the table, blocking Mal’s view of the blonde. He ordered in Spanish, handed back the menus, then, when the server stepped away, the woman was gone. To the bathroom, of course.

  He fought the urge to pop up and head over there, protective and worried. It was the absolute wrong thing to do. Chessie was smart and on the alert. If the woman followed her, she’d never engage. Would she? She was an untrained rookie.

  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 ga
ve 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.

  “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 Ni
no 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 fucking 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.

  “She thinks you’re experiencing…” His bushy brows furrowed as he tried to think of something. “Situational depression.”

  “What the holy fuck is that?”

  “She showed me a book about it, and, I have to say, you have some of the symptoms, and I—”

  He pushed back, practically knocking over the chair. “You know what I have, Nino? Situational anger. Seriously royal pissed-offedness that I am fucking helpless to get my own kid. And you know what else frosts my situational ass? The only woman I ever loved is dead. I think you know how that feels.”

  This time Nino couldn’t even swallow. His eyes filled up as he stood. “You’re damn right I do. It feels like…like…” He fisted his ham hocks and punched his barrel chest. “This is broken and bleeding red-hot misery.”