“You can just call me Kate,” she said, adding a warm smile to take away any edge in her voice.
“No, that’s not your name,” he said, reaching into the inside of his jacket. “Not while you’re on this property which, by the way, you can’t leave.”
Any thought of warmth or not fighting or laying back and being nice evaporated instantly. “Excuse me?”
From the pocket, he produced an envelope. “Here’s your identity package. You’ll have to give me your license and passport, plus anything else that might have your name on it. You can keep your phone but we’ll have to erase all record of your name on it and block all incoming calls, with a few exceptions, like your father. Any letters or prescription bottles, also. Nothing on your person can have your real name, that’s very important.”
Was she actually hearing him correctly?
“I’ll have everything in a lock box during your stay,” he added, taking in the look on her face. “Of course we’ll give you new bottles with your new name if you have medicines, and, oh…” He glanced in the back. “Tags for your luggage. Do you wear an ID bracelet or anything with your name or initials on it?”
Kate’s jaw dropped wide open. “You’re serious.”
“As a stroke.” He frowned. “Or is it a heart attack? I don’t know, but, yes, I am serious. That’s why you’re here, right?”
Wrong. “I’m here to study.”
“Then study that packet,” he said. “Learn your name and use it. Don’t even answer to your given name if someone calls that out. It could blow your cover.”
Her cover. Good God, he was serious. “Are you going to tell me I have to dye my hair next?”
He eyed her from the side. “It wouldn’t hurt. But that’s just me. Redheads are trouble.”
“So I’ve heard.” Steven had hated redheads, too. Which was exactly why she’d added the auburn to her brown hair after the divorce.
“I hope you like the name,” Mr. Rossi said. “I picked it myself.”
Looking down, she opened the envelope and found an Illinois driver’s license in the name of Mathilda Carlson.
“Mathilda?” She couldn’t help choking a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It was my Monica’s mother’s name. She was German, but…” He waved a gnarled, oversized hand. “We overlook some things for love, you know?”
She blinked at him, really not sure if she should laugh or slap that hand with her identity packet.
“Not everything,” she said dryly. “And while I appreciate the thorough security measures, Kate is common enough. I’ll just use Kate Carlson, if I must.”
“You must use the name you’ve been given.”
The command prickled her skin, summing up everything she hated most in the whole world. “No, I mustn’t. And you will not, Mr. Rossi, ever again tell me what I must or must not do, is that clear?”
Mr. Rossi stuck his lower lip out and glowered, a slight flush growing under his crepe paper complexion. She braced for his next comment, probably something about how her father had warned him she was spirited and they should just do what’s best for Kate. If he did, she’d bound out of this damn cart and get her own ass back to the airport and go right back to Boston with her middle finger raised.
“Let’s compromise, Miss.” His soft voice completely disarmed her. “How about you go by Tilly? It’s young and pretty like you.”
“It also rhymes with silly, which is what I think of this whole undercover situation to keep me safe.”
“Not safe, alive.”
Irritation waltzed up her spine, but she really had no beef with this man. “Mr. Rossi, honestly, you’re taking this whole thing much too far. I know there were some random suggestions to my father that I might be on someone’s shit list, but I plan to spend the entire time I’m here completely alone, studying for a big test I have to take, and avoiding contact with everyone. I really don’t care what you or the housekeeper call me.”
“Poppy.”
“Pardon me?” Was that yet another ridiculous name suggestion?
“The housekeeper is Poppy. A Jamaican lady, and she was specially selected because she can be trusted. Although…” He lifted a shoulder. “She can’t be trusted with everything, I’m learning.”
At the obtuse comment, she frowned. “But she knows my secret identity?” she asked, only half joking.
“She knows you are a client.” There was no humor in the reply. “She does not know your real name. That’s only for the inner circle.”
Oh, for God’s sake. Next he’d be giving her dark glasses with secret cameras embedded in them.
She stifled a smart-aleck response, turning from him, and the argument, using the vista of cobalt blue water frothing up on a wide stretch of white sands as a distraction. Sunny yellow umbrellas dotted the horizon, with chaises and hammocks and a few gauze- draped private cabanas for the well-heeled guests of Casa Blanca. On either side of the path they traveled, tony villas bearing those plant-inspired names like Bay Laurel and Artemesia were tucked into thick foliage.
So the circumstances were a little weird. Who cared? The place rocked and she would not let an octogenarian 007 ruin her satisfaction.
In a few minutes, he slowed the cart in front of a sand-colored villa that backed up to the beach, the column, arches, and golden barrel tile roof looking both brand new and old world. Any trace of a bad mood almost evaporated completely.
“Put me up here and you can call me anything you want,” she said with a sigh of pure pleasure.
Straightening a little uncomfortably, Mr. Rossi climbed out and reached for one bag, while Kate grabbed the smaller one, knowing it was heavy with legal books and files for studying.
At the door, he slipped the card key into the lock, getting a green light. But when he turned the handle, the door didn’t budge. He tried again, grunting a little with the effort.
“I swear those electronic keys never work,” she said, fighting the urge to help him.
“No, it’s not that. It’s locked from the inside.”
“How can that be?”
“For your protection.”
“How is that protective? I’m out here, locked out and…” She glanced over her shoulder, getting a glimpse of sun-dappled palm fronds and not a stray guest in sight. “…trapped in this hotbed of criminal activity.”
He didn’t even smile at the tease. Instead, he scooped up both suitcases without giving her chance to get the smaller one. “I assure you that no one else can do this, but there is a back entrance through the gate. Come with me.”
She followed him around the side of the villa, stealing glances inside the windows, anxious to see her new temporary home. They walked along a hedged path to a large metal gate, ornate but clearly not for decoration. On it, was a small digital keypad.
“This villa is exclusive for our clients,” he said, gesturing to the security device. “I’m one of the only souls who knows the code.”
She fought a smile at how intense he was, her heart softening toward the elderly gentleman who obviously just wanted to be relevant. Where did Dad find this guy? No matter, she was in the mood to humor him, if only to get into the place, strip down to a bathing suit, and soak up some rays. Hopefully, the wet bar was equipped with margarita mix and plenty of tequila.
For after studying, of course.
He tapped in a few numbers on the code and the latch released. As she stepped forward, she caught a glimpse of the edge of a natural pool, surrounded by stone and a small waterfall, tucked behind palm trees. Delighted, she couldn’t help but dart forward, leaving Mr. Rossi behind in her excitement to see her little slice of paradise.
“Mrs. Carlson!” he called.
She waved him off and stepped around the side of the house…and froze in shock.
Who the holy hell was that?
A man whirred and kicked and sliced his hands through the air. He stood in the shadows under a pergola, the streaks of sunlight and shade bathing
him in a constant movement of light and dark, his eyes closed, his fists taut, his legs flying and turning and kicking so hard she could hear them cut through the air.
He grunted and turned so she could see his face and she almost stumbled, gasping softly.
Instantly he stopped, every muscle—and, God, there were a lot of those—suddenly as still as if he’d been carved in stone and put on display to…admire.
All she could do was take in the power of a mighty male chest inching through the opening of a snow white kimono-type of jacket tied with a knotted black belt, and hold her breath as ice cold blue eyes sliced right through her.
“We used the gate,” Mr. Rossi said, coming up behind her, and not a bit fazed by the man’s presence. “I meant to call and tell you we were on the property but I got distracted.”
The man breathed, once and slowly, not a bit winded by that…that fighting dance he’d been doing. Then he nodded once, so slight it was almost imperceptible.
He came closer then, like an animal approaching its prey, the loose-fitting pants that matched his jacket brushing against each other with each slow step. She tried to take him in, guess who he was, and examine his features all at the same time, but it was impossible to even have a coherent thought in the face of such…such a man.
Everything was too much. Too many muscles, too many angles, too many tattoos peeking through that top. His nose was too big, his neck too dense, his cheeks too hollow and shadowed, his mouth much too…much.
“You must be Mathilda.” His voice was low, a rumble in his chest, somehow terrifying as it was compelling.
“I’m…” Speechless. Helpless. Breathless. She glanced at Mr. Rossi who’d suddenly morphed from hapless escort into her lifeline to sanity.
“She goes by Tilly,” he said smoothly. “And this is Benjamin.”
Who the hell was Benjamin? Other than a brute who looked like he crawled out of hell and would be more comfortable going back there.
“Benjamin Carlson,” Mr. Rossi finished. “Your bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard?” There were few words she hated as much as that one. The only other possessive, soul-sucking title that made her stomach turn more was—
“And your husband.”
That one.
Books Set in Barefoot Bay
The Barefoot Bay Billionaires (200 page short novels)
Secrets on the Sand (ALWAYS FREE!)
Seduction on the Sand
Scandal on the Sand
Note: All three Billionaires are also available in a specially priced collection called
The Barefoot Bay Billionaires
The Barefoot Bay Brides (400 page novels)
Barefoot in White
Barefoot in Lace
Barefoot in Pearls
Barefoot Bay Undercover (400 page novels)
Barefoot Bound (prequel)
Barefoot with a Bodyguard
Barefoot with a Stranger
Barefoot with a Bad Boy (Gabe’s book!)
Buy links, excerpts, character descriptions and release information about these and Roxanne’s extensive backlist of more than forty titles can be found at www.roxannestclaire.com
or by joining my newsletter: http://www.roxannestclaire.com/newsletter.html
About the Author
Roxanne St. Claire is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of nearly forty novels of suspense and romance, including three popular series (Barefoot Bay, The Bullet Catchers, and The Guardian Angelinos) and multiple stand-alone books. In addition to being a six-time nominee and one-time winner of the prestigious Romance Writers of America RITA Award, Roxanne’s novels have won the National Reader’s Choice Award for best romantic suspense three times, and the Borders Top Pick in Romance, as well as the Daphne du Maurier Award, the HOLT Medallion, the Maggie, Booksellers Best, Book Buyers Best, the Award of Excellence, and many others. Her books have been translated into dozens of languages and are routinely included as a Doubleday/Rhapsody Book Club Selection of the Month.
Roxanne lives in Florida and can be reached via her website, www.roxannestclaire.com, or on her Facebook Reader page, www.facebook.com/roxannestclaire, and on Twitter at www.twitter.com/roxannestclaire.
[email protected] www.roxannestclaire.com
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Barefoot Bound
Copyright © 2015 South Street Publishing
ISBN 978-0-9908607-8-5
This novella is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the copyright. For permission or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author,
[email protected] Editor: Kristi Yanta, The Picky Editor
Copyeditor: Joyce Lamb
Cover Art: The Killion Group, Inc.
Interior Formatting: Author E.M.S.
Table of Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Books Set in Barefoot Bay
About the Author
Copyright
Roxanne St. Claire, Barefoot Bound: A Barefoot Bay Undercover Prequel
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