Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(3)

Attention, Malcolm Harris. You are currently under surveillance.

And now he was going to let her believe he was duped by her ruse and awestruck by her baby blues, which got even babier and bluer when she pushed her black-rimmed glasses to rest on top of her head.

Which meant she didn’t need them and they were just part of her disguise. Amateurs.

Mal inched just a little bit closer to inspect all the pretty she was showing him. And to be sure her mic could pick up whatever he was saying, so his half-truths would have all her colleagues scratching their heads instead of their balls.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She actually took a little breath before answering, as if she had to think about it. Field rookie, no doubt. “Chessie.”

“Jessie?” C’mon, girl, get your fake name right.

She shook her head. “No, Chessie. Short for Francesca.”

Wasn’t like spooks to use unusual names. “You don’t look like a Francesca.”

“No kidding.” And there was that smile again, showing perfect teeth and softening her features. “That’s my mother. Frann-ie.” She said it in a nasal, whiny voice and rolled her eyes. “And you?”

Why lie? She knew damn well what his name was, along with his Social, his former agency rank, his famous fall from grace, and his stellar prison record. Shit, his whole miserable childhood was probably downloaded on her phone and filed under E for Embezzler.

“I’m Mal.” He added a sly smile and extended his hand over the table. “Pleasure to meet you, Francesca.”

She slid silken and slender fingers into his grip, and her mouth quirked with a tease. “I think we’re even in the weird-name department. Mal?”

As if she didn’t know. “Malcolm,” he explained. “Not so weird.”

“Traveling on business?” she asked, letting go of his hand after an extra second of contact.

Oh yeah, let’s get right down to what the hell their man was doing crisscrossing the country and headed south. Headed to the Caymans, by any chance? Tapping into an offshore account?

“More or less,” he replied. “You?”

“Um…I’m going to see my brother down in Florida.”

Someone at Langley needed to teach the rookies to lie without hesitation. But he just nodded as the waitress arrived and placed two beers on paper cocktail napkins, and rushed to get the next order.

Chessie lifted her bottle. “To chivalry. Long may it live in the heart of a perfect stranger.”

He tapped her amber bottle with his bright green Heineken. “I’m not perfect.” As you well know.

She locked on him a few seconds too long over the bottle. “Pretty close,” she whispered, and damn it, his body instantly betrayed his head with a low, deep, primal stir. No surprise there. He hadn’t gotten laid in so long, his balls had formed their own picket line to protest.

He took a long pull on the beer, still snagged by her mesmerizing crystal blue rimmed in navy eyes, knowing he had a challenge in his own gaze. Part of him wanted her to know he was not ignorant of her ploy, and part of him—the protesting-balls part—wanted to see just how far she’d go with this honey trap of an operation.

“You’re staring,” she observed with a pointed look.

“You’re gorgeous.” And that was no lie. With the little bit of beer moisture clinging to lips darkened by now-faded lipstick, her mouth was luscious. When she looked down, long lashes lay dark and thick against creamy skin. She brushed an escaped lock of ebony hair off her cheek, just the right blend of self-conscious and flirtatious.


Man, those pricks had pulled out all the stops today.

“Thanks.” She glanced up, all wide-eyed and womanly. “I haven’t felt very gorgeous lately.”

And now we get the made-up sob story meant to get him to open up and share. He’d stood guard in prison cells when lesser men than he were brought to their knees and made to vomit state secrets. And his training certainly taught him just how effectively the right woman could pull tales, and the truth, from loose lips.

But he could play, right? Watch this sassy doll work for her paycheck, at least.

“You haven’t felt gorgeous?” He snorted softly. “Are all the mirrors broken in…where are you from?”

“New England,” she said, sounding obviously vague. Maybe they hadn’t worked out her cover that thoroughly.

Time to needle her a little. Time to let her know he wasn’t as dumb as they thought. “Something you’re not telling me, Chessie?”

A slow burn started down by the pretty cleavage, the blush working its way up to the hollows of her sculpted cheeks. Maybe it was her obvious embarrassment at being so transparent, or maybe four years in prison hadn’t turned him into enough of a dick, because that little flush caused an unexpected twist of pity in his gut. Poor kid would be on the receiving end of a shit storm if they thought she wasn’t ready for field work.

She picked up her beer and worked hard for nonchalance. “Why would you ask that?”

He reached for her left hand and thought of a way to save her from herself. “Because I don’t flirt with married women, so if you’re hiding a husband, let me know.”

Her ring finger was bare—he’d already noted that—but she gave his hand a squeeze. “Not married,” she assured him. “And so nice to meet a solid citizen.”