Barefoot With a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover Book 2) Read Free

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.”
    He almost snorted at the irony. “Define solid,” he said, shifting his gaze away but still holding her hand because it felt so damn good to touch the smooth palm of a pretty girl, even if she worked for the enemy.
    “‘Solid’ is a guy who offered his seat, bought me a drink, and doesn’t flirt with married women.” Slipping out of his touch, she searched his face, no doubt comparing the real thing to the pictures in her file. He hadn’t shaved in a week and had let his hair grow since he’d known he’d be getting out of Allenwood, but surely they knew that.
    “So, what about you?” she asked, her voice just the right amount of tentative and hopeful. “Are you…unattached?”
    “I’m a free man,” he said, for the benefit of any bastards listening who would like to change that status. He might be out of prison and not even on house arrest, like he thought he’d be, but he’d never be free . Never. He’d be hunted and watched and followed and pestered until they got what they thought he was hiding. And if they couldn’t, then they’d be happy to dream up a way to put his ass back in the slammer, just for spite.
    They stared at each other for a few seconds, and this time neither looked away. “And you’re from Texas,” she said. At his raised eyebrows, she laughed. “Very subtle, but I hear…Houston?”
    You should know, honey . “Dallas. And San Antonio. And…” Where the hell had he lived after that? Some trailer park in some dump. “Yeah, around Texas.”
    “What do you do?”
    Time. He did lots and lots of time for crime. He stalled with a long, slow sip of beer. “I’m between jobs now.”
    “Ahh.” She gave a knowing nod.
    “What about you?” he asked.
    “I’m in, uh, well, I guess the best way to describe it is computer research.”
    He almost laughed out loud. Is that what the kids were calling spy work today? “You must be smart,” he said, adding a smile for the sheer pleasure of getting one back.
    “Well, I work for my family, so I get away with a lot.”
    Family. How sweet. He gulped some beer.
    “Are you looking for work in Florida?” she asked.
    This was getting tiresome. Not looking at this lovely woman—he actually could do that for hours. But the volley of lies was wearing him down. He wasn’t going to lose her now, that much was certain. She’d end up next to him on the flight, then follow him after they landed. He’d be wearing her.
    Which didn’t exactly suck. Because if she wasn’t one of them, this wouldn’t end here. Not a chance. And that wasn’t just his poor, lonely, unloved, semi-hard-twenty-three-hours-a-day dick talking. That was just him, starved for an easy smile, a quick wit, and that sweet something in her eyes that made him think of…hope.
    He shifted in his seat, mentally repacking the ice that had slipped from his heart. Well, hell . Maybe he’d underestimated this woman’s talent in the field.
    He leaned much closer and ran a light finger over her knuckles, daring himself not to react to the feel of her. He lost that dare. “I’m boring, Francesca. Let’s talk about you.”
    She let her gaze drop to where he touched her hand. “No one calls me Francesca.”
    ’Cause it’s not your name. And he couldn’t forget that. “It suits you. It’s a graceful name, with depth and class. It’s sexy.”
    She frowned as if she wasn’t buying it. “It’s old school and sounds like I should be kneading pizza dough in an apron.”
    “You’d look hot in an