Barefoot by the Sea

Chapter Six

Of course it was the best flipping soup she’d ever tasted in her life.

But the creamy, dreamy liquid caught in Tessa’s bone-dry, tightly closed, very painful throat, making swallowing nearly impossible. Okay, the “interview as a way to dig for personal information” was a cheesy technique, but what was he hiding? And she’d been unnecessarily snippy, but that happened when someone was so abrasive.

With a little tremble in her hand, she scooped up another spoonful of soup, letting the delicious flavors of avocado and lemon linger on her tongue. If Lacey tasted this soup she wouldn’t care if he was hiding the Holy Grail. She’d hire him in a heartbeat.

“Did he bolt?” Marcus asked, nearly launching himself next to her the minute John was out the door.

“He really couldn’t answer the most basic questions,” she said.

Marcus grabbed another spoon and practically stabbed the soup, slurping some noisily, then grunting with pleasure. “But he killed the most basic of soups. Shit, that’s good.”

“He’s not right for the job,” she said, as much to convince herself as Marcus. “We can’t count on a guy like that. In fact, I think we dodged a bullet.”

Marcus took some more soup. “No kidding. What the hell kind of loser has a bug on his neck? What was that, anyway?”

“A scorpion.”

Marcus lifted his eyebrows as he sucked in another mouthful. “Dude’s inked up pretty good.”

“I saw the thorns on his arm and that swirly black thing down to his hand and God knows what else on the rest of him.” Well, God might know, but Tessa wasn’t going to find out because she was too smart and mature and together to look twice at an evasive, deceitful, tattoo-covered—

“Damn.” Marcus thumped his chest on the next swallow. “I don’t suppose you caught the recipe before he left.”

“Nothing special. Avocado, lemon, dry vermouth.”

Marcus grabbed the bottle of booze. “Who would have thought of—” He caught himself. “Hell, yeah. Who can’t make soup?”

“Exactly. We’re really better off without him.” And his secrets.

“We sure are,” Marcus agreed. “You think Mrs. Walker’ll give me the job?”

She could encourage that thinking and then he’d support her position that they were lucky to lose this chef, but she knew better. “You know you need more time.”

He exhaled softly. “She hates me because I’m a dropout.”

“She does not,” Tessa assured him. “She wouldn’t let you work here if she had an issue with you not finishing school.” She didn’t mention that the chef who’d just left was a dropout, or so he said. Who could believe anything that came out of that sexy-as-sin mouth?

“Why’d he blow out, anyway?” Marcus asked.

“I don’t know,” she said vaguely.

Marcus gave her a slow smile. “I know why he left, Ms. G.”

“Why?”

“He couldn’t take the heat in the kitchen.” His grin widened. “Sparks were flying even though there wasn’t a flame, if you know what I mean.”

Was it that obvious? “You were in the dining room, Marcus.”

“Actually, I was around the corner.” He tipped his head toward the back pantry. “You were so busy jonesing for his life story that you didn’t even hear me come back in.”

Oh, Lord. Yes, it was really better John Brown was gone. “Then you heard him dance around anything personal. Fact is, we don’t need someone working here who can’t be honest about the simplest things.”

Marcus looked down, concentrating on the soup. “What are you going to tell Mrs. Walker?”

“The truth,” she said quickly. “I’ll go find her now and tell her we ferreted out a phony.”

Outside, Tessa took a minute to regroup and look around for any sign of John Brown. But there was none, giving her heart an unwanted dip. There were a few more people on the beach and a woman sitting in the chaise right where the shell had been.

Still, Tessa took a few steps closer, just to check. But there was no shell.

“Hey, where’s lover boy?”

She pivoted at the sound of Zoe’s voice, her disappointment at losing the shell mixing with a splash of irritation. “Don’t call him that,” she said, walking away from the shore to reach Zoe. “And the fact is, he’s gone. Out of the running, and we should all be glad for that.”

“Why? Lacey said he really knew what he was doing in the kitchen. What did he make?”

He made me crazy. “Some kind of green soup. Not that great.”

Zoe flipped a stray curl over her shoulder. “You’re such a craptastic liar.”

“I’m not…”

Zoe gave her an elbow. “I came through the kitchen and talked to Marcus. He was inhaling what was left of chilled avocado with caviar and vermouth. Or, as some call it, green soup. But between spoonfuls, Marcus told me you two basically started a kitchen fire.”

“Marcus has a colorful imagination. Fact is, I asked Mr. Brown a lot of questions that he evaded and avoided and twisted and refused to answer.”

“Bet you loved that, Queen of the Secret Haters.”

“Precisely. I can’t work with someone who isn’t honest or hides his past.” Tessa brushed her hands as if she were ridding herself of the pesky, lying chef.

“Maybe he didn’t want to get personal in his interview. That’s understandable.”

Not to her. “Either way, he bolted mid-interview. He’s gone and that’s good.”

The low hum of the electric golf cart stole their attention, the sight of Lacey at the wheel talking animatedly to three women passengers bringing their conversation to a halt.

“Who’s that?” Zoe asked.

“Must be the group booking she went to talk to.” Tessa started to walk away, but Lacey slowed the golf cart and waved wildly.

“Hey, you guys, come here for a second.”

Zoe eyed Tessa. “Lucky you. A governor’s reprieve.”

Not much of one. “I have to tell her sometime.”

“Not now,” Zoe said through a smile, waving back at Lacey. “She probably wants us to impress the potential guests.”

Tessa glanced at the three young women chatting animatedly in the golf cart.

“You are not going to believe who’s here!” Lacey’s voice was unnaturally bright, a forced enthusiasm edged with high-strung nerves. “The AABC board members!”

Tessa slowed her step as one crisis melted into a new one. The American Association of Bridal Consultants represented possibly the most important group booking they’d ever had. Except they weren’t due here until July, eight months from now.

Lacey scrambled out of the golf cart, turning so the three women passengers couldn’t see her face but Jocelyn and Tessa could. Her eyes were wide, her jaw open, and her whole expression screamed for help.

Then she gestured for Tessa and Zoe to come closer and the women to climb out of the golf cart. “Ladies, I want you to meet two of my partners and closest friends, Tessa Galloway and Zoe Tamarin.”

They were younger than Tessa had imagined, a blonde, a brunette, and a…pink? The blonde in the middle led them forward, hand extended to Tessa. “Hello, I’m Willow Ambrose, president of the board of directors for the American Association of Bridal Consultants.”

Tessa took her hand and accepted the powerful handshake that screamed a Type-A alert, the woman’s demeanor reminding her very much of her mother when she was in all-business mode. “Hello, Willow.”

“This is our VP, Gussie McBain.”

Pink Hair gave a sly grin and a wink. “Place rocks. We’re already in love.”

“And Arielle Chandler, the AABC treasurer.”

“Sorry for the unexpected arrival,” she said as they shook hands.

“Do not apologize,” Lacey exclaimed. “We’re delighted to show you around.”

“Absolutely,” Zoe agreed. “We didn’t think you were coming until this summer.”

Willow brushed back some hair. “We didn’t think so, either, but we’ve had a significant change in our schedule, one you might love…”

“Or hate,” Gussie offered.

“What is it?” Lacey asked after a second of dramatic silence.

“Well, as you know, part of our role as the board members for the organization is to visit destination-wedding resorts and make recommendations to our members.”

“That’s why you’re coming this summer, right?” Tessa asked, already sensing that the answer wasn’t going to be what they expected.

“Change of plans,” Gussie said, fluttering what had to be a set of false eyelashes, which somehow looked incredibly natural on her pixie-like features. “One of the contenders in the small-resort category fell through.”

“And our annual meeting is in January,” Willow added. “That’s when we present our top recommendations to two thousand wedding consultants from all around the world.”

“And…” Lacey prompted, although they all kind of knew what was coming.

“And we need a replacement. Fast.”

Another beat of silence, this one even longer than the first, making the wedding planners laugh.

“Look, we know this is short notice and that this resort is still in soft opening,” Willow said. “So we’ll cut you some slack in our review, but the annual recs are one of the most important things board members do. Is there any chance we can move our preview up from July to—”

“Yes,” Lacey said, making them laugh.

“—two weeks from now?”

“Yikes,” Zoe said.

Willow nodded with understanding. “I know that’s an impossibly tight squeeze, and if you can’t do it, we are headed over to a place in Naples—”

“We can do it,” Lacey assured her, looking at Tessa for confirmation.

“I don’t see why not,” Tessa said. Except she did see exactly why not. They had no chef.

“You have vacancies?” Willow asked.

“In two weeks we can put you in Bay Laurel,” Lacey confirmed. “It’s our most spacious villa, with room for the three of you. I’ll have Jocelyn, our spa manager, clear spots for every treatment and amenity.”

“Don’t forget your hot-air-balloon ride.” Zoe pointed to the sky. “That’s the best part of a Barefoot Bay wedding.”

Gussie grinned, her bright-red lipstick contrasting perfectly with pale skin. “A Barefoot Bride! What an awesome marketing concept. I can think of three clients right now who would jump all over the idea of getting married barefoot in the sand.”

“That’s exactly how I got married,” Lacey said with a smile.

“We’re volunteers on the board for this calendar year,” Willow told them. “But we each have our own wedding-consulting businesses. And, honestly, we’ve sent quite a few brides to the places we’ve visited this year, for wedding packages and honeymoons. But the top three contenders in each size category get the AABC seal of approval, and those resorts are booked for years.”

They knew that was no understatement. Getting picked as an AABC rec would wipe away all the damage of that nasty review and open more doors than all of Lacey’s marketing efforts combined.

“You most certainly can count on coming for the official visit in two weeks. Whatever it takes, ladies.” Lacey was practically drooling as she made the offer.

But all Tessa could think was We have no chef. Because she’d just grilled him right out the door.

“Let’s finish the quick tour,” Lacey said, waving the women back into the golf cart.

As they climbed back up on the electric cart, Lacey came around to whisper to Tessa, “Did you make him an offer yet?”

She didn’t have the nerve to break the news to Lacey, especially not with the AABC reps so close. “Um, not yet,” she said. “I’m going to call his references.”

“Seal the deal,” Lacey insisted as she slid behind the wheel.

As the cart rolled down the path, their happy voices trailing, Tessa stood stone still, the sun pounding down with almost as much force as Zoe’s gaze.

“What?” Tessa barked at Zoe.

“Calling his references, are you?”

“Yes, I am. And no doubt I’ll find out he’s a liar who will rob us blind and can’t cook his way out of a paper bag because he’s a serial killer.”

Zoe burst out laughing. “You better hope so, hon, because otherwise your determination to ferret out everyone’s truth cost us a perfectly good chef when we couldn’t possibly need one more.”

“Well, if not, then…I’ll get him to come back.” Even though she had absolutely no idea how she’d do that. “I’m sure his number is on the resume in the kitchen.”

“Hope he knows how to fix a crow pot pie,” Zoe said, fluffing her hair with a laugh. “’Cause you are going to be eating some when you make that call.”

“I hope I have the chance,” Tessa admitted glumly. “It seems all I can do with that man is make him run away.”

Ian floored the bike over the causeway, not bothering with his helmet but letting the warm wind slap his face and whip his hair. He had to work, had to show some stability, had to do something with his miserable life besides run and hide and lie and wait.

It was all so completely counter to the man he used to be—the man he still was under this pumped-up, inked-out, anger-fueled body. Ian Browning didn’t run from anyone, he never hid from a problem, he’d despised lying, and “wait” wasn’t in his overachiever’s dictionary. Now those words defined his entire world. He knew that like he knew his name.

The thought almost pulled a sharp laugh from his belly because half the time he couldn’t remember his damn name. He’d wake up, sweating, hurting, sick throughout his body, with memories of Kate and the kids and the smell in the air when he’d gotten out of the tube that afternoon.

He could still see Luther Vane’s eyes when they’d bumped into each other on the street, Ian still clueless about what the man had done. And then he remembered walking into the flat, dropping his suit jacket and briefcase, calling his wife’s name, listening for the still unfamiliar sound of an infant’s cry, and…

The thought made him swerve into the next lane, earning a loud horn blast from a pissed-off truck driver. He ignored the urge to lift his middle finger and instead glanced to his right, the navy water of some Florida river about fifty feet below, nothing but a slim guardrail between him and blissful relief. His arms tingled on the handlebars, his right arm aching with the very idea of whipping that wheel to the side to sail right over that railing, down, down, down to end it all.

He opened his mouth and let out a low, long howl, catching air and dirt in his teeth, trying to release some of the agony in his chest.

Why did this hurt so much today?

Because of that woman. That sweet, warm, pretty, innocent, anxious, tentative, sexy woman who pressed every button he had and held them down until he wanted to scream.

She didn’t look a thing like his honey-haired Kate, didn’t have any similar characteristics—on the surface—that should ignite this old pain. But there was something.

Something that made him want to be honest. And that could be the last moment of security he ever knew. What was wrong with him? Fuck that job and forget that woman. Both of them were way too dangerous for him.

He flew down the other side of the arched bridge, heading into the congested traffic of a much more populated beach town than the one he’d just left. Maybe he should have put his helmet on. Especially in a place where there could be British tourists. Sure, he looked different from when he was Ian Browning, successful investment banker at Barclays, happy, decent, and normal. He was no longer the clean-cut, lanky businessman in suits and ties, but had his canvas of tattoos and shoulder-length hair changed him enough?

What if someone with a keen eye spotted him, and remembered the press coverage of the young woman stabbed alongside her brother with the babies left in their cribs until their daddy came home? The story had been well covered by the press, and he’d been front-page news during the trial.

Then the threats got worse and the N1L gang members closed in on him, killers with no regard for their own lives or anyone else’s, not when they were hell-bent on vengeance. Ian Browning had to disappear, but not with his babies. They couldn’t be together while the gang was still on the streets. A man with twin babies was too easy to find, so the kids had gone to Canada and he’d gone—to hell.

If he ever wanted to see his children again, if there was any hope of a life even remotely resembling normal, Ian had to do a few very specific things: He had to lie and he had to hide and he had to wait for British law enforcement to do their job. But he also had to work.

A childhood in Surrey along with schooling at the Royal Guildford and Cambridge had prepared him to do little in the “real” world, but his first three years under government protection had landed him in and out of restaurants in Singapore. Mostly out, thanks to his refusal to play nice. But at least he’d learned to cook.

And what had he done now that he had the possibility of a decent job in a perfect off-the-beaten-path place? This time he hadn’t gotten into a drag-out with a douche bag. No, he got lost in a woman’s eyes and wanted to tell her the truth. What a fucking idiot he was.

She was only trying to find out if he was available.

Well, he wasn’t available. Not for her.

He’d work somewhere else, that’s all. The Protected Persons rules—even tighter now that he’d blown one identity in Singapore and had to be given a new one—said lie, hide, work, and stay the hell out of trouble. No fistfights, no bar brawls, no intimate conversations with pretty gardeners who wanted a normal life.

Henry Brooker’s job was to enforce those rules, and keep Ian posted on the progress toward shutting down the gang in London. Henry didn’t say he had to work in a high-end resort that needed his culinary skills. Hell, Ian could work at McDonald’s if he had to.

At the thought, he caught a glimpse of golden arches and took the next turn into the parking lot, pulling the bike over and shutting it down, but his body still vibrated. He still hummed and buzzed and—

No, that was his phone—the phone that only Henry could call, making Ian practically dive to answer. Maybe this time. Maybe this call. He tapped the screen and answered with his usual, “Yeah?” Sometimes he didn’t say anything; after all, they were the only two people who ever communicated on this line.

“You in Morocco, mate?” Henry Brooker’s thick Yorkshire accent always set Ian on edge and made him brace for the frustration of no news.

“Not even close,” Ian said. “Why?”

“Someone called the line we have set up for your messages. She said she was from Casablanca.”

“Different Casa Blanca, and I’m not going to work there.”

“So you have another job, then?”

“Not yet.” He eyed the line of cars moving slowly into the drive-through. “But I’m about to.” You want fries with that?

“She called all the references we arranged.”

After his rude exit, the fact that Tessa had gone ahead and called the professional liars who gave him glowing recommendations sent a thud of shame through him. “I’ll find something else,” he said. “That’s not the job for me.”

“Don’t be picky, mate. You’d better find a job, and bloody fast.” Something in Henry’s voice made Ian straighten up and take notice. Something he’d rarely heard from his liaison. Optimism.

“I’m working on it,” he said.

Henry cleared his throat. “Get a good job and, for fuck’s sake, don’t punch out a customer who doesn’t like your coconut balls.”

He looked skyward. “Crab balls, and he was a dickhead looking for trouble.”

“You attract dickheads like that and it isn’t the kind of track record government agencies like to see when they release children back into the care of an itinerant short-order cook.”

He eyed the golden arches again. “I’m not an itinerant short-order cook.” Yet.

“You have to have a solid job,” Henry said, the emphasis strong.

A slow cascade of something like adrenaline and terror and all kinds of possibilities rolled through Ian’s whole body, head to toe, leaving him so weak he actually closed his free hand over the rubberized handlebar of his bike for stability.

“Why?”

After a long beat, Henry said, “We’re getting close.”

Close. Frustration zinged him at the word. How close? Close to what? He bit back the fury, accepting that he had no control over the situation, no way to clear out the N1L gang members who wanted him dead, no way to live safely with his children. And no way to make those who did have the power move fast enough so some arbitrary, inane rule that said he couldn’t have the children back after they turned four closed in and ended all hope.

“Close to what?” he asked Henry as calmly as he could.

“Just…close.”

“Henry!”

“Listen, I know how you feel.”

“Like hell you do,” Ian growled. “I’d kill someone to get them back.”

“Well, don’t,” Henry deadpanned. “That’ll just make this more impossible. Just trust me—”

“I’m sick of trusting you!” He kicked a stone under his boot, hearing the dead silence on the other end. “Sorry, listen, I just…I hate not being able to do anything. Watching that calendar move closer and closer to the cutoff and waiting for you to call and say I’m free to get them is killing me. I am…completely powerless.”

“You’re not. You can do something so that when we get those guys—and we will, Ian—you are in a position to reclaim the children from their protective custody in Canada.”

“Anything,” he said honestly. “I’ll do anything.”

“Start with getting your shit together, mate. That means—”

“A job.” He’d dive into that McDonald’s in five minutes and have a job. “I can do that.”

“More than a job; you need stability.” Henry’s voice was rich with implication, but Ian would be damned if he understood.

“More stable than a job? What? Management?”

Henry snorted softly. “Sta-bil-i-ty,” he repeated, dragging the word out. “The kind that says your life is together. John Brown needs to be completely on track.”

“What exactly does that mean, Henry?”

Henry sighed, a sound that was out of character and not exactly promising.

“What?” Ian demanded. What did he have to do to get his kids?

“You have a little time,” Henry said vaguely. “Obviously, we can’t make any move on the Canadians for release until we’ve got every single member of N1L behind bars. So you actually have some time to do this.”

“To do what?” What was Henry getting at? Was he about to hand out yet another identity and new place to live? Fine, whatever. As long as Ian could live on the mere possibility of getting his children back.

“Look, I had a conversation with my counterpart in Canada yesterday to discuss how we get the wheels rolling should we clear out the streets of Brixton.”

They’d better clear, and the wheels better roll. The minute that gang was off the streets and it was safe, Ian wanted his kids back.

“The review board has had a change of personnel and they’re more strict than ever.”

What the fuck did that mean? More asinine rules about a man and his own offspring? He bit back his anger, as if that proved he was capable of control.

“The new board is insisting that you prove your life is together, professionally and personally, before they give you back the kids.”

How together could he be in these circumstances? “Henry, what the hell do I need to do?”

“Get married.”

He froze, blinked into the phone, and almost laughed. “What?”

“You need to get married. At least on paper. They’re going to want proof that you aren’t a single parent.”

He coughed in disbelief, turning in a circle like he could possibly find someone to share how ludicrous this was. “I need a wife?”

“You need proof that you have one. She doesn’t actually have to appear in the hearing, just sign a piece of paper.”

“There’s a hearing?”

“There could be. There is a process, Ian, like any government red-tape-ridden system. I can help you through the process and we can do an awful lot in the background like, say, annul a marriage that’s real on paper only. But you need to produce that paper.”

“You make it sound simple to get someone to sign a marriage certificate.”

“With your charm?”

Yeah, he was swimming in that today.

“Can’t you guys doctor one up?” The magic they’d performed with instant legit and totally fake identification when Sean Bern “died” and John Brown, American drifter and chef, was born, had amazed him. Surely they could stamp out a marriage license and a fake signature.

“Actually, we can’t. Because it involves a real person—”

“I have to marry a real person?” A man passing by threw a quick, dark look and Ian almost kicked himself, turning away and lowering his voice. “How the hell do I do that?”

“Carefully,” Henry said. “Because it cannot—and I mean cannot—involve bringing another individual into the circle.”

The circle was Henry’s way of referencing the few—two or three—people who knew the truth about Ian and Sean and John and whoever the hell he’d be next.

“So I have to marry someone who doesn’t know who I really am?”

“Correct.”

“How do I do that?”

“Use your imagination. Make an arrangement, make something up. She never has to meet the kids. Can’t you scare up a woman down there?”

A slow, burning pain rolled around the pit of his stomach. “And fool her into marrying me?”

“At least into signing the papers.”

“And then annulling it?”

“Of course. After you’re married, you disappear to Canada, give her the impression there’s someone else, and once you’re down under with your family—I’m thinking New Zealand is a good, out-of-the-way place—then we’ll handle the annulment paperwork because you’ll be out of the picture by then.”

Holy, holy shit. “Pretty skeevy, if you ask me.”

“Skeevy? I don’t know what that means, mate, but maybe you don’t understand me.”

“I do. You want me to lie to someone and—”

“Bloody hell, listen to me!” He could practically hear Henry’s teeth grinding together as he hissed through them. “Ian Browning is dead. Your primary Protected Persons identity, Sean Bern, is dead.”

“I know that.”

“If you ever whisper to a living soul that you are still alive, mate, and it gets back to that gang, you might as well put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Even if you get Shiloh and Sam back—”

“When,” Ian corrected.

“—their real father is dead. Even if we wipe the N1L off the face of the earth, you are never safe if you tell another person the truth. Ian, you live with this lie or you die.”

For a moment, the line was silent, the words bouncing around Ian’s head.

“Did you hear me?”

He didn’t answer, assuming the question was rhetorical.

“Did you fucking hear me?” he insisted.

“Yes.” Lie or die. “I heard you.”

“Good.” Henry’s voice dropped to its normal octave. “So, you hit on anyone lately who might make an easy mark?”

Two women crossed the McDonald’s parking lot, one not more than twenty-two, laughing as she gave him a glance, slowed her step, held eye contact, and flipped dark hair over her shoulder.

That was an easy mark. But…

He closed his eyes and saw Tessa. And that burn in his stomach rose and fell, a cocktail of guilt and desire. He could never hoodwink her like that, could he?

“How long do I have?”

“We’re not sure. I know there are two UCs who’ve infiltrated the gang, but you know that can take a long time to work. My connection in Scotland Yard says soon. So get a move on someone, fast. And, for God’s sake, don’t fuck this up.”

“I’ll be fine.” But would the woman be…fine? Or would he be sacrificing her happiness for his?

“By the way,” Henry said, “they started preschool.”

He winced, the words like a steel fist in his gut. “Pardon me?”

“Shiloh and Sam. They’ve started a nursery school program. Just a few mornings a week, to learn their letters and such.”

He muttered a curse, buckled by the news. He should be teaching them to read. He should be dropping them at preschool, packing their lunches, kissing their cheeks. He should. He was their father, they were his family.

“Ian?”

He couldn’t even swallow past the lump in his throat, let alone answer.

“Do what you have to do, mate,” Henry said. “The end of all this could be near.”

Nodding in silence at the instructions, he got off the phone and stood for a moment in the burning midday sun. He needed a job and a wife—fortunately he knew how he could kill two birds with one stone.

He only hoped there wasn’t too much collateral damage in the process.