Barefoot by the Sea (9 page)

“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.

Frustration and a silent phone sent Tessa to the storehouse to hitch up her tractor and start cutting the sweet potato vines. That crop was more than ready, and she couldn’t harvest the potatoes until she removed the thick tangle of greens over the beds.

The noise, sweat, and concentration would keep her from checking her phone. The same phone she rarely remembered to bring into the gardens, but, today, was tucked soundly in her pocket with the ringer on max.

Giving the shift a nudge to a higher gear, she rolled the tractor between rows of veggies, headed for one of the prettiest sections of her organic farmette. She’d started out with plans for a modest garden to grow some of the produce they’d use at the resort, but in the past two years, she’d steadily added crops and fruit trees, a huge variety of herbs and spices, and, of course, plenty of beans, greens, and the citrus that gave the whole acreage a sweet, tropical scent.

She hummed with the John Deere motor, trying to concentrate on the bursts of new life all around her, eyeing the first explosions of baby strawberries and the new fruit on all six avocado trees.

Of course, the thought of avocados made her check the phone.

Why wasn’t he at least returning her call? Ignoring her was plain rude. Kind of like walking out in the middle of the interview.

His references had been outstanding. Evidently, Chef Brown was talented, reliable, and dedicated. And single, which one previous employer happened to slip in sideways.

Single and sexy and…sneaky. Bad, bad combo.

But Casa Blanca needed a chef, so she’d have to live with that bad combo, at least for a few weeks. She could stand anything for a few weeks, right?

If only he’d call.

She gritted her teeth and climbed down from the tractor for a final pull on the hitch, taking off her work gloves to secure the middle-buster blades that handled the hardest portion of the work for her.

Why had John been so evasive about her questions, she wondered as she kneeled in the soft earth. Why not tell her all the great stuff his references had? Was she being paranoid, the victim of age-old secrets that shouldn’t hurt anymore, but did?

Her friends knew she hated when they kept things from her, but the true irony was that they didn’t know why. She’d always planned to tell them her one and only secret, but dreaded the way they’d react. She’d been so vocal about how frustrating their secrets were to her that revealing her own would only force her to eat crow. And every time she imagined the conversation, she couldn’t bear to actually have it.

Pushing up, she swiped her hands over her work shorts and, well, since she was so close to her pocket, what was the harm in checking? Just to see if she had signal strength out here.

“C’mon, Tess,” she mumbled as she pulled out the frustratingly silent phone. “You can’t
will
the guy to call.”

She should go admit to Lacey how bad the interview really was, though Marcus or some of the other staff probably had done that for her by now. No, she’d tell her tonight. Lacey had invited a few people to her house for a small celebration and mini planning session, so Tessa could tell her then that Chef Brown hadn’t called back to accept the offer.

And tomorrow, they could dig through the resumes they’d already rejected and find someone to get them through the next few weeks.

Satisfied with that, she climbed back onto the tractor seat, gave the shift a good yank, and balanced her feet on the pedals to keep it from stalling out. Right before she put on her work gloves, she stole one more peek at the phone. She might not have heard it over the tractor engine, she rationalized, and sometimes she didn’t feel the vibration.

Blank screen. No calls or texts.

“Don’t take it personally, Tess,” she murmured as she jammed the accelerator and rumbled onto the sweet potato bed.

Like there was any other way to take it.

Sweat dribbled down her back as the slender vines snapped away, the tractor loud enough that she barely heard a man’s voice calling over the noisy engine. When she did, she turned, and then sucked in a soft breath.

Oh.
Oh
.

Now, this…
this
she wanted to take personally.

For a long moment, she sat and stared. John crossed the garden with an easy, graceful gait, his golden-tipped hair blowing back to give full exposure to his chiseled face. A white collared shirt stretched across broad shoulders, and partially rolled-up sleeves exposed tanned forearms. The shirt was tucked into crisp khaki pants, making the whole look sharp and clean and handsome.

And really overdressed for the garden.

He stopped after a moment, still fifty feet away, but she could see he’d shaved—and as much as she liked his whiskery scruff, the clean look showcased the full lips and the hint of a very inviting smile.

Tessa completely forgot to breathe.

Oh, boy. If he had come to accept the job, she was in trouble. Big, big trouble. She couldn’t take this intensity for two minutes, let alone two weeks.

Finally, he lifted his hand, two fingers curled in the universal gesture for
Come here, woman
.

And, God help her, she turned off the ignition, climbed down from the tractor, and might have floated over vegetable beds to reach him, one coherent thought in her head: This was so much better than a phone call.

She refused to think about the fact that she was dressed in dirt and scented with sweat and he looked like a damn prince. What difference did it make how she looked, right?

“Tessa.”

He had the most imperceptible softness to his vowels, and the way he said her name was like pure sex.

She nodded in greeting. “I take it you got my message.” She hadn’t offered the job, but had only left a number.

He flicked his hands toward his clothes, as if that was enough of a reply. Did he feel like he had to impress her one last time? ’Cause it worked.

Bright blue eyes danced with a tease that really made it hard to think.

“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask.