Free Barefoot by the Sea by Roxanne St. Claire Page 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