Barefoot by the Sea

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.

Chapter Seven

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.