Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(17)

“With the nanny.”

She tossed a look over her shoulder. “That’s in the job description?”

Hell, yes. “It’s on the negotiating table.” He gave a rueful smile, joining her so they both stood in the doorway. He was close enough to her that he could see each individual eyelash tipped in gold as she narrowed her eyes at him.

“What do you think of the villa, Dr. Bradbury?”

“I like the tour guide.” He leaned an inch closer, backing her against the wood frame of the door.

They did it against a door once.

He kicked the thought away, stuffing his hands into his pockets again, which seemed to be the only way to avoid temptation with her.

A kiss. That was all he wanted. One kiss. One long, wet, hot kiss to ease the ache that had already started low in his gut. Way low. Everything in him wanted to touch her, to remember the silky feel of her skin, the pressure of her mouth, the warmth of her tongue.

That very tongue darted to wet her lips, her eyes locked on his, the message in them so, so clear.

Kiss me, Oliver.

His reply was silent, too. Just a whisper of warm breath into her mouth that almost instantly became more. A warm, tentative, spark of a kiss that tightened every muscle in his body and did the opposite to his common sense.

She didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, as only their lips touched.

Slowly, he deepened the kiss, opening his mouth, darting his tongue over her teeth. Their mouths melded as one, and against every will he dragged his hands out of his pockets to cup her jaw and hold her pretty face in his palms.

“Do you interview all the sitters like this?” she murmured into the kiss.

“Just the mouthy ones. Do you give all the renters tongue?”

“Just the hot ones.”

He pressed his body against hers, his cock growing against her belly, eliciting a tiny whimper that caught in her throat.

“Oliver.”

He kissed her cheek, her ear. “Mmm?”

“You know where this is headed, don’t you?”

“We’re in the master bedroom, so I hope not far.”

Breaking away from the kiss, she slipped from his touch, out to the patio, pulling him with her. Sunshine through palm fronds dappled her in splashes of light, her eyes dancing with a tease. “As if I’d be such a cliché and fall into bed with you, Oliver.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“There’s a pool.” In a flash of snow-white gauze and lime-green silk and golden-brown skin, she yanked the dress over her head, tossed it in the air, and vaulted into the pool, splashing water all over him.





Once, about eight years ago, Pasha saw a moonbow.

Funny, she could remember the glimmer in the Colorado night sky even right now, bathed in the midday sunshine instead of nighttime shadows. The moonbow had been so rare and wondrous, with a hint of red and orange fading into a strip that looked so yellow it was white, then deep azure blues.

But it was more than a stunning vision in the mountains that stayed imprinted on Pasha’s heart. The moonbow had been a clear message from Mother Nature: True love—the kind that happens once if you’re lucky—would return.

But not, she knew that night, to Pasha. Her true love would never be back. So that moonbow was a sign not for her, but for Zoe.

That knowledge had always weighed heavy on her heart, but today it actually hurt her chest. Zoe’s true love had returned…like the moonbow had predicted.

She’d always known that Oliver Bradbury would someday return to Zoe. At least that was how she’d rationalized the decision to let Zoe leave Chicago when Pasha knew it was time to pack and run. That had been the time they should have ended their run together. Pasha had offered! Maybe she hadn’t insisted, but she’d have survived. Pasha had told Zoe she could stay in Chicago with Oliver.

But Zoe had chosen to go with Pasha.

And then Pasha saw the moonbow and knew that someday, somehow, Oliver would return to Zoe. Or maybe she hoped that he would, in order to assuage some of her guilt.

Oh, she hadn’t told her darling Zoe, of course, who would scoff and say he was not her true love, something she claimed not to believe in anyway. But it wasn’t that Zoe didn’t believe in love. She’d just never experienced it, not even from the sidelines, like most children.

Pasha always hoped and prayed to every power in the universe that when Oliver returned, Zoe and Pasha would no longer be in hiding. That Pasha would no longer be running from the long hand that cast a shadow over her life.

But that wasn’t the case, was it? That hand still held the power, and Pasha still spent her life paralyzed by fear.

The last thought made her eyes sting a little and put more pressure on her chest than the evil thing that was growing in there. No one knew what caused this sickness. Maybe it was all the fear and knowledge and guilt and remorse and indecision of her pathetic life rolled into a black ball that grew into cancer.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the rocker headrest. Fact was, the longer she lived, the less chance at happiness Zoe had.

Pasha owed her that chance.

Pasha had only two choices: die or disappear. One she couldn’t control and the other she wasn’t sure she could pull off anymore. Pushing herself to her feet, she walked to the kitchen door, already overcome by the heat. And the truth.

Death was so permanent. Who knew that better than Pasha?

An old ache burned in her belly. That pain never disappeared. No matter what she did to replace it—run, hide, fill her heart with a child who wasn’t even hers—the hole inside was always there, always black, always empty.

Exhausted, she walked into the tiny bedroom that had become her home for the time being, drawing the shades against the blazing sun. Zoe wouldn’t be happy if she came home right now and found Pasha traipsing around instead of taking her afternoon nap.

But what if Zoe came home and Pasha was gone? Gone, one way or another?

Sliding out of her shoes, she dropped onto the bed, her gnarled fingers playing with a thread of the silky comforter. Did she have it in her? Could she do that? The thought of leaving Zoe was unbearable. But the thought of Zoe not having her chance at true love was unbearable, too.

And there was the most unbearable thought of all, the threat she’d run from all these years.

Her chest throbbed, and not like her heart was dancing with hope or fear. More like something was growing.

Because something was growing—and not only that hated tumor.

Hope was growing, too. Hope that nature would do her job and destroy this body so Zoe could have a proper life and a real home. She wished that there could be another way, less painful to both of them, but this was what the universe dictated.

Or she could run away until she died. Really, that was the only smart thing to do. She just had to figure out the perfect time, and then she could solve all their problems.





Chapter Six



Zoe stayed under water long enough to ice down her burning skin and corral her crazy thoughts and…

Come on, be honest.

Long enough to give Oliver a chance to strip and swim.

For the love of everything that was hot or holy, Zoe was starved for this. Craving more kisses, more touching, more Oliver. She had to have him. Had to.

When her lungs nearly burst, she popped up to see him sitting on the side of the pool, pants rolled to the knee, feet in the water.

She had to laugh at her dumb fantasies and his blasted self-control. “That’s it? That’s as reckless as you get, doc?”

He leaned back on his hands, watching her. “This is what you do.”

Everything, every single thing, about that statement pissed her off, cooling her more than the water. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you do this.” He gestured toward the pool.

“Swim?”

“As soon as things get messy, you do something impetuous and wild. You can’t be trusted.”

Damn him. She dunked herself, coming up to spit water in a perfect arc. “Since when is making out in a doorway messy?”

“Since you realized how much you wanted to make out in that doorway. Why jump in the water? Why not stand still and—”

“I can’t stand still. Don’t try and make me.” She punctuated the admission with another dive, sliding down to touch the bottom. She blew some air and kicked back to the surface.

“Why can’t you stand still, Zoe?”

She shrugged. “You know my history. Constant movement has been ingrained in me.”

“You call it constant movement. I call it trying to catch liquid mercury with your bare hands.”

“You’re not trying to catch anything or you’d be in here.” She slipped under the water, ready to count to thirty before she shot up again.

At fourteen, a splash rocked the whole pool, kicking her heart into high gear. He grabbed her from behind, the power of his arms so shocking that she sucked in water.