Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(34)

She had a fever.

The kind that made her eyeballs ache and her arms numb.

She turned again to place the cool cotton pillowcase against her inflamed cheek, but almost instantly the material was as warm as she was.

At least Pasha hadn’t lied to Zoe. Not tonight, anyway. She really did feel so punk that she’d had to rest all afternoon and into the evening. She really had felt the urge to nod off every time Zoe tried to have a conversation with her—as if she hadn’t known where that was going—and she really had been too tired to sit at the table and eat dinner.

And as the evening wore on, Pasha felt worse, trying harder to hide it with each of Zoe’s efforts to make things better. She’d come in and brought Pasha food, even put a little vase of flowers on the tray, but Pasha couldn’t eat.

Zoe had sat on the edge of the bed and tried again to explain about an experimental treatment that involved putting viruses in her body, making it sound like that was a good thing, but Pasha had nodded off.

And, even when Zoe had attempted small talk and asked Pasha questions about the little boy and how sweet he was, it had been nearly impossible to stay in that conversation. But Pasha had told Zoe how much she loved her. And that was the truth; the only thing that burned hotter in her cancer-filled chest than pain was her love for Zoe Tamarin.

Little Bridget, the desperate, terrified, talkative child who’d come into Pasha’s life when they were both at rock bottom, had given Pasha a reason to go on. Now that little girl was all grown up, and she deserved more than this. She deserved better than a life with Pasha.

She deserved him.

With each hour the fever got a little more intense, like it was burning the common sense right out of her. Because an idea had planted itself and it wouldn’t let go. If only she could have a sign so she could know if that idea was right or not.

She needed a sign.

She’d been waiting for one since Zoe had left, around ten o’clock. Maybe she’d gone to Lacey’s house, but Pasha would put her money on Zoe choosing a different soft place to fall tonight. Pasha knew exactly where that girl had gone. Right to his arms. Right to where she belonged.

It was quite possible she’d be gone all night.

Very slowly she pushed back the covers, sending a cascade of goose bumps over her exposed skin.

Time to get into action, Tricia.

It had been a while since she’d thought of herself as Tricia. Maybe that was the sign that it was time to go.

In her closet, she pulled out a small duffel bag that had never been unpacked. The essentials were always there: cash, toiletries, clothes. Lifting it was a challenge, despite how light it was, but she got it to the bed and looked around for what she should take with her.

She always left room in her panic bag for the most important things. A picture of Zoe. Her favorite earrings. Hair gel. Some aspirin and Tums. She stood in front of the bureau deciding what else to take, her gaze landing on the vase Zoe had brought in with Pasha’s dinner. The pink flower was unusual, more like a ball of fuschia-colored needles.

The mimosa flower, Zoe had said, the official flower of Mimosa Key.

She reached to touch the silky needles that stuck straight out like Pasha’s hair when she managed to get it perfect. As she brushed the bloom, her finger started to shake. With a sudden spasm, she toppled the vase, the water spilling, the flower fluttering to the ground.

She let out a cry, but that made her cough, then choke, igniting more fire in her windpipe and making her lungs feel like someone was pressing a steam iron on them.

The flower lay on the floor in a little mess, water dripping down the side of the bureau like tears. What was nature’s message in that mess? She dug through everything she knew, every possible interpretation.

Pink. Pink. Pink always represented innocence, youthfulness, the indefatigable spirit of a child.

Who had that more than Zoe? And a river of water, always leading toward something better. Eternity for Pasha, but for Zoe—happiness. Maybe that was a stretch, but her head was throbbing and her body felt like it burned at a thousand degrees.

That sign would have to do. She turned to the bag and mentally went through her list of things she couldn’t live without. She had it all, didn’t she?

Zoe would be heartbroken.

The reality of that hit her harder than the fever. Like so many things she’d done in her life, this was selfish, the act of a coward. How could she let Zoe know that? How could she be certain that Zoe wouldn’t mourn her?

And then she knew the answer.

She crouched down to dig into her bottom drawer, feeling around for the edge of the envelope, the paper soft and familiar and worn. Without even looking at it, she placed the envelope on the edge of the dresser.

That would do the trick. When Zoe read that, she’d understand why she deserved someone better than Pasha.

Prickles of heat stung at Pasha’s neck, the inside kind, like the hot flashes she used to get in her fifties. But this wasn’t a hot flash; this was the sickness inside her screaming to get out. Somehow she found the strength to slip into loose pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and sneakers. Running clothes, Zoe would call them.

Running-away clothes.

Please understand, Zoe darling. Please. This is for you. So you can have the life—and love—that you deserve.

The house was quiet as she walked through, letting herself out the front door into the moonlight.

She started walking, following the path out of Casa Blanca, finding her way to the beach road. It had rained earlier, before Zoe had gone out, one of the flash showers that came through Florida and washed everything for ten minutes, then disappeared.

Was this the right thing to do? Had she gotten the right signs? She lifted her gaze from the ground, where she had been watching her every step, then looked up at the night sky.

“Oh my word,” she whispered, bringing herself to a complete stop. “A moonbow!”

A hint of red and orange fading into a band of soft yellow, then deep azure blues, all curved around a three-quarter moon.

The sign that true love would return.

Pasha shivered, the fever pounding at her head, the pain screaming in her chest, the pressure of every decision hammering her into a quivering mess. It didn’t matter. She had to go. She had to run. Just like she had ever since the day she’d heard that word: mistrial.

She’d been on the run for forty-seven years. What was a few more weeks until she died?





The scotch tasted a hell of a lot better on Oliver’s tongue than it would have in the glass. Smoky and fierce, a fiery flavor that was exactly as he described it: manly. So were his hands, strong and secure, holding her exactly where he wanted her for this kiss.

Drunk on the release of pent-up emotions and ancient history, and maybe a wee buzzed from the vodka, Zoe sank into Oliver, lifting her legs from the water to hang them over his lap and curl deeper into the warm, familiar pleasure of his kiss.

The voice in her head was blessedly quiet, and all she could hear was his soft breathing, the rustle of clothes, the gentle moan in his throat as he intensified their kiss.

He knew everything now. And still he kissed her with something that felt so tender and precious…and sexy. The thought was as potent as a whole bottle of vodka, heating her blood, squeezing her lungs, and fluttering a ribbon of white-hot lust right through the middle of her body.

“Now this,” she whispered into his mouth, “is why I came over here.”

He broke the kiss, frowning. “Really?”

“Booty call, totally,” she told him. “I told you I’m naked under this dress.”

“I did notice a distinct lack of undergarments when you, uh, flew in.”

“What do you think?”

“Who can think when Zoe, naked, and booty call are all in the same sentence?”

She ran her hand along his thigh. “You’ve proven yourself a worthy opponent to my vibrator.”

“So, you want sex?”

She inched back, not quite sure how to take that. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away, and her heart dropped.

“Don’t you?” she prodded, a soft flush of embarrassment rising.

“You don’t want sex,” he said.

“My damp thighs beg to differ.”

His eyes flickered with interest at the thought. “That’s a physiological response.”

She choked softly. “Seriously, doc?”

“Zoe.” He stroked her cheek, way too gentle for the kind of stroking she had in mind. “You came here for an escape.”

“Maybe I did,” she replied, tamping down an irritation that didn’t mix well with arousal. “Sex can be a great escape. And it beats the hell out of disappearing. Again. Don’t you think?”

He finished the last of his scotch, his throat moving with the gulp.

“Oliver. You mean you’re saying no?”

“I’m…not…” He stood suddenly, leaving her cold and alone. “Not sure,” he finished. “I’ll be right back. You want a refill?”