Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(41)
“I will.” Relief poured through her as he stepped away. Then she felt a sudden burst of goodwill. “Oh, and—Deputy.” When he turned, she gave him a genuine smile. “Please tell Gloria thanks again for helping out when Pasha collapsed. It was so sweet of her.”
His shoulders slumped a little. “I would, but…” He blew out a breath and looked toward the store. “We’re not together right now.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that.”
He came right back to the car and she silently cursed herself for not letting him leave before Oliver came out and made a full confession. “Yeah, speaking of aunts,” he said with a thumb over her shoulder. “If there were an Olympic event for meddling, Charity’d take the gold.”
Zoe offered a sympathetic nod. “I’ve heard she’s got…opinions.”
He laughed. “You can say that again. So you’ll have to thank Gloria yourself, if you see her around Casa Blanca.”
“I will. I hope things work out for you.” She gave him a little wave. “I’ll give you a call.”
He nodded good-bye and walked to the sheriff’s car parked across the lot. As he crossed in front of the store, Oliver walked out, nearly bumping into him.
Zoe held her breath as the two men greeted each other. Her fingers squeezed the leather seat until her nails dug in. Please, Oliver, don’t push this. Don’t do the right thing, not now.
After a quick second Oliver walked away, and Zoe collapsed against her seat with relief. When he got in and turned to put the bags in the back, she grabbed his face and pulled him into her for a kiss.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Because…” Oh, she was too tired to explain. “Just because.”
He smiled. “You thought I was going to tell him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned forward and kissed her. “I’ve got, what? Three or four hours alone with you? You really think I want to spend it being interrogated by the local sheriff?”
“How do you want to spend it?”
He tunneled his hand under her hair and angled her face for one more kiss. “Like this.”
Chapter Sixteen
In a perfect world, Zoe would step out of the shower and into the guest room, where Oliver would be naked in bed, waiting for her.
Sadly, despite the promising kiss in the Super Min parking lot, this was not a perfect world. But it was close. Lacey had left the villa bathroom stocked with honeysuckle-sweet body butter, which Zoe applied liberally. And Oliver had thoughtfully laid out a pair of comfy-looking scrub pants and an ancient, well-washed Chicagoland 5K T-shirt for her to change into.
Although she’d have happily waltzed back downstairs wearing just a towel and a smile. Because…that had to be what he meant by that kiss, right?
The wait was over, the fight finished? Easy, breezy, slightly crazy sex was on the horizon?
Because if he freaking wanted to talk, she was out. She didn’t want to talk or think or analyze the situation. She didn’t want to review the medical issues or weigh the chances of success. She didn’t want to rehash the past or fantasize about a future.
Lord, she really didn’t want to do to that.
She just wanted the sweetest, fastest, loveliest escape she could find…in Oliver’s arms. In Oliver’s bed.
Pulling the shirt over her head, she let her hair soak the shoulders, not bothering to do more than quickly towel-dry it. Then she stepped into the scrubs, pulled the drawstring as far as it would go—the pants still hung low on her hips—and tossed a quick look in the mirror. Fine. Let’s…
She looked again.
Okay, maybe not completely fine. She brushed a finger along the slightly violet circle under her eye, a color that should really be called sleep-deprived indigo. The compress had made her bags go away, but her cheeks were pale, the whites of her eyes a lovely shade of road-map red.
Maybe she should go down in a towel and distract him. Because, really, who wanted to take the walking wounded to bed?
Oliver Bradbury, that’s who.
For once, the voice was dead-on. That kiss had said sex and she was answering the siren call.
She padded downstairs, spying Oliver in deep thought on the patio, shirtless in a pair of cargo shorts, a beer bottle in his hand, his eyes focused on the silver sky as dusk fell hard once the sun was down.
She stepped outside, but he didn’t move.
“Hey.”
He turned at the sound of her voice, his expression dead serious. “Hey.”
“Are you all right? Is everything okay?”
He nodded, then dropped his gaze over her. “Damn, you kill a pair of scrubs.”
“You like?” She lifted up the T-shirt to show her belly, fully exposed as the pants skimmed her pelvic bone. He stared right there and heat coiled through her.
Thank God she wasn’t going to get turned down again.
“I’ll have some, thank you.” She walked to him and took the beer out of his hand, “Pizza in already?”
“Yep.”
“I love when you cook.” She took a long, deep draw on the beer bottle, the biting brew cold on her dry throat. When she finished, she held up the half-empty bottle with a sly smile, shaking the liquid and peering into the bottle. “Now I suppose you want me to read the foam like Pasha.”
“If only that were possible.”
She pulled out a chair, sat down, and propped her feet on his lap. “You don’t believe Pasha can see things?”
“Not for a minute.” He instantly wrapped his hands around her feet. “She’s intuitive and understands people, like you said.” Long, strong fingers took ownership of her size-sixes, rubbing a thumb over an arch, sending chills over her body and tingles up her spine.
“So you think she’s a charlatan in addition to being a kidnapper? Well, thank God she’s not a murderer, like that stupid sheriff tried to imply.”
He was staring at the logo on the T-shirt, the entire top half wet enough that it stuck to her skin. “What?”
She almost laughed, the feeling of victory so close. Under her foot, she felt his cock stir and grow, and another wave of heat and satisfaction rolled over her. Finally.
“Foot rub, please.”
But his hands were still. “What did the sheriff say?”
“Nothing.” Please touch, not talk.
“She was wanted for murder?”
“God, no.” Thankfully, he started massaging again, his knuckles pressing under her foot and hitting some sweet spot in her brain. Perfect.
“What did he say?” Oliver asked.
“He was searching databases for Patricia Hobarth and found one who was involved with a murder, but she’s…oh, please don’t stop that. In fact…” She closed her eyes and dropped her head back. “Put your fingers between my toes, Oliver.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
“And suck them.”
He lifted her foot to his mouth and she laughed softly but didn’t even open her eyes. When nothing happened, she wiggled. “They’re clean.”
Cupping her heel, he stroked the skin again, running a finger over her baby toenail. “Who paints their toes aquamarine?”
“Girls.” She wiggled again. “Are you going to suck them or not?”
“Then what?”
“Then work your way north, big boy.” She tugged at the scrub pants, revealing a turquoise ankle bracelet.
Very slowly, he lowered her foot, silent.
Aw, really, Oliver? She lifted her head and looked at him from under her lashes. “Is toe sucking against the no-sex rules?”
“I don’t have…” He let his voice drift off. “Yeah, it is.”
Blowing out a disgusted breath, she yanked her feet away and stood suddenly. “I’m starving.” She grabbed the beer bottle and walked into the kitchen, her head already buzzing with options. Through the front door, out the garage. There were plenty of ways to escape.
But she paused in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for his footstep, waiting for him to come in and grab her and kiss her and tell her he was kidding and drag her off to…
Silence.
She turned to see that he hadn’t moved. He still stared at the sky, his back perfectly straight, a man clearly at war with himself.
Well, she did not want to be this battle’s casualty. She hissed in a breath, her own private war raging. She didn’t want to run, damn it. She didn’t want to leave him.
He didn’t want her. No one did. The only person who ever really wanted her was lying in a clinic, sedated, and dying.
She looked again.
He still hadn’t moved, but sat like a freaking statue…staring. What was he thinking about? What was he feeling?
He doesn’t want you. Could he make it any clearer?