Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(5)

Inside, cool air settled over Zoe as she took in the creamy white walls and icy marble floor. This was like no doctor’s-office reception room she’d ever been in. No mess of magazines on a cheap coffee table for Dr. Bradbury. No impersonal glass panel that slid open and closed like a confessional, either. No worn leather chairs, cheesy art, or canned video presentation.

Nothing but old money and elegant sophistication.

So, Mrs. Bradbury must have decorated the offices.

“Can I help you?” The question came from a striking redhead with a tiny headset in her ear who was seated at a glass table that held nothing but a sleek tablet computer and a space-age-looking phone. Her smile matched the surroundings, cold and impersonal, exactly like her Arctic-blue eyes.

“I’m here…” Zoe’s voice cracked. Great. Now she sounded like a teenage boy. She cleared her throat. “I’d like to see Dr. Bradbury.”

The faintest frown pulled. “What time is your appointment?”

“He’ll see me.” Especially now that his wife had just left.

“I’m sorry.” The woman angled her head, a practiced mix of pity and power in her expression. “You have to make an appointment, and that requires a referral, and, to be perfectly honest, Dr. Bradbury has absolutely no patient openings now. We can provide you with the names of—”

“He’ll see me,” she said, nodding to the phone. “Give it a try. That’s Zoe. No y, just Z-o-e.”

“I know how to spell.”

“But do you know how to dial?”

The young woman held up her hand. “If you don’t have an appointment, he will not see you. There are absolutely no exceptions to that rule.”

“I’m the exception. Zoe Tamarin.”

The woman didn’t move, leveling her icy glare in a showdown. “Would you like the list of doctors I mentioned?”

“Not unless one of them is Oliver.” At the woman’s surprised look, Zoe added, “I’m a personal acquaintance.”

The woman’s gaze lingered on the thin tank top stuck to Zoe’s sweat-dampened skin. The white cotton skirt that had seemed so whimsical when she’d picked it up at Old Navy suddenly felt like a cheap rag compared to the receptionist’s silk and pearls.

Red gave a mirthless smile and shook her head as she stood, nearly six feet tall in four-inch heels. “I’m very sorry for your situation, but you need to leave, now.”

“My situation?” She didn’t even freaking know Zoe’s situation. “Please call his assistant or whoever and tell him that Zoe Tamarin is waiting to see him.”

The woman tapered her eyes but touched her earpiece. “Beth?”

Zoe let out a soft sigh of relief. As soon as Oliv—

“We need security in the lobby.”

Zoe croaked out a cough. “Excuse me?”

The other woman completely ignored her. “Immediately,” she said into the air. Then, to Zoe, “We get a lot of desperate people wanting to see Dr. Bradbury, and—”

“Well, I’m not one of them.” Which was a complete lie, but she stepped forward anyway. “Just give him my damn name.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” She looked down at her tablet as if something more important had come up.

Zoe eyed the single door to the back, a nearly invisible slab of polished rosewood that blended right into the wall. But there was a slender silver knob that might not be locked. What the hell did she have to lose? With one more glance at Red, who was pointedly ignoring her now, Zoe lunged at the door.

“Hey!” the woman cried, but Zoe slammed down the handle and pushed.

The receptionist got her then, grabbing Zoe’s arm to yank her back to the lobby. “You will leave the premises, ma’am. Right. This. Minute.”

Zoe fought the fingers, wresting her body away with every ounce of strength she had, and suddenly the woman let go and Zoe stumbled toward the offices, tripping on the threshold strip, her hair falling over her face as her knees hit the floor.

“What in God’s name is going on out here?”

Oliver. She didn’t look up, but closed her eyes and let the sound of him reach all the way inside and touch her.

“Zoe?”

“You know her, Dr. Bradbury?”

“Imagine that,” Zoe murmured, only slightly appeased by the little bit of horror in Red’s voice. Finally, she lifted her face to meet his gaze.

But the sight of those bottomless dark chocolate eyes nearly flattened her again.

“Good God,” he said, dropping to one knee and reaching out a hand. “What are you—here, get up.” His hand enveloped hers, that strong, masculine, capable hand that healed and heated her with one stroke of his fingers. “What are you doing…”

She lifted an eyebrow as she stood to her full height, which was a few hairs shy of five-four; not as impressive as her adversary and only chest high with Oliver. But, oh, what a chest it was. In a zillion-dollar white shirt so soft and expensive she imagined it was hand-loomed purely to fit those incredible shoulders.

“Apparently it’s easier to get into the Oval Office without an appointment.”

He almost smiled, sparking a hint of burnished gold in his eyes. “You don’t need an appointment to see me.”

Zoe was dying to give a dose of “Take that, bitch” to the receptionist, but Oliver still held her hand and inched her a little closer, dizzying her with that clean, smart, crisp smell of capability—and Oliver. “You do want to see me?”

His whisper of uncertainty almost undid her.

“I do.”

I do. I do. God, how she had once longed to say those words to him.

Instead she’d said other words, and those had sealed her fate in a completely different way.

Someone had said those words to him, though. Someone with dark hair and designer bags and the stink of wealth—and family. Big, powerful, undeniable, real family. The one thing Zoe could never offer him.

Damn Google and its endless pages of more information than tipsy ex-girlfriends ought to be able to get their hands on.

She lifted her chin and his expression flickered, zigzagging somewhere between amused and amazed as he studied her.

“Come into my office,” he ordered with the sound of a man who didn’t know the fine art of suggestion. Authority sat well on those broad shoulders.

“Would you like some coffee? Water?” he asked, ready to send the receptionist on the errand.

“After what it takes to get into this place? Grey Goose, straight up.”

He nodded to Red. “Mr. Carlson is in room two. Have Beth tell him I’ll be a few minutes longer.”

Zoe blasted the woman with a fake smile. “Thank you so much for your help. Attila, was it?”

The other woman looked at Oliver, who bit his lip. “C’mon, Zoe. In here.”

He led her down a hushed hallway, staying one step behind as they rounded a corner wordlessly. Her sandals were silent on plush carpet, but her heart thudded against her ribs loudly enough to reverberate through the halls of Dr. Bradbury’s superplush, mega-exclusive, you-can’t-have-an-appointment-without-a-referral-from-God practice.

His office was large, of course, and bright from a bank of windows, everything so much warmer than the reception area. Zoe took a sniff of cherry, leather, and that hint of success. It smelled like a man in this room, a strong, substantial, still-so-stinkin’-hot-it-hurts man.

Her feet practically itched as she imagined whipping past him and dashing out the door she’d fought so hard to get through. Sorry! Made a mistake!

But she didn’t move, a testament to how much she loved at least one person in this world. She kept her back to him, taking one last inhale and reviewing her game plan.

Which didn’t exactly exist, since she’d left Barefoot Bay on a whim that morning, plan free. So now what? Plead? Demand? Barter? Whatever she did, she had to be strong and unyielding. She would not take no for an answer. She would not—

“Turn around.”

Melt.

Oh, no. Falling into his arms would be much worse than running out the door as fast as—and hopefully with more grace than—she’d entered. Because once she felt those arms around her, all bets were off.

Slowly, she turned, meeting the gaze of a man who looked at her like he hadn’t eaten in days and she was a human cream puff.

While his eyes trailed over every inch of her, she took her own visual vacation, lingering on the things about him that had kept her awake so many, many nights. Not his classically handsome face, with all those angles of raw strength, and not his powerful shoulders or silky black hair. Zoe hadn’t fallen for “the man with the teeth,” as her Aunt Pasha had once described his movie-star smile, or the prominent nose that hinted at Roman or Greek ancestors, no doubt Julius Caesar himself.

No, Zoe loved the unexpected surprises of Oliver. Thick, bottlebrush, black lashes that feathered out to the side when he laughed at something she said. The muscle in his neck that flexed and tightened when he leaned in to kiss her. The tenor and depth of his voice when he whispered in her ear, the jolt of music when he said her name, the way his eyes shuttered before a kiss as if he were about to taste a fine French wine.