Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(51)

She smiled. “You sound like Pasha and her signs and wonders.”

“Go.” He nudged her toward the master bedroom. “Give me your key and tell me what you need.”

“Key’s under the front mat. Something clean that looks like I’d wear it. Don’t forget underwear. And my toothbrush.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Be right back.”

She eased back, unsure. “Aren’t you worried that you’ll come back and I’ll be gone?”

“Not in the least.”

She gave him a playful punch. “Well, look at that. Big breakthrough for Doctor B.”

“Now it’s your turn. Go and shower and stay here. All night. Can you do that, Zoe? For me?”

“I can.” She leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “I can do that for you, doc. Trust me.”

He watched her walk to the bedroom door and, as she opened it, she turned, a heartbreaking smile tipping her lips. “I kind of…do. You know? I do. I always have.”

Now that right there was a breakthrough. Zoe style. He smiled right back. “I know.”

He waited until she disappeared into his bedroom and then he left, jogging down the Casa Blanca beach path, cutting through the gardens to make his way to the little cul-de-sac of bungalows where Zoe was staying. He rounded her Jeep parked in front, found the key with little problem, and let himself into the darkened living area. Turning on a lamp, he glanced around while his eyes adjusted and headed toward the hall, turning that light on, too.

There were doors on either side, both leading to tiny bedrooms. The one on the right was smaller, with a single bed and a nearly empty dresser. That would be Pasha’s room. As he was turning to the other room, something on the dresser caught his eye. White, square, familiar black lettering.

His whole being froze as an icy splash of disbelief shot through his veins.

Very slowly, he turned, the blood pounding in his head so hard he could literally hear his heart rate rise with each passing second. As if he couldn’t bear to put his eyes on it, he looked downward, at a fallen vase with a few dead flowers, any water long evaporated.

But he knew what he’d seen. He knew it.

He lifted his gaze up the side of the dresser and let it finally land on a time-yellowed envelope with familiar black writing.

“Fuck.” He stared at it so hard he damn near willed it to be a figment of his imagination.

But it was real. Three-dimensional, nine years old, and chock full of so much love and so many promises that, in the right hands, it might have changed everyone’s lives.

If it had ever gotten into those hands.

He picked up the envelope, vaguely remembering the postal worker who’d shaken his head and told Oliver no, that box was closed, no forwarding address. Turning it over, he could see the envelope had never been opened.

Small consolation to know that no one had ever read it. It wasn’t like Pasha had read his outpouring to Zoe, but still, she had kept it. Hadn’t she?

He looked around the room, imagining her last few moments before she had run off and hoped to die. She must have left the letter as an explanation or apology. Or because she knew they’d reunited and everything he’d said in this letter would get said again, in person.

Hell, he was ready to say half of it tonight.

Zoe mustn’t have gone into Pasha’s room, so she’d never even seen it. How would she feel when she did? Furious? Frustrated? Worried that he wouldn’t do his job right tomorrow in vengeance against a woman who, unwittingly or not, had controlled their future?

Because he believed in his deepest heart that if Zoe had read this letter, she would have come back to him before he ever married Adele.

Had Pasha known that?

He examined the seal again, admittedly no expert in steaming and resealing; maybe she had read the letter.

He stuffed the letter into the side pocket of his old scrubs and turned to Zoe’s room to get what he’d come for. His hands shook a little in anger as he pulled open a drawer and found a mess of pastel silk, plucking out a polka-dot thong and a purple bra.

His hands better not shake tomorrow, he thought ruefully. Not when he’d be working to save the life of the woman who had ruined his.

Pushing the thought away, he yanked open the next drawer, grabbed a navy tank top, and tossed it all on the bed next to an open laptop. Turning to the closet, he examined a row of long skirts, imagining which Zoe would want.

Behind him, the laptop hummed to life, probably bumped by the clothes. He should turn that off and not let it go to sleep, he thought, plucking the white skirt he remembered her wearing to his office. It was wrinkly and soft and a little bit see-through.

The letter still burned in his pocket as he gathered up the clothes. What would he say to her? Would he give it to her tonight? Tomorrow morning? Wait until she told him she loved him? She was so close.

Maybe after the treatment, when Pasha was healed.

When was the best time to break the news to Zoe that her beloved aunt—

The computer lit up, the black letters of a large headline filling the screen. Where was the power button? He searched the keyboard, reaching for the shut-off key with his pinky since his hand was full of skirt and underwear.

Just as he hit the button, he glanced at the screen.

Police Reopen the Cold Case of Murdered Seven-Year-Old.

Frowning, he read the smaller print below that.

New DNA Evidence Uncovered but Prime Suspect, Patricia Hobarth, Released after Mistrial, Now Dead.

A whole new wave of emotions hit him so hard he dropped down on the bed. The screen flickered, then turned blue.

No, no. He had to know. He stabbed at buttons, his hands still so damn shaky, desperate to call the story back up, but the computer went silent and dark.

For a long moment he sat there and stared at it.

He could have turned on the machine, found the Internet browser, and followed the electronic trail to read to the end of the story, but did he have to? Didn’t he know enough?

The reason why Pasha lived on the run. The reason why she’d sacrificed Zoe’s happiness for her own safety. The reason why she’d never given this love letter to her niece.

Not her niece—some stray she’d picked up and decided to use, probably to help change her identity when she got herself declared dead.

All the facts rolled from his logical brain and landed in his stomach with a thud.

The letter made him mad. The news made him sick. But the fact that Zoe had known this when she’d shown up at his door looking for comfort but didn’t trust him enough to share…that hurt like hell.

Finally, he pushed himself off the bed and grabbed the clothes.

Did she think he wouldn’t do his level best to save Pasha if he knew this? If so, she really didn’t know him at all. And he didn’t know her.

I kind of…do. I always have.

That might have been the closest thing to the “I love you” he wanted that he’d ever had. And as meaningless as the sex they were about to share.

And anything she said or did with him tonight was meaningless, too. She ran and she hid—everything. How the hell could he ever love a woman like that?

On his way out, he threw the letter back on the dresser where he’d found it.





Chapter Twenty-one

Zoe climbed naked in between the sheets, making a mental note to compliment Lacey on the fine Egyptian cotton she’d chosen. She sighed and rolled onto Oliver’s pillow, taking a whiff of his spicy scent, which still lingered from the night before. She was anxious to smell the real thing when he got back.

And say the real thing. Not just allude to it.

While she was at it, she needed to come clean with everything. She’d tell him what she’d discovered and how firmly she believed Pasha was innocent. While he was administering the treatment that would save Pasha’s life, Zoe would be meeting with the sheriff, talking over the facts, and asking for help and arranging for Pasha to submit DNA evidence.

It would be a long, grueling legal process, compounded by the crimes Pasha had committed along the way. But if she were alive and healthy, she and Zoe could fight this. Lives could be saved and then changed.

Oliver would do the first and she would do the second, without running away, not once. He’d like that. They’d be fixing things together.

She heard the front door open and close and she tensed in anticipation, ready, willing, and right where he wanted her to be when he got home. No doubt he expected her to pull a Zoe and—

“Dad?”

Dang it. Evan was up.

“Hey, son. What’re you doing down here?”

They were right outside the room, close enough that Zoe could hear the exchange perfectly.

“I can’t sleep.”

Okay, no sex tonight. But that was fine. She stayed still and soundless, waiting for Evan to go back upstairs.

“Go on,” Oliver said. “I’ll be right up to tuck you in again.”