Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(8)

She slid her hands around his neck, sending every hair there to full attention. “Are you sure? ’Cause it kinda feels like it might work.”

He lowered his head, giving in to the need to put his lips on her hair, her temple, her ear. He meant to just kiss her, but the words came tumbling out like they had a will of their own. “Why did you disappear?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

Very slowly, she backed away, shaking her head. “You know why I had to leave.”

Like hell he did. “Leave? You evaporated. It was like aliens abducted you. Clothes, furniture; there was goddamn food left in your refrigerator—”

“You wanted me to do something I couldn’t, and since you’re the guy who always follows the rules and does the right thing, I really worried that you’d turn us in and—”

“How could you think that? You knew me, Zoe. You…” Loved me. Or had she?

“I had to go,” she said softly. “Pasha and I decided it wasn’t worth the risk.”

Love wasn’t worth the risk. He wasn’t worth the risk.

Wasn’t that the lesson he’d learned that dark day, as a child, when he’d trudged up the stairs, climbed into the attic, and learned that love—even unconditional love—might not be enough in this life? Especially not for a woman who’d rather quit than fight.

“Listen to me.” He reached for her face, cupping her cheeks, the shape of her jaw so familiar and fine in his hands. “Zoe, that—”

“Dr. Bradbury.”

They both leaped apart at the sight and sound of his receptionist in the doorway. “Excuse me, but Beth’s on the phone and couldn’t come here to tell you, but Mr. Carlson is very distraught.”

“I’ll be right there, Johanna.”

Her gaze flicked at Zoe. “Would you like me to show Miss, um, Tamarin out?”

“I’d like you to leave.”

The receptionist gave him a shocked look, then backed away and closed the door. Oliver turned back to Zoe. “But I don’t want you to leave. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Like my aunt’s treatment.”

Would a promise to talk about that keep her here? With Zoe, who knew?

“Stay here and we’ll talk after I’m finished with this patient.” He stepped away, hoping that was enough. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

He walked to the door, wishing like hell he could lock it from the outside. But that was the thing about Zoe, the original flight risk. He couldn’t keep her. No one could. He couldn’t let himself forget that.





Zoe damn near fell back on the desk when Oliver left, boneless and spent from being that close for that long to a man she’d really hoped she was over.

So not over.

But would he help Pasha or try to ship her off to some other doctor? Sighing, she walked around the desk and folded herself into his big doctor chair, imagining his long, strong body filling it again.

He isn’t married.

The words inflated her heart like a shot of propane fumes, lifting her into hope-filled skies. Hope-filled skies?

Pathetic. And the only hope she needed was for Pasha. There were no hope-filled skies in a world without her aunt. And there was nothing but thunder and lightning in skies with Oliver. How could she forget that?

He’d shown his true colors, marrying his ex-girlfriend within weeks of the day Zoe had left. But then, Adele had no problem getting a marriage license. Whereas Zoe? Hell, Pasha damn near had to sell her soul to buy the fake paperwork to get Zoe into college.

She’d have done anything for Zoe, and that was why Zoe had to get Pasha medical help. Unorthodox and experimental? Perfect. Zoe didn’t know much about medicine, but Pasha was old and frail. She’d never survive chemo and radiation, let alone the stress of going through some kind of health-care hell that didn’t take a patient without insurance, let alone no real identity.

Puffing out a breath at the familiar cycle of worry she spent so much time treading along, Zoe let her gaze drift over the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind her, scanning the medical tomes and landing on a framed photo of a little boy. Was that Oliver?

Shooting forward, she picked up the frame, a weird heaviness in her arm as she brought the picture closer and studied the face of a boy who could only be Oliver’s son.

No Internet search had ever mentioned a child. But then, he’d be the kind of man to take great care to keep his child out of the limelight, wouldn’t he?

She tried to swallow, but a lump of longing and dismay squeezed her throat. Oliver had a son. She’d have given anything to have been the woman to give him a son.

She guessed the boy in the picture to be five or six, missing front teeth, the last of lingering baby chubbiness around his chin. But there was no question what gene pool this child had been dipped in.

He had Oliver’s distinct intelligent gleam in his mahogany eyes, the same flat brows, and something about his lightly freckled cheeks hinted at a bone structure that would be strong and prominent once the right hormones and age kicked in.

It was a school picture, taken in a navy polo shirt with an insignia that read Cumberland Academy. A private school, of course.

Zoe had been homeschooled by Pasha.

The door opened and Zoe froze, not wanting to be caught ogling Oliver’s child as he returned to continue their conversation. Knowing her head didn’t even show over the back of the chair, she waited, completely still.

Maybe Oliver would think she’d left, and when he went out to find her she could replace the picture and he wouldn’t—

A sniff broke the silence. And another, followed by a full-blown sob.

Zoe bit her lip to not react.

That wasn’t Oliver. Probably one of his staffers having a breakdown because he’d yelled at her. Maybe it was Big Red. A splash of satisfaction warmed her gut. Bitch got what she—

“I hate this!” The voice was thin, broken, and frail. “I hate him.” A smack against the leather sofa underscored the emotion.

That wasn’t the receptionist or the secretary.

“It’s so not fair!”

That was a kid. Zoe slowly turned the chair, making it squeak and getting a loud gasp in response. As she lifted her gaze from the picture, she met the very same face in three dimensions. Maybe a year or two older, eyes brimming with tears, a Chicago Bulls tank top draped over skinny shoulders that shuddered with the effort to stop crying.

“Who are you?” he asked, eyes popping in surprise.

“Fairy Godmother.”

For a moment he tried to speak, but another shuddering sob came out as a half hiccup, half burp.

“Why the waterworks, kid?”

He swiped his eyes, a soft color rising to his cheeks. “Who are you, really?”

“Friend of…” She took a not-too-wild guess. “Your dad’s?”

“Are you another nanny?”

Her heart slipped a little at the mix of hope and dread in his voice. “Have there been a few?”

“Like, nineteen in two weeks.”

She almost smiled. “That’s a lot.”

“Okay, four. But since we got here and have to live in that stupid, ugly hotel, there’s like a different one every day.”

“What stupid, ugly hotel do you live in?”

“The Ritz-Carlton.”

“Oh, yeah, the stupidest and ugliest of them all.” Why did Oliver live in a hotel?

“I know, right?” He sniffed again. “I was glad all their dumb babysitters were busy and my mom had to bring me here all day.”

She dropped off…something. His son was a something? “Yeah, ’cause what’s better than hanging out at the cancer ward?”

He choked on a laugh he didn’t want to have but couldn’t help. “So, are you talking to my dad about the job?”

A job, not that job. “More or less. Are you looking for him?”

He shrugged, then shook his head. “I’m mad at him.”

“I heard.” She set the picture on the desk to lean forward, intrigued. “What’d he do?”

He sniffled one last time and wiped his nose, leaving it gleaming wet with teary snot. “I want a dog.”

“Probably frowned upon at the Ritz.”

He gave her a “Yeah, duh” look that only a kid his age could nail with such perfection. “No dogs at the Shitz-Carlton.”

She tried not to laugh at the name, so out of place on his little lips. “You allowed to talk like that?”

“Who’s gonna know?”

“Me.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you—”

“There’s no such thing as fairy godmothers.”

She put her elbow on the desk and pointed to him. “Now that, kid, is where you’re wrong. I’ve got one and she rocks.”