Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(9)
“Does she have a wand?” he asked, the question rich with childish sarcasm.
“Several. And a crystal ball. And”—she leaned forward and shifted her eyes from side to side, as if a nosy nurse could pop up at any minute—“a man-eating plant.”
His eyes widened, then he snorted with disbelief. “Do you play cards?”
She smiled at the non sequitur. “Like a freak. You like Egyptian Rat Screws?”
“Never heard of it , but I can play canasta and pinochle.”
“Oooh, super fun.” Not. “Where’d you learn that, from the shuffleboard crowd at the Shitz-Carlton?”
He fought a smile. “My grandma taught me.”
“Ah, I see.” Oliver’s mother had passed away when he was very young, and he’d never talked much about his father. So Zoe guessed the boy was referring to his maternal grandmother. Yeah, people that rich would totally be the bridge and pinochle type.
“Can you teach me that Egyptian game?”
“I don’t know. It’s really complicated.”
“I’m smart and I know a lot about Egyptians. They built the pyramids.”
“Sorry, but there are no Egyptians in Egyptian Rat Screws.” She smiled. “There is a lot of cussing, however, and apparently you’ve got that covered.”
He grinned and that did incredibly stupid things to her poor heart. Oliver’s son. A heavy mix of envy and longing and regret rolled around her belly. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Eight. How old are you?”
“A hundred.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not one of those kids.”
“You don’t say. I’m thirty-four. Five.” Eight? Seriously? Wow, Oliver didn’t waste any time, did he?
“I have a hundred-and-sixty-two IQ.”
“Ouch, that’s gotta hurt carrying that much smart around.”
He tapped his head like it could handle the weight. “Not a problem. Want me to get cards? That lady in the front has a deck.”
“Cruella?”
He laughed. “I saw that movie.” Then his face dropped. “All those dogs.”
Something inside her chest cracked. “Spotted ones that talk. Bet you liked them.”
“Yeah.” He pushed up and stood. “You gonna be here for a while?”
Was she? Run, Zoe, run. “Maybe.”
“What’s your name, anyway?”
Don’t tell him. Don’t get connected. Don’t fall for Oliver’s son. “Zoe. You?”
“Evan Townshend Bradbury.”
“Wow, that’s as big as your IQ. What do you want to be when you grow up, Evan Townshend Bradbury? A doctor like your dad?”
He squished his face and shook his head. “Cancer people make me sad.”
“True that. So, not a doctor, then what? Lawyer? Investment banker? President? I assume you’re thinking big.”
“Meteorologist.”
She drew back. “Never saw that coming. Like you want to be on TV and lie about the next day’s weather?”
“No, I want to be a scientist and get inside a hurricane.”
“Interesting career goal. Hurricanes can be nasty. My friend lost her house in one.”
He lifted his brows and opened his mouth into a toothy “O” shape. “That is so cool. What happened to her? Did she die?”
She laughed at the onslaught of questions. “No, but her house got completely annihilated while she was in it.”
He practically jumped out of his skin. “Get out! What did she do?”
“Survived. Thrived. Built this.” She grabbed her handbag and opened it, snagging the Casa Blanca brochure she’d picked up at the party the night before. “Look.” She spun it around for him to see. “This used to be this crappy old house on the beach and now look at it. It’s a resort. I’m staying there.”
“In that house?” He pointed to the largest of the villas, Bay Laurel.
“I wish. No, my friend puts me up in the not-so-fancy staff housing.”
He looked up. “Do you work there?”
“Nah, they don’t have what I do.”
“What’s that?”
“I fly hot air balloons.”
His jaw practically hit the floor and he climbed out of his chair. “You are…” He shook his head, speechless.
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “What?”
“Like, you are the coolest person I’ve ever met.”
Well, there you go, Zoe. Nice. Your heart just got handed to you on a platter by Oliver’s eight-year-old.
“Thanks.”
“When’s your birthday?” he asked suddenly.
Now there was a question she never answered without consulting her latest fake ID. “Why do you want to know?”
“I want to know your sign.”
“You tell me first,” she said.
“Oh, my birthday’s October 28. I’m a Scorpio. What are you?”
She angled her head, considering so many possibilities. “Dubious. Do you know what that means?”
“Doubtful, from the Latin dubito, to doubt. What are you doubting?”
She cracked up. Could he be any more adorable, this little Einstein? “I’m doubting if you’re for real.”
“Well, I do have a—”
“Hundred-and-sixty-two IQ. I heard.”
He grinned. “You want me to get the cards and you can teach me that game?”
Holding up both hands, she shrugged. “What the—”
“Hell,” he finished for her, scampering to the door. What a piece of work that kid was. Dumped by his mother, ignored by his father. She could sure relate to that. And he seemed so much older than…
October 28. Eight years old.
For a second she dropped back in the chair, pulling up an image of an unseasonably warm late March day nine years ago, when…
Using her fingers, she counted the months between March and October.
Seven months.
Ice water trickled through her veins, numbing her to her fingertips as realization hit.
Evan had already been conceived the day Zoe and Oliver took that balloon ride.
Or maybe Oliver wasn’t—no. One look at Evan confirmed that he was Oliver’s son. Conceived when they were dating?
Time to fly, Zoe.
But she couldn’t run away from this; there was Pasha to consider. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to think.
He wasn’t going to help Pasha. He was going to do what Oliver always did: follow the rules, play by the book, and do the right thing. He’d send Pasha to another doctor, or a lawyer, or the police.
So why was she sitting around here ready to relive an old pain? Or, worse, start up a new one?
Run, Zoe, run.
She snatched her bag and darted around the desk, praying she could get out without seeing him. She made it down the hall, ignored the secretary, then shot out the door into the lobby—right smack into Evan Townshend Bradbury.
“I got the cards. Can we play that screw game?”
Behind him, the bitch with the red hair dropped her jaw and stood, sparks shooting from her eyes.
“This lady was just leaving, Evan.”
The little boy’s face fell, but Zoe refused to let that stop her. The last person she wanted to fall for was Oliver’s son. Okay, the second-to-the-last person. “Yes, I was.”
“Why?” he asked, his voice rising in a whine.
“Because that’s what I do.”
She dashed to the door and ran across the street to the safety of her getaway car.
Chapter Three
Oliver heard footsteps pounding down the hall, too fast, too loud, too…young to be Zoe. It was Evan, then, running amok in the office. He grunted under his breath as he flipped the last page of Eugene Carlson’s chart.
“What?” the older man demanded. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Dr. Bradbury? You see something?”
“Absolutely not.” He shook his head clear, forced his focus where it belonged. “Your test results are excellent, Gene. You’re one of IDEA’s most astounding success stories.”
The old gray eyes that met his filled with tears. “You sure gave that clinic of yours the right name. Might be an acronym for integrated something—”
“Integrated Diagnostics through Experimental Analysis,” Oliver supplied.
“Whatever. The idea of IDEA is great. I don’t know how to thank you, Dr. Bradbury. And, of course, Dr. Mahesh. A year ago I couldn’t get out of bed, certain I’d been handed a death sentence. Yesterday I shot a seventy-nine. That’s remarkable, young man, I don’t care what you call it.”