Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)

by Roxanne St Claire

  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 s
omething 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.

  His eyes were open now, though, and slicing right through her. “How is the baby?”

  For a minute she couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. That was the thing about Oliver. He made Zoe forget her train of thought, her vows of secrecy, her common sense. He made her dream of things that couldn’t be and remember things she was better off forgetting.

  Things that were so, so good. Like the time they’d done it on the kitchen floor of his apartment. And the time he’d—

  “I assume mother and child are thriving?”

  Oh, that baby. The one he’d delivered last night. “He’s perfect. Just, yeah. You left quickly and Lacey wanted to thank you.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” A shadow of disappointment darkened his eyes, gone almost before she could grab hold of it.

  Or you could grab that excuse instead and run with it, Zoe. Run fast and far.

  Damn it, why did the only person who knew her secret have to be a doctor committed to saving lives, making it utterly impossible for her to run, hide, and pretend everything was fine?

  Because everything wasn’t fine, and he was the answer to the problem that kept her awake and in a low-grade panic more nights than not.

  “Is it?” he asked again. “Are you the new family’s thank-you committee of one?”

  He was trying to be civil, even kind, and that gave her a little hope. Maybe their history was enough to get what she came for. Maybe she didn’t have to make deals with the devil—although she would have. Right now, she’d do anything.

  “It was no big deal,” he said after a few too many seconds had passed. “I’ve done a few emergency deliveries in my career.” Then he took a step closer, dipping his head almost imperceptibly, searching her face. “Zoe?”

  “Oliver, you are one of two people in the world who knows the truth about me.”

  It was his turn to blink, silent.

  “And once you said you’d do anything for me.”

  He still didn’t respond.

  “Do you remember saying that, Oliver?”

  “Of course.” He crossed his arms in a classic power stance. “What are you asking me, Zoe?”

  She took a slow, steadying breath. “My great-aunt, Pasha, is sick. Really, really sick. You know that she…she can’t exactly sally forth through the health-care system because she…” Is a kidnapper. “Can’t.”

  He stared at her.

  “I need you to treat her. And never report it.”

  His eyes narrowed as her demand sank in. “You’re asking me to—”

  “Do something illegal, yes. I know you are a big, important, successful doctor who shouldn’t take risks that would possibly hurt your booming business, but I don’t care, Oliver, because—”

  “Stop.” He was in front of her in one step, one hand on her shoulder, searing her bare skin, already too close.

  “Will you?” she asked.

  He was near enough for her to feel his warmth and the scent of air and woods, reminding her of the last time they’d kissed.

  Go ahead, kiss him.

  He dipped his head a tiny bit, not more than a millimeter closer, as if the voice in her head was loud enough for him to hear. “How could I do that?”

  “Quietly,” she said quickly. “Discreetly. Under the table, off the books, and away from the prying eyes of your witchy staff.” She raised her chin, hating that he could feel her tremble. Let him think that quiver was because she wanted his help and not because every cell in her was screaming kiss, kiss, kiss.

  Man, this might have been a bad idea. But she powered on. “That’s how you could do it,” she finished. “And you will. Because you…” Loved me once. “Always do what’s right.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You will.”

  “Be this close to you and not—”

  “I think you have a wife for that kind of thing,” she said, wrangling out of his grip. “I need a doctor, and you happen to be in the area, in the right kind of practice, and conveniently the only medical professional who will agree to treat my aunt without reporting her to the authorities.”

  He searched her face, his expression impossible to read. But that didn’t stop her from trying. And staring.

  “That could jeopardize my practice,” he finally said.

  “How about jeopardizing her life? Doesn’t that mean anything to you anymore? You used to care about people who were dying, Oliver.”

  He flinched so slightly she almost missed it. “I still do.”

  “Then help me!” She pushed his chest, fueled by frustration. He snagged her wrist and held it immobile.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” She shook off his fingers and he stepped back, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets as if to shackle himself.

  His gaze dropped over her, as hot as his hands would be and sending just as many chills over her skin. “It means I’ll do what I can within certain parameters.”

  “Certain parameters? So much for the Hippocratic oath.”

  He let his eyes go lower, lingering on her chest, amber turning to ebony as he watched it rise and fall.

  “Not to mention your marriage vows.”

  He merely shook his head. “Those are broken.”

  “Well, goodie for you, hot stuff. But I need a doctor, not a quickie.”

  Ever so slightly, one brow lifted. “It was never quick with us, Zoe.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You are married.”

  “I’m divorced. It was final last week.”

  “You were with her at the grand opening last night.”

  He shrugged. “Only as a favor. She’d been invited by some local socialite who backed out at the last minute and she didn’t want to go alone.”

  Oh. Oh. “But I just saw her outside.”

  “She dropped…” He inched back, casting his eyes down for a second. “Something off.”

  A strange white heat rolled over her, along with the distinct and terrifying knowledge that the game had just changed. Oliver wasn’t married. Which meant she could—no, she wouldn’t. Never. Never, never, never.

  Except…what exactly was Pasha’s life worth to Zoe? Everything. Anything. Even that.

  She bit her lip and took a step closer. “I need help, Oliver. And I can’t get it anywhere else. I will do whatever you want.”

  “What are you suggesting, Zoe?”

  “You want me to spell it out? Three simple letters, then: s-e—”

  He stopped her with a raised hand, taking a deep, slow breath and a long, hungry gaze over her body again. Every hair on the back of her neck stood up, electrified. As he looked at her breasts, her nipples popped against the thin material. As he stared at her hips, she grew warm and achy right between her legs.

  When he got to her knees, those bad boys would forget their job completely and she’d be on the floor, like that night in the kitchen. But he never made it down that far.

  “No.” He walked around his desk and sat in his oversized chair. “Why don’t you start by telling me what’s wrong with her.”

  Holy hell. She’d offered herself as a human sacrifice and the son of a bitch turned her down.

  Chapter Two

  The rejection stung. Oliver could tell by the drop in Zoe’s shoulders, the way her mouth fought not to open in surprise, and, of course, by the flinch of pain that turned her emerald eyes more of a flat jade green.

  Still pretty—God, she was fucking gorgeous—but when he turned down her offer, the light went out of her face.

  He’d hurt her. Fine. They were possibly on the road to even, then. Maybe when she was sitting on the empty floor of a deserted house crying like a damn three-year-old, maybe then they’d be a
pproaching even.

  “What are her symptoms, Zoe?” he asked, taking out a notepad to keep his itchy hands busy. Just so he didn’t even think about how much he’d rather lean forward and thread his fingers through that mess of caramel-colored curls, all whimsical silk and sass that somehow never changed.

  Corralling her cool, she dropped to the edge of a guest chair, pointing at the paper. “No notes. This is private. Off the record, completely. You may not make a file for her.”

  He angled his head. “You may believe the worst in me, but I honor patient confidentiality. Tell me what’s the problem.”

  “So she can be your patient?”

  “Tell me the problem.”

  On a soft sigh, she settled into the chair and tucked her legs under her, making the flowy skirt float over her legs and hide her feet like a lotus flower.

  “First of all, I don’t believe the worst in you, okay? We ended badly, I know, but—”

  “Badly?” He fired the word at her, making her flinch. “You call that ending badly?”

  She stared back. “Yeah, that was bad.”

  “Was it bad for you, Zoe?” He really needed to stop. She didn’t have to know what he’d gone through all these years later.

  “Bad enough,” she said, far too cavalier for his tastes.

  Really? Had she ached like he did? Had she wondered what the hell happened to him? Had she searched newspapers and bribed postal workers and haunted every hot air balloon field in the state of Illinois?

  “It was pretty bad for me,” he admitted, the words like stones in his mouth.

  “I noticed,” she said dryly. “So bad you got married five weeks later.”

  He should have seen that one coming. “Which is why, when I saw you in that lobby store in the Ritz a few years ago, the first words I said were ‘I’m sorry.’ Do you remember that?”

  “I remember.”

  “You were buying condoms,” he reminded her, a fact that had stuck in his craw for days.

  “For a friend. Can we talk about my aunt?”

  For a long moment he looked at her, his whole gut ripped right in half. Here was the one woman he had never forgotten—not for a fucking day in nine years—asking him to do something she had to know he couldn’t do.