“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.”
“I call it remission, Gene.” Not a complete cure, but damn close. “And that’s what the research and medical team there calls our goal.” He added an easy smile. “And you know Raj isn’t going to be happy until you break seventy-five.”
Eugene laughed. “I’m just thrilled to be golfing. He’s a competitor, your partner, that’s for sure.”
“We both are, and we’re both enjoying a victory with your progress,” Oliver told him. “Best we’ve ever seen on a leukemia patient.” Oliver reached out his hand to shake Eugene’s hand, anxious to get back to Zoe and finish the conversation but unwilling to rush this patient, especially after Eugene had waited to see him.
Instantly, the other man took a step forward and held out his arms. “Hey, give me one of those guy hugs.”
Oliver complied, fighting a smile and that warm, welcome sense of satisfaction in his chest. He’d made the right choice in leaving hospital administration for the far less stable world of research medicine, partnering with Raj Mahesh, working with an incredibly talented team of researchers, and getting back to the rewarding business of saving lives.
The move may have cost him his marriage, his high-profile position in Chicago’s society, along with a steady—and monstrous—paycheck, but Gene Carlson’s hug was worth the fee.
Another set of footsteps padded in the hall, almost as fast as Evan’s and made by someone in sandals.
“I’ll see you in three months, Gene,” he said, trying not to rush out of the room even though his whole being wanted to make a mad dash to stop Zoe before she left.
But th
at would be like trying to stop the sun from rising. Trying to stop waves on the sand or a storm blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico. Nothing could stop the inevitable.
“By then I’ll have a new granddaughter,” Eugene said, dragging Oliver back to the moment.
“I’ll expect pictures, then.” Waiting a polite beat, he opened the door and headed into the hall as the door to the reception area clicked closed. He hustled forward, pulling the door open to nearly mow down his son.
“Evan, what are you doing out here? I told you to stay in the break room.” He looked over the child’s shoulder through the darkly tinted glass door in time to see a big white Jeep whip out of a parking spot, blond curls behind the steering wheel.
Not that he was surprised. But that didn’t change the needle-jab of disappointment right to his chest. “Damn it,” he murmured, an echo of a wound that had long ago stopped festering. Or so he’d thought.
Evan’s face mirrored how Oliver imagined his own looked. Deflated. “You should have hired her to be my sitter, Dad.”
Behind him, Johanna lifted a dubious brow. “I don’t think she’d have made a suitable nanny, Dr. Bradbury.”
Oliver sliced her with a cold look. “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
“You want my opinion?” Evan asked. “I liked her. I thought she was funny.”
“You talked to her?”
“Yeah. She’s pretty, too.”
No kidding. “Did you tell her you’re my son?”
“Of course. Will she be back?”
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? “I don’t know. She’s…enigmatic.” He opened the door to the offices and held it for his son. “Which means—”
“I know what that means.” Evan slipped under Oliver’s arm.
“From your Latin class?”
“Nah. Video games. So, she’s gone for good? Because she was about to teach me a card game.” He let out a sigh and mumbled, “Damn it.”
“Evan.”
“You just said it.”
“I’m thirty-nine years old. And don’t tell me; she wanted you to play Egyptian Rat Screws?”
His whole face lit. “Yeah! How’d you know?”
Because he knew her. They’d turned her favorite fast-and-furious card game into Strip Egyptian Rat Screws with a bottle of tequila and a bag of limes one night.
“It must be fun,” Evan said.
That night was. “How do you know?”
“ ’Cause you’re smiling, Dad. And that hardly ever happens.”
He led Evan into his office. “All right, Evan. I’m in the middle of my workday.”
“You’re always in the middle of your workday.”
“Save the guilt trips for your mother.” Who chose to unload Evan at the office the day before she left for a month in the south of France. “We don’t have a choice today. No sitters, no nanny, no day off for me.”
“Well, that blonde lady could have hung out with me. ’Cept she said it’s no fun at a cancer ward.”
“Sounds like something that blonde lady would say.” With that sexy, smart-ass mouth that would now haunt him for the rest of the day.
“She likes to swear, too.”
“Nice of her to share that with you.”
“I thought so.”
He laughed softly. “Evan, do you want to play computer games or something, because I have to…” Sit here and think about Zoe. And her mouth. “Write up some reports.”
Evan sighed, his narrow chest sinking. “No, Dad, I don’t want to play computer games. And I don’t want to sit in the break room. And I don’t want to swim by myself at the Shitz-Carlton—”
“Evan.” Damn, why did he have to have an eight-year-old going on sixteen? He didn’t even want to think about sixteen. If he couldn’t connect to the kid now, God only knew how bad it would be in eight more years.
“I hate it here.”
“A fact you have made undeniably clear, son.”
“Don’t call me son.” He pivoted and headed to the door.
“Evan!”
He stopped, and, for a split second, Oliver half feared he was about to get flipped off by a third-grader. But Evan didn’t move; he kept his back to Oliver.
Oliver dug for the right words and came up with nothing. Why was it easier to talk to a cancer patient than his own preadolescent child?
“Look,” Oliver said, thrashing around his brain for the right words to show some balance of compassion and discipline. “I know you’re not happy about your mom and me splitting up.”
Evan still didn’t move, unless Oliver counted the rise and fall of his shoulders.
“And I know you’d rather be in Chicago where you have friends.”
“And Grandma.”
“And your grandmother. But you can’t be there this summer, Evan. I live here and work here, and your mother’s going to Europe tomorrow, so you’ve got to make the best of this today.” And every day for the rest of the summer.
Slowly, Evan turned. “Can I just sit on the sofa while you work, Dad? I hate the break room.”
Shit. What could he say to that? A few weeks ago, when Adele had announced she’d be coming to Naples with Evan and then leaving him while she traveled, Oliver had been happy—and scared. Maybe because his own father had been so distant and busy, Oliver wasn’t ever sure how to handle a kid. Adele hadn’t been much of a mom, either, making liberal use of nannies and her own mother, who could probably lay claim to really raising the boy.
But this was his chance to bond. However the hell that was done. “Sure. Please turn the sound off your game…thing.”
“I’m not even going to turn it on,” he promised. “I’m reading something.”
As Oliver came around his desk, he frowned, instantly sensing something was different. Evan’s picture had been moved. “Were you sitting at my desk?”
Evan looked up from a brightly colored brochure. “No, she was.”
What did Zoe think about him having a son? Could she possibly know that… “What did you two talk about?”
Evan flipped the paper, mesmerized by whatever it was. “Just, you know, stuff.” He frowned and looked closer. “Whoa, look at that.”
“What kind of stuff?” Like Evan’s age? “Did you tell her you were here for the summer?”
“I think so.”
“What else?”
He held out the paper. “This place looks really cool.”
“What else did you talk about?” Oliver asked.
“Oh, stuff like her fairy godmother who has a man-eating plant. Wow, would you look at that.” Evan flung the paper out. “She left this flyer thingie for a hotel, but it’s not really a hotel. Look.” Evan waved a pamphlet under Oliver’s nose. “Casa Blanca. Sounds neat, huh?”
He took the paper, glancing at it. “I delivered a baby there last night.” He flipped the page, studying the pristine beach and the understated elegance of the architecture.
“I’d rather live there than the Shitz—” Evan stopped in response to Oliver’s stern look. “But they have houses, Dad. Not rooms.” He pointed to a beautifully appointed villa overlooking the Gulf inlet known as Barefoot Bay. “That would almost be like, you know, normal.”
He squashed the guilt. “It’s another hotel, son, and what we need to do is buy a place.” If he ever had time, or even the inclination. For the months he’d lived in Naples, the upscale hotel had been easier. Of course, he’d planned to buy something and be moved in when Evan came for his two weeks of summer that the custody agreement allowed. Then Adele announced her plans, and Evan came down six weeks sooner than expected.
Evan was still mooning over the brochure. “That place doesn’t seem so fancy.”
“It’s fancy all right, but it’s not gaudy.” Although, to be fair, he hadn’t seen much of Casa Blanca the night before. After delivering the baby—after seeing Zoe—he’d wanted to get the hell out of there. Much to Adele’s displeasure, he’d insisted on leaving, his effort
s to make their split amicable no longer important.
“Well, I don’t like gaudy,” Evan said. “And that beach looks really cool.”
If he hadn’t gone there last night he wouldn’t have seen Zoe, and she probably wouldn’t have come in here today. But why had she left so suddenly?
He glanced up at Evan and suspected he knew exactly why. Damn it, he’d wanted to tell her himself—then and now. But both times she took off.
“Don’t you think, Dad?”
He looked up, zoned out on the question. “Don’t I think what?”
“That we could live in one of those houses instead of that stupid hotel?”
He pulled himself back to the moment and studied Evan’s face, the earnest eyes so much like the ones that stared at him in the mirror every day, and the turned-down mouth, always so serious.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“We could see her all the time then.”
There was that.
“And I could find out why she ran away like that,” Evan added. “Do you think it was because of me?”
The hurt in Evan’s voice hit home. Oliver had blamed himself, too, for a while. Then he’d realized that Zoe was…Zoe. “No, Evan, she didn’t leave because of…” But the truth was she had left because of Evan, at least indirectly. “Anything you said.”
“I didn’t tell her anything, except my IQ and how old I am.” He looked down and kicked at the ground. “I know I’m not supposed to ‘brag about my brains.’ ”
But his IQ wasn’t the number that had sent Zoe running. She’d done the math and figured it all out.
Sighing, Oliver knew he had to do what he hadn’t done last time: go after her. And this time he knew where to find her.
Zoe slept until almost noon the next day and woke to an eerily empty bungalow.
Where was Pasha? She didn’t normally leave the little house without a note, but maybe she’d gone out to the greenhouse to talk to Tessa. Grabbing a mug of coffee on the way, Zoe stepped out to the tiny back patio of the bungalow, one of a half-dozen units that had been built for resort staff who would move in once Casa Blanca was fully up and, they hoped, booked, in the next few months. The little cul-de-sac of cottages was tucked behind all the villas, overlooking the gardens that Tessa Galloway had planted and nurtured since she’d taken over the job as Casa Blanca’s gardener.
Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay) Page 5