Oh, yeah. She owed him a call and information. “It’s Sunday,” she said quickly. “I thought you’d be off today.”
“So I did a little research on your aunt.”
Oh, this can’t be good.
“How is she feeling today? I understand they released her from the hospital.”
Crap. Crap. Crap. He was totally on to them. Every old instinct rose up and dusted itself off; Zoe began wondering where the hell they’d put the panic bag.
Run, Zoe—
No. Not anymore. Not tonight, anyway. And she surely didn’t have to give any more information to a law-enforcement officer until she talked to one of those attorneys that Lacey’d lined up.
“She’s in a clinic in Naples getting a special treatment for esophageal cancer,” Zoe explained. “So it’ll be a week or more before you can talk to her.”
“I had a hard time pinning her down on any database.”
Zoe pushed up in the seat, completely awake now. How could she answer that? And she had given him Pasha’s real name, so it was only a matter of time until he found out—
“I found seven U.S. citizens named Patricia Hobarth who met her general description and age. They’re all in old-age homes, incapacitated, or dead.”
She’d be the dead one.
Raking her hands through her hair, Zoe didn’t say a word. She wasn’t ready to do this yet. Not now, in this parking lot. Not this tired, not this…not yet.
“The dead one was wanted by the law before she passed, actually.”
Fuck! “You don’t say.”
“Seems she was involved with a missing child.”
She slid a look to the door of the convenience store, willing Oliver to come out and save her. But if he did, he’d probably spill the beans to the sheriff because it was the right thing to do.
Maybe it was, but she couldn’t do it yet. She would, when Pasha was strong and healthy and cured and Zoe had the comfort of a lawyer on her side. Right now, she sat silent.
“But she was cleared of that murder,” he added.
What? Murder? “That’s not my aunt,” she said.
“Oh, obviously,” he replied, a little color rising. “ ’Fraid I have a weakness for those interesting cold cases and I got wrapped up in the reading. Anyway, be sure to call me when she gets settled so I can finish that paperwork, right?”
“I will.” Relief poured through her as he stepped away. Then she felt a sudden burst of goodwill. “Oh, and—Deputy.” When he turned, she gave him a genuine smile. “Please tell Gloria thanks again for helping out when Pasha collapsed. It was so sweet of her.”
His shoulders slumped a little. “I would, but…” He blew out a breath and looked toward the store. “We’re not together right now.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that.”
He came right back to the car and she silently cursed herself for not letting him leave before Oliver came out and made a full confession. “Yeah, speaking of aunts,” he said with a thumb over her shoulder. “If there were an Olympic event for meddling, Charity’d take the gold.”
Zoe offered a sympathetic nod. “I’ve heard she’s got…opinions.”
He laughed. “You can say that again. So you’ll have to thank Gloria yourself, if you see her around Casa Blanca.”
“I will. I hope things work out for you.” She gave him a little wave. “I’ll give you a call.”
He nodded good-bye and walked to the sheriff’s car parked across the lot. As he crossed in front of the store, Oliver walked out, nearly bumping into him.
Zoe held her breath as the two men greeted each other. Her fingers squeezed the leather seat until her nails dug in. Please, Oliver, don’t push this. Don’t do the right thing, not now.
After a quick second Oliver walked away, and Zoe collapsed against her seat with relief. When he got in and turned to put the bags in the back, she grabbed his face and pulled him into her for a kiss.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Because…” Oh, she was too tired to explain. “Just because.”
He smiled. “You thought I was going to tell him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned forward and kissed her. “I’ve got, what? Three or four hours alone with you? You really think I want to spend it being interrogated by the local sheriff?”
“How do you want to spend it?”
He tunneled his hand under her hair and angled her face for one more kiss. “Like this.”
Chapter Sixteen
In a perfect world, Zoe would step out of the shower and into the guest room, where Oliver would be naked in bed, waiting for her.
Sadly, despite the promising kiss in the Super Min parking lot, this was not a perfect world. But it was close. Lacey had left the villa bathroom stocked with honeysuckle-sweet body butter, which Zoe applied liberally. And Oliver had thoughtfully laid out a pair of comfy-looking scrub pants and an ancient, well-washed Chicagoland 5K T-shirt for her to change into.
Although she’d have happily waltzed back downstairs wearing just a towel and a smile. Because…that had to be what he meant by that kiss, right?
The wait was over, the fight finished? Easy, breezy, slightly crazy sex was on the horizon?
Because if he freaking wanted to talk, she was out. She didn’t want to talk or think or analyze the situation. She didn’t want to review the medical issues or weigh the chances of success. She didn’t want to rehash the past or fantasize about a future.
Lord, she really didn’t want to do to that.
She just wanted the sweetest, fastest, loveliest escape she could find…in Oliver’s arms. In Oliver’s bed.
Pulling the shirt over her head, she let her hair soak the shoulders, not bothering to do more than quickly towel-dry it. Then she stepped into the scrubs, pulled the drawstring as far as it would go—the pants still hung low on her hips—and tossed a quick look in the mirror. Fine. Let’s…
She looked again.
Okay, maybe not completely fine. She brushed a finger along the slightly violet circle under her eye, a color that should really be called sleep-deprived indigo. The compress had made her bags go away, but her cheeks were pale, the whites of her eyes a lovely shade of road-map red.
Maybe she should go down in a towel and distract him. Because, really, who wanted to take the walking wounded to bed?
Oliver Bradbury, that’s who.
For once, the voice was dead-on. That kiss had said sex and she was answering the siren call.
She padded downstairs, spying Oliver in deep thought on the patio, shirtless in a pair of cargo shorts, a beer bottle in his hand, his eyes focused on the silver sky as dusk fell hard once the sun was down.
She stepped outside, but he didn’t move.
“Hey.”
He turned at the sound of her voice, his expression dead serious. “Hey.”
“Are you all right? Is everything okay?”
He nodded, then dropped his gaze over her. “Damn, you kill a pair of scrubs.”
“You like?” She lifted up the T-shirt to show her belly, fully exposed as the pants skimmed her pelvic bone. He stared right there and heat coiled through her.
Thank God she wasn’t going to get turned down again.
“I’ll have some, thank you.” She walked to him and took the beer out of his hand, “Pizza in already?”
“Yep.”
“I love when you cook.” She took a long, deep draw on the beer bottle, the biting brew cold on her dry throat. When she finished, she held up the half-empty bottle with a sly smile, shaking the liquid and peering into the bottle. “Now I suppose you want me to read the foam like Pasha.”
“If only that were possible.”
She pulled out a chair, sat down, and propped her feet on his lap. “You don’t believe Pasha can see things?”
“Not for a minute.” He instantly wrapped his hands around her feet. “She’s intuitive and understands people, like you said.” Long, strong fingers took ownership of her size-sixes,
rubbing a thumb over an arch, sending chills over her body and tingles up her spine.
“So you think she’s a charlatan in addition to being a kidnapper? Well, thank God she’s not a murderer, like that stupid sheriff tried to imply.”
He was staring at the logo on the T-shirt, the entire top half wet enough that it stuck to her skin. “What?”
She almost laughed, the feeling of victory so close. Under her foot, she felt his cock stir and grow, and another wave of heat and satisfaction rolled over her. Finally.
“Foot rub, please.”
But his hands were still. “What did the sheriff say?”
“Nothing.” Please touch, not talk.
“She was wanted for murder?”
“God, no.” Thankfully, he started massaging again, his knuckles pressing under her foot and hitting some sweet spot in her brain. Perfect.
“What did he say?” Oliver asked.
“He was searching databases for Patricia Hobarth and found one who was involved with a murder, but she’s…oh, please don’t stop that. In fact…” She closed her eyes and dropped her head back. “Put your fingers between my toes, Oliver.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
“And suck them.”
He lifted her foot to his mouth and she laughed softly but didn’t even open her eyes. When nothing happened, she wiggled. “They’re clean.”
Cupping her heel, he stroked the skin again, running a finger over her baby toenail. “Who paints their toes aquamarine?”
“Girls.” She wiggled again. “Are you going to suck them or not?”
“Then what?”
“Then work your way north, big boy.” She tugged at the scrub pants, revealing a turquoise ankle bracelet.
Very slowly, he lowered her foot, silent.
Aw, really, Oliver? She lifted her head and looked at him from under her lashes. “Is toe sucking against the no-sex rules?”
“I don’t have…” He let his voice drift off. “Yeah, it is.”
Blowing out a disgusted breath, she yanked her feet away and stood suddenly. “I’m starving.” She grabbed the beer bottle and walked into the kitchen, her head already buzzing with options. Through the front door, out the garage. There were plenty of ways to escape.
But she paused in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for his footstep, waiting for him to come in and grab her and kiss her and tell her he was kidding and drag her off to…
Silence.
She turned to see that he hadn’t moved. He still stared at the sky, his back perfectly straight, a man clearly at war with himself.
Well, she did not want to be this battle’s casualty. She hissed in a breath, her own private war raging. She didn’t want to run, damn it. She didn’t want to leave him.
He didn’t want her. No one did. The only person who ever really wanted her was lying in a clinic, sedated, and dying.
She looked again.
He still hadn’t moved, but sat like a freaking statue…staring. What was he thinking about? What was he feeling?
He doesn’t want you. Could he make it any clearer?
With a soft grunt Zoe set the bottle on the counter and felt something old and familiar and hot in her belly, a pressure that felt like it could explode or at least come out in the form of a primal scream.
Holding it back, she walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, and stood at the front door, her hand on the knob.
Couldn’t she stay? Couldn’t she tell him about all this pain that bubbled up and threatened to suffocate her? Or, better yet, couldn’t she just lose herself in sex and sleep and forget everything?
No.
She turned the knob, opened the door, and his hand landed on her shoulder like a vise grip.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Home.”
“You don’t have one.”
She closed her eyes under the impact of the words. “Ooh, below the belt, brother.”
“Why?”
She shook her head. “You don’t know me at all, do you?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t even know what matters to me, and I don’t mean sex.” She stared ahead at the door as she spoke. “Do you have any idea how much I want a home? A place to put down roots and stay and grow and live and die?”
“Then why don’t you get that?”
She choked softly. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re not running away, Zoe.”
Oh, yes, she was. She had jerked away from his touch and made one step onto the front porch before he snagged the T-shirt and pulled her right back into the house, whirling her around. She was stunned when she looked at him.
His eyes were as red as hers, and, good God… “Are you crying?”
He blinked, and, sure enough, there were tears. “You’re not running away, Zoe,” he repeated, the words more mantra than demand.
“What’s wrong with you?”
He pushed the door closed with one hand, still holding her with the other. “You’re not running—”
She put her hand over his mouth. “I get it. What is wrong with you, Oliver? Why are you crying?”
“I’m not,” he lied, swallowing what had to be a basketball in his throat. “I’m just so fucking sick of you leaving me.” With both hands on her shoulders he pushed her against the door. The carved mahogany pressed into her bones.
“Well, I’m so fucking sick of you turning me down.”
He drew in another breath, frustration and fury coming off him in waves so thick she could practically taste his anguish. “Zoe, I…” He put his head on her forehead, his grip growing tighter on the wet fabric of the T-shirt. “Don’t leave me.”
“I feel like I’m throwing myself at a man who doesn’t want me.”
“I want you.” Pressing his whole body against her, he answered that question with a firm and mighty erection. “See?”
Her hips, the little traitors, rocked right into him. “You don’t want me with the right head, Oliver. I can feel you’re a human male and I’m in a wet T-shirt. That doesn’t mean you want me.”
“What do you want me to say?” He pulled her a little higher, making her crotch slide against the length of him, burying his face in her neck.
“I want you to say…” She lost the fight and closed her fingers over his arms, sliding up to his shoulders, riding that hard-on one more time just for the sheer thrill it sent through her body. “Yes.”
He grunted and dragged one hand over her breast, cupping and caressing.
“Say it, Oliver.”
He slid his hand under the T-shirt, palming her flesh, tweaking her nipple.
“Say it.” Just say yes.
He half laughed, half moaned, his other hand over her hips, tugging at the pants, taking them right over her backside.
“Say it, damn it.”
Pulling back, he used both hands to push down the drawstring pants, and they fluttered to her ankles. His eyes were still damp, but they were also dark with arousal, his jaw set, his nostrils flaring as he unsnapped his shorts and pushed them down. His erection sprang forward, pulling her gaze as it pulsed and glistened with a drop of semen.
That said yes, but still he didn’t.
“Oliver.” She mouthed his name, unable to find her voice or possibly stand for one more second. “Please say it.”
He lowered his face to hers, closing his eyes as he put his mouth against her lips, making her dizzy with need and curiosity.
“Say it,” she murmured into his kiss.
“I love you.”
Chapter Seventeen
With three dangerous and dizzying words, Oliver lost the fight. Emotion won. Desire won. Risk won. Need won. Zoe won.
Common sense, self-preservation, and any hope of not getting hurt folded like a paper house in gale-force winds. Everything collapsed with one confession, three words that hadn’t stopped being true for nine long years.
He loved
her.
The admission rocked him, but Oliver couldn’t deny the truth as he laid Zoe down on the bed and kneeled over her. The T-shirt had ridden up, exposing her torso, her hips and the sweet, sweet slender strip of dark blonde hair between her legs, the scent of flowers and lemon and woman actually making his mouth water.
Good God, he couldn’t stop looking; his fingers aching to touch her everywhere.
“You’ve seen me before, Oliver.”
“So I have.”
“Then why are you staring?”
“Trying to decide where to start. Top or bottom.”
She propped up on her elbows, sandy-colored curls cascading over the still-damp shoulder of his shirt. “Middle.”
His cock throbbed between them, too hard and sensitive for much foreplay. Way, way too anxious to get back to where he loved to be most…inside Zoe. As far as he could go, bearing down with everything he had, not letting her run away.
“Middle it is.” He lowered his head to her navel, curling his tongue into the precious indentation. Instantly, her fingers tunneled into his hair and her hips rose, inviting him lower.
He trailed kisses over her abdomen, flicking his tongue over that tuft of hair, showering kisses on her thighs. He kissed his way back up to her breasts, shoving the T-shirt up to fully expose every inch of her, sucking one, caressing the other.
“You skipped my toes again.”
“I don’t want your toes,” he said gruffly, licking her nipple until it budded under his tongue. “I want you.”
She moaned softly, reaching down to stroke his hard-on, coaxing him between her legs. Her fingers were hot and strong, sure and fast, easily working him the way she always did.
“Condom,” she murmured.
“Nightstand,” he answered, reaching over to pull the drawer open.
“Lacey thinks of everything.”
“I thought of it.” He raised himself off her to get the foil packet.
“When?”
“Move-in day.” He tore with his teeth. “After the pool. Well, after the second cold shower after the pool.”
She took the package from him. “I’ll do that,” she said. “I want to stroke you.”
“Be a nice change from doing it myself.”
Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay) Page 20