Finding Zoe (Atlantic Divide)

by Diane Saxon

  Bright gold flickered behind her closed eyelids, and she idly considered applying more sunblock before her pale skin frazzled to a crisp. She smiled, lay back all the way, hitched her cold, wet feet up onto the jetty, and rested her hands on her warm belly. One more minute wouldn’t harm.

  She listened to the footsteps as they approached; they faltered a little. It would be her father; he seemed to be in such pain lately.

  Zoe sat up and glanced at him as he lowered himself gingerly by her side. Reaching out, she touched his arm, smiled at him, and saw the pain flick across his face as he adjusted himself to a more comfortable position to accommodate his arthritis.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Hmmm.”

  He cast his gaze out over the water, watching Mac and Ryan in the little rowboat with the two dogs. Muted male laughter could be heard while the boat rocked precariously, and Ice barked as he hung his head over the side and stared at his own reflection.

  “The boy loves him.”

  “He does.”

  “It was time for him to meet his father.” His head turned, and his faded hazel eyes met hers. Deep concern filled them, wrinkles feathering around them as his eyebrows drew in low. “He’s not going to stay.”

  She closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun again so he couldn’t see her pain. She knew he didn’t need to. With her own unerring instinct of a parent, she knew that he would already feel it in his own heart.

  “I know.” She tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact, but it came out in a husky whisper.

  “The boy will be fine. He knows who his father is, and Mac will stay in contact.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you…he’s going to break your heart again, and it hurts me to have to watch.”

  She sat up abruptly, pushed the tendrils of hair escaping her plait back in place, and shook her head.

  “No. He won’t…because I know the score this time, Dad. I know he’s not staying.” She glanced sideways at him, uncomfortable with the subject. “He’ll be gone by the end of summer.” She gave him a sad smile. “He can’t break my heart again; it never mended from the last time.”

  “I loved Mac myself.” His quiet voice took on a wistful note. “I looked on him almost as a son. I always thought he was a good man, and in a way, I still do love him.” He flicked his gnarled hand. “I see him with the boy, and they’re good together. But I can never forgive him for what he did to you. What he’s likely to do again.”

  “I know. Dad, he won’t get the opportunity to do it again. I’m older now. I know it would be stupid to try and hold onto him.”

  He sighed.

  “I always thought perhaps you would meet a nice man, settle down. But you’re like your mother. Loyal, faithful. She always said she was a one-man woman, and you take after her. It’s just a shame he doesn’t appreciate it.”

  She patted his hand, and he turned it palm upward into hers, held on for a moment before he slid it away, and they sat in silence to watch as the boat came toward them.

  Coke leaped into the water, sending a spray in a rainbow arc high above the boat as it rocked frantically.

  Pushing her worries to one side, her laughter turned to a shriek as the dog bounded onto the jetty and shook freezing water over them. Her father got stiffly to his feet, unable to join in the laughter. “I’ll check on dinner.” He limped toward the house.

  “We’ve caught supper.” Mac proudly held two fat, ugly fish aloft, and Zoe felt her stomach rebel at the sight of them.

  “Carp. Mac, they’re very…earthy tasting. I have beef and Yorkshire pudding in the oven, but if you want me to stick them on the barbecue for you, you’re most welcome.”

  His eyes narrowed mischievously as he peered up at her from the boat, and then he pitched the two dead fish across the jetty for them to slime over her feet. Screeching, she leaped up. Instinct and a good right arm had her lobbing them back at him. Gasping in horror as they hit him dead center in the face, she watched wide-eyed as he flipped over backward, sending the boat rocking madly and creating a tidal wave when his body hit the water. Ryan clung to the side of the little vessel, laughing so hard he almost cried.

  “Mac!” With a gasp of horror, Zoe flung herself belly down on the jetty to watch his head bob to the surface. Anxious, she leaned over the edge, instinctively proffering her hand as Mac reached toward her holding out his own. Midreach, she stopped. She looked in his eyes and saw hard determination there. Withdrawing her extended hand, she shifted to sit back on her haunches.

  “No chance, buster. You get yourself out.”

  Grinning, he levered himself up, paused for a moment to adjust his balance. His biceps flexed bearing his weight, his huge chest muscles bulged, and just like that, her mouth went dry. She gazed at his golden skin glowing in the sunlight and swore she’d stopped breathing. The slow, liquid thud of her pulse reassured her she was still alive. His fine-tuned muscles flexed, and goose bumps raced across his skin from the chill of the water. She gulped long and slow as her gaze tracked up his body and over his face to meet the awareness in his eyes. And she realized her mistake.

  She scrambled backward too late as he leaped after her, and then his drenched body was plastered against hers, over hers, surrounding hers. Icy water sluiced off him, soaking through to her skin as she writhed beneath him, delighted screeches bursting from her lips as his laughter joined in, wild and wicked.

  He stilled; the heat and friction of his large body had already chased away the cold. It was like being engulfed by the sun as he stared hotly into her face. Her heart raced, blood heated; the sluggish pace of before had been replaced with a drumming tattoo as electric ripples shot through her veins.

  His face filled her vision. His presence filled her universe. Restless, she smoothed her legs against his rougher hairy ones, felt his instant response, and watched the dark glitter in his eyes as he lowered his head.

  “Mum?”

  Her body jolted under Mac’s as she stared up into his black eyes. He slowly removed himself from her. His shock of black hair flopped, dripping across his forehead, and as he looked at Ryan’s concerned face, he grinned lopsidedly and shook his head like a dog. Hauling Ryan’s laughing, wriggling body onto the rug, he tickled him until the boy wheezed.

  They lay, all three of them, breathless with laughter.

  “Mum’s a good shot.”

  She stared up at the clear, blue sky and smiled, felt the warmth of the sun soak back into her cold, wet clothes. She turned her head sideways and her heart gave a sharp tug as Ryan sat leaning casually against Mac’s side. Mac’s arm came up automatic and comfortable to scrub the boy’s head and then wrapped around his shoulders in a move so natural her heart ached. They’d bonded, father and son.

  Choked, she sat up, looked for a distraction from the prickle of tears behind her eyes and the pressure in her chest.

  “Ha, so much for a superhero.”

  “Dad’s not a superhero, silly, he’s an action hero.”

  “Well, he still fell in the water.”

  “Of course he did. If he’d been a superhero, he would have shot webbing out from his wrists to pull him back before he could flip over.”

  She pointed at the two fish, now in the bottom of the boat.

  “I’ll cook the fish for the dogs’ supper.”

  Ryan gurgled, his hand resting on Mac’s chest to prop himself up.

  “Dad thought he was being romantic, bringing home the dinner.”

  Unable to help it, she snorted out a laugh.

  “Romance is not bringing home smelly fish.”

  Mac lazily rose to prop himself up on one elbow, shifting Ryan to a more comfortable position as he pinned her with his gaze.

  “What would you consider romantic?”

  Keen to show his knowledge, Ryan piped up. “I liked your last film where you were in the speedboat, and you hid the chick from the bad guys on a deserted island and had champagne and stuff all ready.” As another thought
struck him, Ryan came up on his knees and tapped Mac on his hard, flat belly. “Or…or…or in Terrorist Sky where the girl was held captive, and you walked straight up to the guy and put a bullet through his brains and she jumped into your arms.”

  “It was hardly romantic. The blood splatter would have been messy.”

  A smile tugged at her lips.

  “Well, what do you think is romantic, Mum? What’s your favorite scene from Cormack’s films?” Ryan shifted to wrap his arms around her.

  Reluctant to let Mac know how many of his films she had watched, she moved the conversation around.

  “Umm…” She leaned back on her hands, stretched her legs out in front of her, and let the sun dry her. “This isn’t a scene from his films, but if you want to know what I would find romantic, it would have to be a man rappelling down from a hovering helicopter with a bunch of roses in his arms. You know, there used to be an advert where the guy did similar stunts, then left chocolates for the woman.” She couldn’t resist a chuckle as Mac sat up abruptly and pointed a finger at her.

  “It’s not romantic and it’s not funny. It’s darned stupid. I’m scared of heights.”

  “I never said it was about you. I was just saying what I thought was romantic.” She considered for a moment. “But it’s what makes it romantic. If someone is afraid of what they are doing but is prepared to do it anyway. Otherwise, it would just be another stunt.” Carried away with the thought, she smiled. “Romance is risking all for one person.” She hadn’t meant to say it; it had just tumbled out of her mouth, and in the silence, she knew she’d revealed too much. Embarrassed, she stared out over the water.

  Oblivious to the change in atmosphere, Ryan continued.

  “Mum likes roses. White ones.”

  She heard Mac’s soft intake of breath and refused to meet his eyes but knew it was a valiant attempt when he tried to lighten the subject.

  “A dozen white roses thrown from a helicopter is safer than rappelling down.”

  “Nah, you’d probably end up with them in the lake ’cos the wind would take them. You’d have to carry them down yourself, Dad. Don’t be a sissy. And one dozen wouldn’t be enough, nearer five dozen.”

  Zoe smiled. She wasn’t sure her son knew what a dozen was.

  “Well, why don’t we go the whole hog and say he has to be wearing a dinner jacket and holding a full twelve dozen roses. One hundred and forty-four, Ryan.”

  “Whoa…!” His eyes, large and round, flicked between her and Mac. “That sure as shit would be a statement!”

  * * * *

  He wanted to do something for her. To show how much he loved her. Make her believe he loved her.

  He could see it in her eyes, the small flickers of doubt. Every time he took a step closer, she took one back.

  There was no way in hell he was going to rappel from a helicopter, though. It was one of the most dangerous stunts he could think of. Along with his fear of heights, it would be stupid. It was far worse than the cooling tower leap. At least he knew there were bricks in front of him his feet could get purchase on when he needed them to. From a helicopter, there was nothing, just a long, deadly drop and fresh air all around with a rope ready to swing wildly.

  He could send her roses. Fat, white roses.

  He wondered if she remembered he had sent her white roses after their first date. He’d been young and stupid and romantic. Head over heels in love from the very first moment he had spotted her waitressing in a local restaurant where the cast and crew hung out when they weren’t filming.

  It had been all her bright hair. It was like the sun glowed from her. And her eyes. He’d never seen anyone with eyes quite like hers. He’d seen hazel and he’d seen green, but it was as though nature couldn’t make up its mind and given her a good of splash of both.

  The amount of spare time he’d had because he wasn’t needed filming was obscene. He’d been so frustrated at first, thinking he was missing out on his turn to shine, and then relieved to have so much free time to hang out with Zoe. That had changed too. But for a while, during the long, lovely summer, he’d thought he was in heaven. He’d known he was in love.

  He’d glanced sideways at her face yesterday to see if she remembered, but she’d been looking out over the water, and it had been difficult to see her reaction. Her skin had been kissed by the sun and was flushed a pretty pink anyhow.

  Annoyed with himself for wasting so much time on memories, he tried to imagine what Zoe would want from him. He could buy her a goddamned Ferrari and consider it pin money. But he didn’t think she’d be too impressed if he started throwing his money around. She wasn’t the kind who could be bought, and if she was, then she wouldn’t be the woman for him. He’d had to deal with far too many gold diggers in his time.

  No, it had to be a statement. A declaration.

  Now he started to think. An idea formed in his mind, expanded until a smile tugged at his mouth and he knew. The ultimate declaration of love.

  Let the world see, and then she would start to believe.

  Chapter 9

  Not quite able to understand how it all happened, Zoe stared in the mirror and barely recognized herself.

  She’d had to ask the makeup lady, Sally, if she could visit the bathroom, just to have a moment to herself.

  Enthralled, she slid the light robe from her shoulders, let it slither unheeded to the floor in order to study herself in the mirror. Critical, she tipped her head one way and then the other.

  During the last few years she hadn’t really given her body much thought. Most of her attention had been centered on her son, her father, and her work. She’d always taken it for granted her body was long, slender, and strong because of the work she did, because of the country life she led.

  Tilting her head again, she watched as her perfect, dark red lips slowly spread into a wide, stunning smile, showing even, white teeth. She’d never realized her teeth were so good. She’d never realized anything about her was so good.

  Then again, when you’d spent two days being pampered, head to toe waxing, pummeling, pedicure, and manicure, what could you expect?

  Leaning closer, she studied the perfect line of her darkened eyebrows. They’d used thread on them, making her eyes water and her skin burn, and she’d honestly thought they were going to glow bright red and throb forever more. She certainly hadn’t believed her brows would calm down enough for her to be seen in public. They’d reassured her and smoothed something cool over them, and after she’d slept all night, all sign of swelling and redness had disappeared.

  She was still amazed at how different she looked. Her brows arched perfectly, giving her a wide-eyed appearance, and Sally’s makeup application had been surprisingly subtle. She’d smoothed a lovely ivory color over her eyelids as a base layer, all the time talking her through it. A deep teal had been used to define the lids, giving her a sultry, sexy-eyed look and bringing out the natural green of her eyes. Sally had offered to attach false eyelashes, but Zoe had managed to convince her it would be a mistake; she’d probably end up plucking them out halfway through the evening. Instead, Sally had applied layers of mascara and made Zoe’s eyes look enormous.

  Her opinion throughout the two days had wavered between absolute ecstasy when she was treated to a massage and complete agony when they waxed her body in places she never imagined was safe to wax.

  She thought eyebrow threading had been one of the most painful experiences she had ever willingly allowed another human being to inflict upon her; until they’d started waxing. She wasn’t sure she would ever let anyone near her again. When the assistant had given her a choice between Hollywood, Brazilian, or Playboy, she’d simply stared at her. Of course she’d heard of them; she’d just never had any reason to have it done before, and it would have to be a seriously good reason to ever have it done again.

  Since she looked fantastic, though, and felt heavenly, it didn’t matter. As she met the reflection of her own eyes in the mirror, for the first time i
n her life she actually acknowledged she was beautiful. If she could afford to pay someone to take two days to groom her anytime she wanted to go out, she probably would.

  Inexplicably choked, she stepped back and blinked rapidly to clear the wash of tears welling up. Sally was going to kill her if she so much as smudged the makeup in the corner of her eyes if she tried to dab away a tear. Fingers were not an option. Tissues were a no-no, so she just blinked some more.

  To distract herself, she studied the underwear they had painted on her. It was another first, allowing someone to dress her, but she hadn’t been given any choice in the matter.

  Eloisa, the wardrobe lady, had arrived with two young girls in tow, arms laden with clothing draped in white cotton protective covers.

  The dress had not yet been revealed, but they assured her there was time enough for adjustments. She’d never seen women work so quickly and efficiently.

  Underwear had been strewn across the lounge area of the hotel suite, two-thirds of which had been rapidly discarded as Eloisa fixed a critical eye on Zoe’s body.

  Smooth black satin had been decided upon, and when they’d strapped her into the perfect basque, hitched her bosom up until it all but fell out of the top of the underwear, and hauled in her already slender waistline, she’d thought she looked like a World War II model painted on the front of a fighter plane. Old-fashioned, curvaceous, and very sexy.

  They’d only just finished her hair, allowing her natural curls to riot madly from the diamond-encrusted clip holding it gathered together on the top of her head.

  She grinned as she imagined Mac’s reaction. She’d never been conceited about her looks, and until that moment, she’d never understood what he saw in her. But if he saw what she could see right now, she was going to knock his socks off.

  A little shiver of anticipation tingled through her veins as she did a gentle happy dance, cautious not to let anything move, slide, or fall off.

  *

  Swallowing his tongue was not an option. He needed it to speak. To tell her how beautiful she looked as she posed where she had obviously been told to pose to give the best impact. She stood in front of the huge marble fireplace, one elegant hand strategically resting on the wooden plinth above, her chin raised, her long, elegant neck angled.