Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)

by Roxanne St Claire

  Who had that more than Zoe? And a river of water, always leading toward something better. Eternity for Pasha, but for Zoe—happiness. Maybe that was a stretch, but her head was throbbing and her body felt like it burned at a thousand degrees.

  That sign would have to do. She turned to the bag and mentally went through her list of things she couldn’t live without. She had it all, didn’t she?

  Zoe would be heartbroken.

  The reality of that hit her harder than the fever. Like so many things she’d done in her life, this was selfish, the act of a coward. How could she let Zoe know that? How could she be certain that Zoe wouldn’t mourn her?

  And then she knew the answer.

  She crouched down to dig into her bottom drawer, feeling around for the edge of the envelope, the paper soft and familiar and worn. Without even looking at it, she placed the envelope on the edge of the dresser.

  That would do the trick. When Zoe read that, she’d understand why she deserved someone better than Pasha.

  Prickles of heat stung at Pasha’s neck, the inside kind, like the hot flashes she used to get in her fifties. But this wasn’t a hot flash; this was the sickness inside her screaming to get out. Somehow she found the strength to slip into loose pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and sneakers. Running clothes, Zoe would call them.

  Running-away clothes.

  Please understand, Zoe darling. Please. This is for you. So you can have the life—and love—that you deserve.

  The house was quiet as she walked through, letting herself out the front door into the moonlight.

  She started walking, following the path out of Casa Blanca, finding her way to the beach road. It had rained earlier, before Zoe had gone out, one of the flash showers that came through Florida and washed everything for ten minutes, then disappeared.

  Was this the right thing to do? Had she gotten the right signs? She lifted her gaze from the ground, where she had been watching her every step, then looked up at the night sky.

  “Oh my word,” she whispered, bringing herself to a complete stop. “A moonbow!”

  A hint of red and orange fading into a band of soft yellow, then deep azure blues, all curved around a three-quarter moon.

  The sign that true love would return.

  Pasha shivered, the fever pounding at her head, the pain screaming in her chest, the pressure of every decision hammering her into a quivering mess. It didn’t matter. She had to go. She had to run. Just like she had ever since the day she’d heard that word: mistrial.

  She’d been on the run for forty-seven years. What was a few more weeks until she died?

  The scotch tasted a hell of a lot better on Oliver’s tongue than it would have in the glass. Smoky and fierce, a fiery flavor that was exactly as he described it: manly. So were his hands, strong and secure, holding her exactly where he wanted her for this kiss.

  Drunk on the release of pent-up emotions and ancient history, and maybe a wee buzzed from the vodka, Zoe sank into Oliver, lifting her legs from the water to hang them over his lap and curl deeper into the warm, familiar pleasure of his kiss.

  The voice in her head was blessedly quiet, and all she could hear was his soft breathing, the rustle of clothes, the gentle moan in his throat as he intensified their kiss.

  He knew everything now. And still he kissed her with something that felt so tender and precious…and sexy. The thought was as potent as a whole bottle of vodka, heating her blood, squeezing her lungs, and fluttering a ribbon of white-hot lust right through the middle of her body.

  “Now this,” she whispered into his mouth, “is why I came over here.”

  He broke the kiss, frowning. “Really?”

  “Booty call, totally,” she told him. “I told you I’m naked under this dress.”

  “I did notice a distinct lack of undergarments when you, uh, flew in.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Who can think when Zoe, naked, and booty call are all in the same sentence?”

  She ran her hand along his thigh. “You’ve proven yourself a worthy opponent to my vibrator.”

  “So, you want sex?”

  She inched back, not quite sure how to take that. “Don’t you?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and her heart dropped.

  “Don’t you?” she prodded, a soft flush of embarrassment rising.

  “You don’t want sex,” he said.

  “My damp thighs beg to differ.”

  His eyes flickered with interest at the thought. “That’s a physiological response.”

  She choked softly. “Seriously, doc?”

  “Zoe.” He stroked her cheek, way too gentle for the kind of stroking she had in mind. “You came here for an escape.”

  “Maybe I did,” she replied, tamping down an irritation that didn’t mix well with arousal. “Sex can be a great escape. And it beats the hell out of disappearing. Again. Don’t you think?”

  He finished the last of his scotch, his throat moving with the gulp.

  “Oliver. You mean you’re saying no?”

  “I’m…not…” He stood suddenly, leaving her cold and alone. “Not sure,” he finished. “I’ll be right back. You want a refill?”

  “Water, please.” She stayed right where she was while the sound of his footsteps disappeared into the house.

  Well, hell. This wasn’t turning out as planned. First he’d dragged out a confession that made her ache in a way that—well, in a way that she hadn’t ached in a long time. And then he made her ache in a whole different way and didn’t seem inclined to satisfy it. What the hell?

  Maybe he’d gone for a condom. Maybe he’d gone to be certain Evan was asleep. That gave her hope, because she needed this. So what if it was an escape? It would be an amazing, wonderful, delicious escape.

  In one easy move, she slipped the cover-up over her head and slid into the water. It had worked very well with a bathing suit on, and now it would—

  “What are you doing?”

  Maybe not work so well. Shit. “Skinny-dipping. That against the law?”

  “In some states.” He had two bottles of water, which he set on the stones as he sat back down on the edge of the pool. “I’ll watch.”

  Watch? “Suit yourself.” She dove down to the bottom, staying as long as she could, letting the water cool her. Would he jump in and join her? She kicked to the surface, each stroke taut with anticipation.

  He hadn’t moved, but sat there chugging a bottle of water.

  She stayed immersed up to her shoulders. “So, what’s your game?” she asked. “Hard to get?”

  He shook his head and finished the last of the water.

  “Make me beg?”

  Another shake.

  “Fear of failure?”

  He laughed. “Never a problem for me.”

  She put her hands on her hips and stood straight so that her whole upper body was exposed. He stared and she didn’t move, knowing full well he never could resist her breasts. “Then why won’t you fuck me?”

  The response was almost imperceptible, but she caught the little flinch. “I don’t want to fuck you. I want to make love to you.” He lifted the other bottle and held it toward her. “When you’re ready.”

  For making love or the bottle? “Color me baffled, doc.”

  “A water color,” he fired back. “Looks great on you.”

  “Then join me.”

  “No.”

  She slapped the water with the same force that the word hit her. “No?”

  “No.”

  “At the risk of sounding a little overly cocky, why the hell not?”

  He angled his head a little, like he was considering the question. Or just wanted to stare some more. “Damn, you’re hot.”

  Her jaw loosened a little. “Then why don’t you dive in here and get burned?”

  “Because…” He took another sip of water. “That’s not what I want.”

  What did he want? A commitment? A romance? A flipping ring on his fi
nger? Or maybe he didn’t want her now.

  “Was it everything I told you?”

  He actually laughed softly, as if she’d said something absurd. “Zoe, I’m going to hold out for something better than pool sex with you.”

  “The bedroom’s right there.”

  She saw the longing. It flashed in his eyes, passing quickly, but not so fast that she didn’t get it and know—absolutely know beyond any shadow of a doubt—that he wanted her in that bedroom. But something was stopping him.

  “Is it because Pasha’s your patient now?”

  He laughed again. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Evidently not.”

  “There’s more to it…than sex.” The words were soft, almost a whisper, and as loving and tender as anything she’d ever heard.

  “More to what?” Her heart thudded softly as water sluiced down her bare breasts and his gaze followed each droplet.

  “More to everything.” He gestured toward her discarded dress. “Your clothes are vibrating.”

  “My cell.” She strode forward, water sluicing down her naked body. “Can you pull it out of the pocket and read the ID? I want to be sure it’s not Pasha.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off her as he found the phone. He looked at the screen and drew back.

  “Who is it?” She forgot her nakedness and need. “Pasha?”

  “The sheriff.”

  “Very fun—” She blinked at him. He wasn’t joking. Shaking water off her hand, she reached for the phone and tapped the screen, a dark feeling of dread building inside her. “Hello?”

  “Ma’am, this is Deputy Slade Garrison of the Lee County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Holy, holy crap. They’d been caught. This was the call she’d dreaded her whole life. “Yes?”

  “I’m with a woman by the name of Pasha Tamarin. Do you know her?”

  She almost sank right into the water. “Is she okay?”

  “No, ma’am, she’s not. She’s not okay at all.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Doctor Bradbury was a godsend in a crisis. During the blur that was the next hour—two?—Oliver handled everything. Everything. With calm, unquestioned authority, not the least bit ruffled by a life-and-death situation.

  He took the phone and talked to the sheriff, helped Zoe dress, called Tessa to come and stay with Evan, talked to a doctor in the ER at North Naples Hospital, and, through it all, he stayed completely calm as he drove them over the causeway.

  Zoe, on the other hand, was a wreck, with two words echoing through her head the whole time Oliver dealt with one thing after another: She left. She left. She left.

  Pasha had packed the fucking panic bag and left, only to collapse in the parking lot of the Super Min and be found by the night clerk, Gloria Vail, who happened to work during the day at the Casa Blanca salon and also happened to be dating Deputy Garrison.

  Gloria recognized Pasha and called Tessa and got Zoe’s cell number.

  Otherwise, Zoe might never have learned where Pasha was until she got home and discovered her missing and then called every hospital and law-enforcement agency in the county.

  She had to remember to thank Gloria for calling the sheriff.

  Now if that wasn’t irony, what was? Thanking someone for doing what Pasha and Zoe had been actively avoiding for twenty-five years.

  At the hospital they wouldn’t let Zoe see Pasha. When the desk clerk had asked for insurance, identification, and other normal information that abnormal Zoe didn’t have, Oliver had swooped in once again, promising to handle it—how?—and demanding that Zoe sit in a waiting room to wait.

  And there she stayed, in a blue leather chair that stuck to her bare legs, staring at a TV with no sound and vaguely aware that people walked by while her world crumbled into a million pieces.

  “Hey.”

  Zoe jumped at the greeting, yanked from her miserable meditation to see Tessa and Jocelyn hustling down the hall toward her. Even in T-shirt and jeans, Jocelyn looked completely collected, her dark hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail. Tessa didn’t look quite so together, but they had gotten her up from a sound sleep to stay with Oliver’s son.

  “Where’s Evan?” Zoe asked, standing up to meet them.

  “He woke up and I took him to Lacey and Clay’s house. She was up anyway with the baby, and we wanted to come and be with you.” Tessa handed her a plastic supermarket bag. “I happened to notice you were next to naked and thought you might want something to wear.”

  Zoe nodded thanks and gave them both quick hugs.

  “You okay?” Jocelyn asked, a gentle hand on Zoe’s face. “ ’Cause you look like hell on a stick.”

  “I am hell on a stick. She ran away!” The words tumbled out on a sob.

  “Why would she do that? Was she trying to find you?” Tessa asked.

  “My father has run away,” Jocelyn said.

  “But he has dementia,” Tessa replied. “Pasha has…”

  All three of them were quiet, almost refusing to say the word.

  “Cancer,” Jocelyn finally said. “She has cancer and now she’s going to get help. She can’t fight you on it, no matter what her reasons.”

  Tessa looked hard at Zoe, the silent question all over her face. What are her reasons? “Why do you think she ran away, Zoe?” she asked instead.

  Zoe fell back into her chair, the leather still warm. The girls bookended her in the chairs on either side, both instantly grabbing Zoe’s hands.

  Zoe gave them both a death grip. “I don’t…” She swallowed the standard response—also known as a lie. “She ran away because she doesn’t want…” No, that was another lie. She hadn’t run from doctors and the opportunity to be cured; she’d run from reality. She ran away… “So I can have a normal life.”

  They both stared at her.

  Zoe closed her eyes, the lids burning with exhaustion and stress and fear. And probably some tears.

  Her friends were going to be so hurt. So mad. So insulted that they hadn’t been close enough to be trusted. Especially secret-averse Tessa.

  “What are you talking about, Zoe?” Tessa asked.

  “I haven’t told you…everything.” Zoe couldn’t take her gaze from Tessa’s, hoping the depth and sincerity of her apology was coming through. But, judging from the look of abject misery on Tessa’s face, Zoe was failing.

  “Zoe,” Jocelyn said again, adding a squeeze.

  Zoe ignored her, still looking at Tessa. It wasn’t Jocelyn who worried her, frankly. She’d hid enough of her own past from them that she’d be the most understanding of the friends. But Tessa, oh, Tessa. She’d only asked for honesty and Zoe had withheld it for all these years.

  It was time.

  “Zoe, look.” Jocelyn yanked her hand, and finally Zoe turned, her gaze snagged by a man in forest green walking toward them. With a big bad mother-effer of a gun on his hip and a Lee County sheriff’s badge on a sizable chest. “I think Deputy Garrison wants to see you.”

  Zoe instantly recognized the buff build and sandy hair of the young deputy sheriff who was such a presence around Mimosa Key.

  “Ms. Tamarin.” He nodded.

  Slowly Zoe stood, her heart walloping her ribs. So this was it—the moment she’d dreaded for as long as she could remember.

  “Deputy Garrison.” She reached out her hand to shake his. “Thank you very much for taking care of my…of Pasha.”

  “I’m wondering if you could help me with some paperwork, ma’am. She didn’t have any identification and I have to fill out some forms. Did you bring her license?”

  “She doesn’t drive.” Or have a shred of legitimate identification.

  “Can you give me her social and permanent address?”

  “Actually, I don’t know them.” Because they don’t exist.

  “How about a birthday and place of birth so we can plug that into our system?”

  And find nothing? Zoe shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t, Deputy.”

 
He frowned a little. “Then we do have a problem because—”

  “What exactly is the problem, Sheriff?”

  Zoe whipped around at the velvety, powerful sound of Oliver’s voice, her heart vaulting to her throat at the sight of him in scrubs. Had he operated on Pasha? Treated her?

  “How is she?” Zoe asked, the sheriff momentarily forgotten.

  He nodded, reaching out a hand to her. “I’ll tell you in a minute. I’m Dr. Oliver Bradbury,” he said to the sheriff. “Pasha Tamarin is a patient of my private practice. I’m on staff at this hospital. We’ll get the paperwork to you tomorrow, Sheriff. Ms. Tamarin needs to see her aunt now.”

  Slade nodded. “I understand that, but I need to get something into the system as far as identification. Can you tell me her full, legal name?”

  For a long moment no one said a word. Zoe was aware of Jocelyn and Tessa just a few feet away, frozen in uncertainty. And Oliver, clearly waiting for her to…stop running.

  “Her name is…” Zoe swallowed and looked at Oliver, seeing the silent plea in his eyes but hearing another in her head.

  Don’t do it, Zoe. Run. Lie. Keep that pillow over your head and imagine. Float away from this moment.

  Not this time.

  “Her name is Patricia Hobarth,” she said softly. “And as soon as I know she’s going to survive this, I’ll tell you everything else you need to know.”

  Slade looked satisfied with that, stepping aside to let her get to Oliver, who reached out and pulled her into his chest with a full-body embrace. “That’s my girl.”

  Was she his girl? Well, they were certainly a step closer to that, weren’t they? “How is Pasha?”

  “Come on. I’ll take you to her.”

  Zoe stood in the doorway of Pasha’s room for a few minutes, holding on to Oliver’s arm as she watched a nurse change an IV bag. Pasha looked as tiny as a child, pale and frighteningly close to death.

  “What exactly happened?” she asked Oliver.

  “Extremely high fever, severe fatigue, and indigestion. We’ve got those symptoms under control, but now we have to treat the cause.”

  “Cancer?”