Barefoot in the Sun

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Why don’t we not, because if I needed help with that I’d see a lawyer. Last time I checked, you’re a doctor. An oncologist. And that’s what I need.”

  At the little hitch in her voice, he put the past behind, instantly. “She has cancer?”

  “We don’t know for sure that it’s cancer, but I’ve done a lot of Internet research—”

  “You haven’t talked to a professional?”

  She blew out a breath. “Damn it, Oliver, you know the situation. I can’t. But we did see this one guy who—it’s a stretch, but I suppose you could call him a doctor.”

  He looked skyward. “Knowing your aunt, it was a psychic.”

  “Actually, he was a healer in Sedona.” She sighed and gave an apologetic smile. “It was the best I could do. She doesn’t want to see a doctor, for obvious reasons, and she still puts a lot of weight in those signs sent from the universe.”

  “Bad idea when the universe sends a tumor.”

  Her expression grew serious. “That’s why I’m here, Oliver.”

  Of course it was. Not because she was sorry he had his heart kicked in and missed her every day and still jacked off just thinking about the way she—

  No, he’d stopped doing that years ago. Well, months.

  “Anyway,” she continued. “This healer-doctor type made her swallow something awful—”

  “Barium.”

  “Yeah, and this endo…thing.”

  “Endoscopy.”

  “Then he suggested a…” She closed her eyes. “Biopsy, but that Aunt Pasha refused because we would have had to go into a hospital or surgeon’s office. That was a few weeks ago, and then we decided to come here so we could be in Barefoot Bay when Lacey’s baby was born.”

  “And you decided to see me.”

  “Well, I honestly never thought of you.”

  “Not at all?” Damn it, he sounded pathetic.

  “Well, other than the time I saw you at the Ritz and then, about six months ago, I was driving down this street with my friend Jocelyn, and I saw your sign on the door.”

  The words hit low and hard. She had been here. Driving down his street. “But you didn’t come in.”

  “She wasn’t sick then,” she said, as if any other reason for visiting would be unfathomable. “But last night, when you came in to deliver Lacey’s baby, I remembered you’re an oncologist and thought maybe I should…try.” Her voice cracked as she pushed herself up from the chair.

  Zoe never stayed still for long; that hadn’t changed any more than her hair or clothes or her magnetic aura. All still there, torturing him. “So I decided I need you.”

  Just like that. She needed him. In fact, she was willing to give herself to him, but not for the right reasons. And while that idea had incredible appeal, the motivation sucked. He’d had enough empty sex in his marriage, thank you very much.

  “Tell me her symptoms,” he ordered.

  She rubbed her hands together, pacing as if the office couldn’t contain her, already antsy from being in one room for ten minutes. “It started with heartburn, really bad, then she had trouble swallowing.” As she paused and the light hit her face, he noticed the shadows under her eyes and a slightly swollen lip from a lot of gnawing. “She gets really hoarse at times and can barely talk. Then she started to lose weight. Like, a lot of it.”

  It wouldn’t take years of oncology experience to diagnose this, he thought glumly. Especially if a holistic doctor suggested a biopsy after an endoscopy. “Was she a smoker?”

  “She doesn’t have lung cancer, he told us that. But, yes, she smoked and quit years ago, but…”

  “How old is she?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but I’d say eighty-ish.”

  His eyes widened. “You don’t know how old your aunt is?”

  “Great-aunt.” She swallowed visibly and stared at him. “And we both know she’s not really that, either. Let’s say eighty for argument’s sake.”

  So she probably had no access to family medical history. He stood, coming around the desk to the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to get some information for you on esophageal cancer, which is my guess. And some names of specialists who—”

  She grabbed his arm. “I’m not going to a specialist, Oliver.”

  Closing his hand over her fingers, he pressed gently, fighting the desire to pull her into him and kiss all that desperation away. “I’m not the right doctor for someone who hasn’t had a single diagnosis yet. You need to understand something: I don’t treat cancer with standard procedures. I work strictly in a cutting-edge and unorthodox way, and many of my patients are undergoing experimental treatments, many as volunteers to research programs being done by a clinic I’m associated with. Believe me, cancer patients don’t come to me first. I’m a last-resort kind of guy.”

  “Well, you’re my only resort.” She stepped back. “And I’ve always been a big fan of unorthodox. I’ll volunteer her for anything. Where do we start? What do you need?”

  He almost laughed at the open-endedness of that unanswerable question. He searched her face, still not quite used to the impact of Zoe, so much brighter, bolder, and better in the flesh than in his imagination. His gaze dropped to her mouth, the bow over a hint of an overbite, the pout of a lower lip that could suck the common sense right out of a man’s head.

  Hell, just looking at her he felt everything below the belt threaten to rise up and demand attention.

  “I can read your expression, Oliver.”

  He hoped not. “What does it say?”

  “Something pornographic.”

  “That’s your mind, Zoe.”

  She shrugged, unfazed. “Whatever it takes to get some of that unorthodox, experimental magic.”

  For a few seconds, he almost considered it. During that flash of time, enough blood rushed south, a reaction he’d had to Zoe from day one. Maybe he simply couldn’t resist her when he was thirty and willing to pay any price for the pleasure of her body, but now he was old enough to know that the price was too high for him.

  “It’s not magic,” he said coolly. “It’s medicine, and it’s got as many risks as payoffs. There are a lot of things to consider, Zoe. I can’t take a patient that hasn’t been referred by a traditional doctor of—”

  “She can’t see another doctor and you know it.”

  “There’s no way, not even a clinic or some kind of an emergency facility?”

  She gave him a look of disbelief. “She doesn’t even exist, for crying out loud.”

  Emotion rocked her whole body, making him want to reach out and steady her, but he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled softly. “It wouldn’t be proper medicine for me to treat her and—”

  “Fuck proper medicine!” She grabbed both his arms and squeezed, desperation rolling off her. “Or fuck me, if that’s what you want. I don’t care.”

  That was the problem right there. She didn’t care.

  “Will that work?” She pressed against him, surely feeling the bulge in his pants.

  He put his hands on her shoulders, ready to push her away, but her breasts felt so good against his chest that he hesitated. “No,” he managed to say. “It will not work.”

  She slid her hands around his neck, sending every hair there to full attention. “Are you sure? ’Cause it kinda feels like it might work.”

  He lowered his head, giving in to the need to put his lips on her hair, her temple, her ear. He meant to just kiss her, but the words came tumbling out like they had a will of their own. “Why did you disappear?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

  Very slowly, she backed away, shaking her head. “You know why I had to leave.”

  Like hell he did. “Leave? You evaporated. It was like aliens abducted you. Clothes, furniture; there was goddamn food left in your refrigerator—”

  “You wanted me to do something I couldn’t, and since you’re the guy who always follows the rules and does the right thing, I really w
orried that you’d turn us in and—”

  “How could you think that? You knew me, Zoe. You…” Loved me. Or had she?

  “I had to go,” she said softly. “Pasha and I decided it wasn’t worth the risk.”

  Love wasn’t worth the risk. He wasn’t worth the risk.

  Wasn’t that the lesson he’d learned that dark day, as a child, when he’d trudged up the stairs, climbed into the attic, and learned that love—even unconditional love—might not be enough in this life? Especially not for a woman who’d rather quit than fight.

  “Listen to me.” He reached for her face, cupping her cheeks, the shape of her jaw so familiar and fine in his hands. “Zoe, that—”

  “Dr. Bradbury.”

  They both leaped apart at the sight and sound of his receptionist in the doorway. “Excuse me, but Beth’s on the phone and couldn’t come here to tell you, but Mr. Carlson is very distraught.”

  “I’ll be right there, Johanna.”

  Her gaze flicked at Zoe. “Would you like me to show Miss, um, Tamarin out?”

  “I’d like you to leave.”

  The receptionist gave him a shocked look, then backed away and closed the door. Oliver turned back to Zoe. “But I don’t want you to leave. We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Like my aunt’s treatment.”

  Would a promise to talk about that keep her here? With Zoe, who knew?

  “Stay here and we’ll talk after I’m finished with this patient.” He stepped away, hoping that was enough. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  He walked to the door, wishing like hell he could lock it from the outside. But that was the thing about Zoe, the original flight risk. He couldn’t keep her. No one could. He couldn’t let himself forget that.

  Zoe damn near fell back on the desk when Oliver left, boneless and spent from being that close for that long to a man she’d really hoped she was over.

  So not over.

  But would he help Pasha or try to ship her off to some other doctor? Sighing, she walked around the desk and folded herself into his big doctor chair, imagining his long, strong body filling it again.

  He isn’t married.

  The words inflated her heart like a shot of propane fumes, lifting her into hope-filled skies. Hope-filled skies?

  Pathetic. And the only hope she needed was for Pasha. There were no hope-filled skies in a world without her aunt. And there was nothing but thunder and lightning in skies with Oliver. How could she forget that?

  He’d shown his true colors, marrying his ex-girlfriend within weeks of the day Zoe had left. But then, Adele had no problem getting a marriage license. Whereas Zoe? Hell, Pasha damn near had to sell her soul to buy the fake paperwork to get Zoe into college.

  She’d have done anything for Zoe, and that was why Zoe had to get Pasha medical help. Unorthodox and experimental? Perfect. Zoe didn’t know much about medicine, but Pasha was old and frail. She’d never survive chemo and radiation, let alone the stress of going through some kind of health-care hell that didn’t take a patient without insurance, let alone no real identity.

  Puffing out a breath at the familiar cycle of worry she spent so much time treading along, Zoe let her gaze drift over the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind her, scanning the medical tomes and landing on a framed photo of a little boy. Was that Oliver?

  Shooting forward, she picked up the frame, a weird heaviness in her arm as she brought the picture closer and studied the face of a boy who could only be Oliver’s son.

  No Internet search had ever mentioned a child. But then, he’d be the kind of man to take great care to keep his child out of the limelight, wouldn’t he?

  She tried to swallow, but a lump of longing and dismay squeezed her throat. Oliver had a son. She’d have given anything to have been the woman to give him a son.

  She guessed the boy in the picture to be five or six, missing front teeth, the last of lingering baby chubbiness around his chin. But there was no question what gene pool this child had been dipped in.

  He had Oliver’s distinct intelligent gleam in his mahogany eyes, the same flat brows, and something about his lightly freckled cheeks hinted at a bone structure that would be strong and prominent once the right hormones and age kicked in.

  It was a school picture, taken in a navy polo shirt with an insignia that read Cumberland Academy. A private school, of course.

  Zoe had been homeschooled by Pasha.

  The door opened and Zoe froze, not wanting to be caught ogling Oliver’s child as he returned to continue their conversation. Knowing her head didn’t even show over the back of the chair, she waited, completely still.

  Maybe Oliver would think she’d left, and when he went out to find her she could replace the picture and he wouldn’t—

  A sniff broke the silence. And another, followed by a full-blown sob.

  Zoe bit her lip to not react.

  That wasn’t Oliver. Probably one of his staffers having a breakdown because he’d yelled at her. Maybe it was Big Red. A splash of satisfaction warmed her gut. Bitch got what she—

  “I hate this!” The voice was thin, broken, and frail. “I hate him.” A smack against the leather sofa underscored the emotion.

  That wasn’t the receptionist or the secretary.

  “It’s so not fair!”

  That was a kid. Zoe slowly turned the chair, making it squeak and getting a loud gasp in response. As she lifted her gaze from the picture, she met the very same face in three dimensions. Maybe a year or two older, eyes brimming with tears, a Chicago Bulls tank top draped over skinny shoulders that shuddered with the effort to stop crying.

  “Who are you?” he asked, eyes popping in surprise.

  “Fairy Godmother.”

  For a moment he tried to speak, but another shuddering sob came out as a half hiccup, half burp.

  “Why the waterworks, kid?”

  He swiped his eyes, a soft color rising to his cheeks. “Who are you, really?”

  “Friend of…” She took a not-too-wild guess. “Your dad’s?”

  “Are you another nanny?”

  Her heart slipped a little at the mix of hope and dread in his voice. “Have there been a few?”

  “Like, nineteen in two weeks.”

  She almost smiled. “That’s a lot.”

  “Okay, four. But since we got here and have to live in that stupid, ugly hotel, there’s like a different one every day.”

  “What stupid, ugly hotel do you live in?”

  “The Ritz-Carlton.”

  “Oh, yeah, the stupidest and ugliest of them all.” Why did Oliver live in a hotel?

  “I know, right?” He sniffed again. “I was glad all their dumb babysitters were busy and my mom had to bring me here all day.”

  She dropped off…something. His son was a something? “Yeah, ’cause what’s better than hanging out at the cancer ward?”

  He choked on a laugh he didn’t want to have but couldn’t help. “So, are you talking to my dad about the job?”

  A job, not that job. “More or less. Are you looking for him?”

  He shrugged, then shook his head. “I’m mad at him.”

  “I heard.” She set the picture on the desk to lean forward, intrigued. “What’d he do?”

  He sniffled one last time and wiped his nose, leaving it gleaming wet with teary snot. “I want a dog.”

  “Probably frowned upon at the Ritz.”

  He gave her a “Yeah, duh” look that only a kid his age could nail with such perfection. “No dogs at the Shitz-Carlton.”

  She tried not to laugh at the name, so out of place on his little lips. “You allowed to talk like that?”

  “Who’s gonna know?”

  “Me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I told you—”

  “There’s no such thing as fairy godmothers.”

  She put her elbow on the desk and pointed to him. “Now that, kid, is where you’re wrong. I’ve got one and she rocks.”

&
nbsp; “Does she have a wand?” he asked, the question rich with childish sarcasm.

  “Several. And a crystal ball. And”—she leaned forward and shifted her eyes from side to side, as if a nosy nurse could pop up at any minute—“a man-eating plant.”

  His eyes widened, then he snorted with disbelief. “Do you play cards?”

  She smiled at the non sequitur. “Like a freak. You like Egyptian Rat Screws?”

  “Never heard of it , but I can play canasta and pinochle.”

  “Oooh, super fun.” Not. “Where’d you learn that, from the shuffleboard crowd at the Shitz-Carlton?”

  He fought a smile. “My grandma taught me.”

  “Ah, I see.” Oliver’s mother had passed away when he was very young, and he’d never talked much about his father. So Zoe guessed the boy was referring to his maternal grandmother. Yeah, people that rich would totally be the bridge and pinochle type.

  “Can you teach me that Egyptian game?”

  “I don’t know. It’s really complicated.”

  “I’m smart and I know a lot about Egyptians. They built the pyramids.”

  “Sorry, but there are no Egyptians in Egyptian Rat Screws.” She smiled. “There is a lot of cussing, however, and apparently you’ve got that covered.”

  He grinned and that did incredibly stupid things to her poor heart. Oliver’s son. A heavy mix of envy and longing and regret rolled around her belly. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Eight. How old are you?”

  “A hundred.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m not one of those kids.”

  “You don’t say. I’m thirty-four. Five.” Eight? Seriously? Wow, Oliver didn’t waste any time, did he?

  “I have a hundred-and-sixty-two IQ.”

  “Ouch, that’s gotta hurt carrying that much smart around.”

  He tapped his head like it could handle the weight. “Not a problem. Want me to get cards? That lady in the front has a deck.”

  “Cruella?”

  He laughed. “I saw that movie.” Then his face dropped. “All those dogs.”

  Something inside her chest cracked. “Spotted ones that talk. Bet you liked them.”

  “Yeah.” He pushed up and stood. “You gonna be here for a while?”