Barefoot in the Sun (18 page)

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.”

I
n 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.”

W
ith 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.”

She closed her hands over him, looking up. “You take care of business a lot, do you ? Thought you were married for all those years.”

He snorted.

“It’s hot,” she said, pumping him once, hard and fast, making him suck in a breath.

“What is?”

“Thinking about you jacking off.”

“You have your vibrator, I have my fist.”

She stroked again, slowly, staring at his dick, her mouth slack, which might be the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen.

“Shower or bed?” she asked.

“Yes. You?”

She smiled. “I like the bathtub. But once in a while on a long drive alone in the car.”

He almost lost it in her hand. “You make yourself come when you’re driving?”

Her eyes widened. “I know, right? What crime
won’t
I commit?”

He wanted to laugh, but she punctuated the question with another squeeze, while she cupped his balls with her other hand. Fiery sparks flashed up his body and a few gallons of blood rushed to put out the flames. He grew bigger in her hand, dying to get inside her but unwilling to stop this…this intimacy.

“What do you think about, Zoe?” His voice was barely a whisper, since talking took way too much of the energy he needed not to shoot right into her hand.

“I think…” She leaned up again, easing him closer to her mouth. “About that time…” She flicked her tongue over the wet tip. “We did it on the stairs up to your apartment.”

He grunted when she put her mouth on him, the memory of driving into her on the hardwood steps at three in the morning still one of the sexiest five minutes of crazy in his whole life.

“Me, too,” he admitted.

She lifted her head, looking up at him. “We were good together, Oliver.”

“We
are
good together,” he said, reaching for the foil packet she’d set on the bed. “Let me show you.”

She didn’t argue, thank God, but pulled out the condom and placed it on his head, then slid it so maddeningly slowly he thought he might cry. Lying back, she spread her legs and gave him a silent look of invitation.

He braced himself, feasting on every move and muscle of her body as she let him in, her soft, soft sigh of contentment as he filled her up. Their eyes met as he started to move faster, and hers shuttered closed as the sensations took over.

Everything was new to him. The angle of her face when she turned her head, the shape of her breasts as they moved with her body, and the intense, tight, squeeze of her body around him. All new, all brand new.

She stopped moving suddenly, reaching up to touch his face. “I just lied to you.”

He slowed a little, causing a small insurrection in his balls. “What?”

“I don’t think about the time on the steps.”

Forcing himself to focus and stop moving, he looked at her. “What do you think about?”

“I don’t. If I think about you too much, I start to cry.” A single tear escaped from the side of her eyes. “So I don’t think. I…escape. I go away in my mind.”

He lowered himself, wrapping her narrow frame in his arms. “Don’t go away now, Zoe. Stay here, right here. With me. Don’t go anywhere.”

She nodded, biting her lip, as he started pumping into her again. He plunged deeper and faster, finally letting go of his last shred of control to hold her as close and tight as he could and spill everything into her.

A second later she shook with her own loss of control, murmuring his name, biting her lip, and then giving into an orgasm that pulsed around him. Immediately, she pulled him closer, wrapped her arms around his neck, and clung to him as if she would never let go.

They stayed that way until he slipped out of her and the sheen of sweat on their skin cooled under the air-conditioning. For what seemed like the most perfect ten minutes of his life, Zoe didn’t voluntarily move a single muscle. She breathed quietly, and her heart slowed to a steady, normal beat. But everything else was…still.

Until the high-pitched beep from the oven reminded them of dinner.

Only then, when he’d slowly eased himself to the side, did she move, and that was to trap him with her leg.

“Let it burn,” she said. “I can’t get up.”

“This is the longest time you’ve ever been still,” he whispered.

He could feel her cheek smile against his. “A magic orgasm.”

“Better than anything at sixty on the highway?”

“Eighty.”

“Please tell me you’re lying about that.”

She laughed softly and he inched away, dealing with the condom and then pulling up the light blanket from the foot of the bed to cover her. “Stay here. We deliver.”

“No kidding.” She rolled around like a contented cat while he stopped in the bathroom, washed up, and grabbed boxers. In the kitchen, he assembled a tray of pizza and beer. When he came back, he half expected an empty bed, but she hadn’t moved, except to take off the T-shirt and toss it on the floor.

He put the tray on the bed, gave her a fresh bottle of beer, and sat cross-legged as she pulled herself up. The blanket fell away, revealing the sweet slope of her breasts as she lifted her bottle for a toast. “To masturbation.”

He choked softly. “The end of it, you mean.”

“For now.”

With a soft grunt, he lowered his bottle. “Already looking for an exit strategy, Zoe?”

“Just covering my bases.”

“Well, cover your headlights instead so I can stop staring and start eating.”

She grinned and, of course, did exactly the opposite, squaring her shoulders to jut out her breasts, still pink from handling and so round and sweet and soft.

“Think of them as visual aids for when you’re alone again.”

He dragged his gaze to her face. “Why should I be alone again?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she took a slice of pizza and held it poised to her lips. “Do you have to turn our post-sex pizza party into a commitment conversation?”

Hell, yes, he did. “What do you have against commitments?”

She took a bite, chewed, and shrugged. “What do you have against masturbation?”

“It’s lonely, depressing, and leaves you worse off than before.”

“Then you’re doing it wrong.”

“Zoe.” He slammed his beer onto the nightstand. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you?” she asked, far more calmly than he had. When he didn’t answer, she plucked a piece of cheese from the topping, stretched it, then opened her mouth like a bird to feed it to herself.

“Because we just made—”

She held out her hand, a strand of cheese on her lip and fire in her eyes. “No, we didn’t.”

“Then what the fuck do you call it?”

“I call it…that.” She raised an eyebrow. “Fucking.”

He let both hands fall with a disgusted sigh. “Why do you have to do this?”

“Oliv—”

“Why do you have to get all tough and funny and hard-ass and put that goddamn brick wall around you?” He ground out the words, fighting the fury that rose.

She looked at him, almost imperceptibly nodding.

“What?” he demanded.

“She’s right.”

“Who is?”

“Pasha. She’s right about you and all that anger you carry around. Who are you mad at? Me? I just spread my legs for you and gave you my
all
, Oliver Bradbury. You took down the wall and got
inside me
.” She kneeled a little, narrowing her eyes. “That’s all I wanted. Take it or
leave it
.”

Each word pushed him farther away. Each word reminded him that whenever he trusted a woman, she proved not to be worthy of that trust. Zoe was no exception.

“Just tell me why,” he demanded.

“I don’t know any other way.” Her tone was flippant and pissed him off more than what she’d said.

“What? When we were together we were just ‘fucking’? Is that right, Zoe? You don’t call that a commitment.”

She angled her head. “Now we’re fighting.”

“Can you see this from my point of view?”

“Can you just be a normal guy who wants sex without being tied down?”

He pushed his paper plate away and practically leaped off the bed. “I can’t do it,” he said roughly. “I can’t just…do it. And I don’t know why or how you can.” He froze and stared at her. “Do you not trust me? Is that it?”

“I trust you,” she said softly, looking down at the food as if she couldn’t handle the intensity of his gaze. “It’s me I don’t trust.”

Air came out of him in a whoosh. Well, that made two of them who didn’t trust her.

“I’m not hungry anymore.” He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the shower.

Maybe she’d come in and they’d wash away all this…mess. Hey, an idiot could hope, right?

He stayed in the shower until he depleted the supply of hot water in the tank and the spray turned ice cold. And, of course, she didn’t come in.

Still he let the water sting against his back, then his face. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Zoe…Zoe on the stairs of his apartment.

But when he imagined those stairs, they became another set of wooden stairs. Up higher and higher, the house quiet and empty…but for the sounds of a child’s footfall on each step.

All the way to the third-floor attic.

With a push that nearly broke the shower door, he knocked the glass open, stepping out without bothering to turn off the spray. He had to tell her. She had to know.

“Zoe!” He threw open the door and blinked into the light. She’d left the room immaculate. The bed made. The pizza and beer gone.

All that remained were his scrub pants, fallen on the floor with the legs curved in the shape of a heart.

Had she done that on purpose?

He stood and listened for a moment for any sound, but, of course, she was gone.

He’d lost the battle…and her.