Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)

chapter Twelve

Heat like she’d never felt before rose up from deep, deep inside her, burning a hole in her chest and making her want to scream with the need to relieve it. And yet Pasha’s whole body was chilled.

She had a fever.

The kind that made her eyeballs ache and her arms numb.

She turned again to place the cool cotton pillowcase against her inflamed cheek, but almost instantly the material was as warm as she was.

At least Pasha hadn’t lied to Zoe. Not tonight, anyway. She really did feel so punk that she’d had to rest all afternoon and into the evening. She really had felt the urge to nod off every time Zoe tried to have a conversation with her—as if she hadn’t known where that was going—and she really had been too tired to sit at the table and eat dinner.

And as the evening wore on, Pasha felt worse, trying harder to hide it with each of Zoe’s efforts to make things better. She’d come in and brought Pasha food, even put a little vase of flowers on the tray, but Pasha couldn’t eat.

Zoe had sat on the edge of the bed and tried again to explain about an experimental treatment that involved putting viruses in her body, making it sound like that was a good thing, but Pasha had nodded off.

And, even when Zoe had attempted small talk and asked Pasha questions about the little boy and how sweet he was, it had been nearly impossible to stay in that conversation. But Pasha had told Zoe how much she loved her. And that was the truth; the only thing that burned hotter in her cancer-filled chest than pain was her love for Zoe Tamarin.

Little Bridget, the desperate, terrified, talkative child who’d come into Pasha’s life when they were both at rock bottom, had given Pasha a reason to go on. Now that little girl was all grown up, and she deserved more than this. She deserved better than a life with Pasha.

She deserved him.

With each hour the fever got a little more intense, like it was burning the common sense right out of her. Because an idea had planted itself and it wouldn’t let go. If only she could have a sign so she could know if that idea was right or not.

She needed a sign.

She’d been waiting for one since Zoe had left, around ten o’clock. Maybe she’d gone to Lacey’s house, but Pasha would put her money on Zoe choosing a different soft place to fall tonight. Pasha knew exactly where that girl had gone. Right to his arms. Right to where she belonged.

It was quite possible she’d be gone all night.

Very slowly she pushed back the covers, sending a cascade of goose bumps over her exposed skin.

Time to get into action, Tricia.

It had been a while since she’d thought of herself as Tricia. Maybe that was the sign that it was time to go.

In her closet, she pulled out a small duffel bag that had never been unpacked. The essentials were always there: cash, toiletries, clothes. Lifting it was a challenge, despite how light it was, but she got it to the bed and looked around for what she should take with her.

She always left room in her panic bag for the most important things. A picture of Zoe. Her favorite earrings. Hair gel. Some aspirin and Tums. She stood in front of the bureau deciding what else to take, her gaze landing on the vase Zoe had brought in with Pasha’s dinner. The pink flower was unusual, more like a ball of fuschia-colored needles.

The mimosa flower, Zoe had said, the official flower of Mimosa Key.

She reached to touch the silky needles that stuck straight out like Pasha’s hair when she managed to get it perfect. As she brushed the bloom, her finger started to shake. With a sudden spasm, she toppled the vase, the water spilling, the flower fluttering to the ground.

She let out a cry, but that made her cough, then choke, igniting more fire in her windpipe and making her lungs feel like someone was pressing a steam iron on them.

The flower lay on the floor in a little mess, water dripping down the side of the bureau like tears. What was nature’s message in that mess? She dug through everything she knew, every possible interpretation.

Pink. Pink. Pink always represented innocence, youthfulness, the indefatigable spirit of a child.

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 f*ck me?”

The response was almost imperceptible, but she caught the little flinch. “I don’t want to f*ck 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 finger? 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.”