Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)

chapter Three

Oliver heard footsteps pounding down the hall, too fast, too loud, too…young to be Zoe. It was Evan, then, running amok in the office. He grunted under his breath as he flipped the last page of Eugene Carlson’s chart.

“What?” the older man demanded. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Dr. Bradbury? You see something?”

“Absolutely not.” He shook his head clear, forced his focus where it belonged. “Your test results are excellent, Gene. You’re one of IDEA’s most astounding success stories.”

The old gray eyes that met his filled with tears. “You sure gave that clinic of yours the right name. Might be an acronym for integrated something—”

“Integrated Diagnostics through Experimental Analysis,” Oliver supplied.

“Whatever. The idea of IDEA is great. I don’t know how to thank you, Dr. Bradbury. And, of course, Dr. Mahesh. A year ago I couldn’t get out of bed, certain I’d been handed a death sentence. Yesterday I shot a seventy-nine. That’s remarkable, young man, I don’t care what you call it.”

“I call it remission, Gene.” Not a complete cure, but damn close. “And that’s what the research and medical team there calls our goal.” He added an easy smile. “And you know Raj isn’t going to be happy until you break seventy-five.”

Eugene laughed. “I’m just thrilled to be golfing. He’s a competitor, your partner, that’s for sure.”

“We both are, and we’re both enjoying a victory with your progress,” Oliver told him. “Best we’ve ever seen on a leukemia patient.” Oliver reached out his hand to shake Eugene’s hand, anxious to get back to Zoe and finish the conversation but unwilling to rush this patient, especially after Eugene had waited to see him.

Instantly, the other man took a step forward and held out his arms. “Hey, give me one of those guy hugs.”

Oliver complied, fighting a smile and that warm, welcome sense of satisfaction in his chest. He’d made the right choice in leaving hospital administration for the far less stable world of research medicine, partnering with Raj Mahesh, working with an incredibly talented team of researchers, and getting back to the rewarding business of saving lives.

The move may have cost him his marriage, his high-profile position in Chicago’s society, along with a steady—and monstrous—paycheck, but Gene Carlson’s hug was worth the fee.

Another set of footsteps padded in the hall, almost as fast as Evan’s and made by someone in sandals.

“I’ll see you in three months, Gene,” he said, trying not to rush out of the room even though his whole being wanted to make a mad dash to stop Zoe before she left.

But that would be like trying to stop the sun from rising. Trying to stop waves on the sand or a storm blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico. Nothing could stop the inevitable.

“By then I’ll have a new granddaughter,” Eugene said, dragging Oliver back to the moment.

“I’ll expect pictures, then.” Waiting a polite beat, he opened the door and headed into the hall as the door to the reception area clicked closed. He hustled forward, pulling the door open to nearly mow down his son.

“Evan, what are you doing out here? I told you to stay in the break room.” He looked over the child’s shoulder through the darkly tinted glass door in time to see a big white Jeep whip out of a parking spot, blond curls behind the steering wheel.

Not that he was surprised. But that didn’t change the needle-jab of disappointment right to his chest. “Damn it,” he murmured, an echo of a wound that had long ago stopped festering. Or so he’d thought.

Evan’s face mirrored how Oliver imagined his own looked. Deflated. “You should have hired her to be my sitter, Dad.”

Behind him, Johanna lifted a dubious brow. “I don’t think she’d have made a suitable nanny, Dr. Bradbury.”

Oliver sliced her with a cold look. “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“You want my opinion?” Evan asked. “I liked her. I thought she was funny.”

“You talked to her?”

“Yeah. She’s pretty, too.”

No kidding. “Did you tell her you’re my son?”

“Of course. Will she be back?”

Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? “I don’t know. She’s…enigmatic.” He opened the door to the offices and held it for his son. “Which means—”

“I know what that means.” Evan slipped under Oliver’s arm.

“From your Latin class?”

“Nah. Video games. So, she’s gone for good? Because she was about to teach me a card game.” He let out a sigh and mumbled, “Damn it.”

“Evan.”

“You just said it.”

“I’m thirty-nine years old. And don’t tell me; she wanted you to play Egyptian Rat Screws?”

His whole face lit. “Yeah! How’d you know?”

Because he knew her. They’d turned her favorite fast-and-furious card game into Strip Egyptian Rat Screws with a bottle of tequila and a bag of limes one night.

“It must be fun,” Evan said.

That night was. “How do you know?”

“ ’Cause you’re smiling, Dad. And that hardly ever happens.”

He led Evan into his office. “All right, Evan. I’m in the middle of my workday.”

“You’re always in the middle of your workday.”

“Save the guilt trips for your mother.” Who chose to unload Evan at the office the day before she left for a month in the south of France. “We don’t have a choice today. No sitters, no nanny, no day off for me.”

“Well, that blonde lady could have hung out with me. ’Cept she said it’s no fun at a cancer ward.”

“Sounds like something that blonde lady would say.” With that sexy, smart-ass mouth that would now haunt him for the rest of the day.

“She likes to swear, too.”

“Nice of her to share that with you.”

“I thought so.”

He laughed softly. “Evan, do you want to play computer games or something, because I have to…” Sit here and think about Zoe. And her mouth. “Write up some reports.”

Evan sighed, his narrow chest sinking. “No, Dad, I don’t want to play computer games. And I don’t want to sit in the break room. And I don’t want to swim by myself at the Shitz-Carlton—”

“Evan.” Damn, why did he have to have an eight-year-old going on sixteen? He didn’t even want to think about sixteen. If he couldn’t connect to the kid now, God only knew how bad it would be in eight more years.

“I hate it here.”

“A fact you have made undeniably clear, son.”

“Don’t call me son.” He pivoted and headed to the door.

“Evan!”

He stopped, and, for a split second, Oliver half feared he was about to get flipped off by a third-grader. But Evan didn’t move; he kept his back to Oliver.

Oliver dug for the right words and came up with nothing. Why was it easier to talk to a cancer patient than his own preadolescent child?

“Look,” Oliver said, thrashing around his brain for the right words to show some balance of compassion and discipline. “I know you’re not happy about your mom and me splitting up.”

Evan still didn’t move, unless Oliver counted the rise and fall of his shoulders.

“And I know you’d rather be in Chicago where you have friends.”

“And Grandma.”

“And your grandmother. But you can’t be there this summer, Evan. I live here and work here, and your mother’s going to Europe tomorrow, so you’ve got to make the best of this today.” And every day for the rest of the summer.

Slowly, Evan turned. “Can I just sit on the sofa while you work, Dad? I hate the break room.”

Shit. What could he say to that? A few weeks ago, when Adele had announced she’d be coming to Naples with Evan and then leaving him while she traveled, Oliver had been happy—and scared. Maybe because his own father had been so distant and busy, Oliver wasn’t ever sure how to handle a kid. Adele hadn’t been much of a mom, either, making liberal use of nannies and her own mother, who could probably lay claim to really raising the boy.

But this was his chance to bond. However the hell that was done. “Sure. Please turn the sound off your game…thing.”

“I’m not even going to turn it on,” he promised. “I’m reading something.”

As Oliver came around his desk, he frowned, instantly sensing something was different. Evan’s picture had been moved. “Were you sitting at my desk?”

Evan looked up from a brightly colored brochure. “No, she was.”

What did Zoe think about him having a son? Could she possibly know that… “What did you two talk about?”

Evan flipped the paper, mesmerized by whatever it was. “Just, you know, stuff.” He frowned and looked closer. “Whoa, look at that.”

“What kind of stuff?” Like Evan’s age? “Did you tell her you were here for the summer?”

“I think so.”

“What else?”

He held out the paper. “This place looks really cool.”

“What else did you talk about?” Oliver asked.

“Oh, stuff like her fairy godmother who has a man-eating plant. Wow, would you look at that.” Evan flung the paper out. “She left this flyer thingie for a hotel, but it’s not really a hotel. Look.” Evan waved a pamphlet under Oliver’s nose. “Casa Blanca. Sounds neat, huh?”

He took the paper, glancing at it. “I delivered a baby there last night.” He flipped the page, studying the pristine beach and the understated elegance of the architecture.

“I’d rather live there than the Shitz—” Evan stopped in response to Oliver’s stern look. “But they have houses, Dad. Not rooms.” He pointed to a beautifully appointed villa overlooking the Gulf inlet known as Barefoot Bay. “That would almost be like, you know, normal.”

He squashed the guilt. “It’s another hotel, son, and what we need to do is buy a place.” If he ever had time, or even the inclination. For the months he’d lived in Naples, the upscale hotel had been easier. Of course, he’d planned to buy something and be moved in when Evan came for his two weeks of summer that the custody agreement allowed. Then Adele announced her plans, and Evan came down six weeks sooner than expected.

Evan was still mooning over the brochure. “That place doesn’t seem so fancy.”

“It’s fancy all right, but it’s not gaudy.” Although, to be fair, he hadn’t seen much of Casa Blanca the night before. After delivering the baby—after seeing Zoe—he’d wanted to get the hell out of there. Much to Adele’s displeasure, he’d insisted on leaving, his efforts to make their split amicable no longer important.

“Well, I don’t like gaudy,” Evan said. “And that beach looks really cool.”

If he hadn’t gone there last night he wouldn’t have seen Zoe, and she probably wouldn’t have come in here today. But why had she left so suddenly?

He glanced up at Evan and suspected he knew exactly why. Damn it, he’d wanted to tell her himself—then and now. But both times she took off.

“Don’t you think, Dad?”

He looked up, zoned out on the question. “Don’t I think what?”

“That we could live in one of those houses instead of that stupid hotel?”

He pulled himself back to the moment and studied Evan’s face, the earnest eyes so much like the ones that stared at him in the mirror every day, and the turned-down mouth, always so serious.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“We could see her all the time then.”

There was that.

“And I could find out why she ran away like that,” Evan added. “Do you think it was because of me?”

The hurt in Evan’s voice hit home. Oliver had blamed himself, too, for a while. Then he’d realized that Zoe was…Zoe. “No, Evan, she didn’t leave because of…” But the truth was she had left because of Evan, at least indirectly. “Anything you said.”

“I didn’t tell her anything, except my IQ and how old I am.” He looked down and kicked at the ground. “I know I’m not supposed to ‘brag about my brains.’ ”

But his IQ wasn’t the number that had sent Zoe running. She’d done the math and figured it all out.

Sighing, Oliver knew he had to do what he hadn’t done last time: go after her. And this time he knew where to find her.





Zoe slept until almost noon the next day and woke to an eerily empty bungalow.

Where was Pasha? She didn’t normally leave the little house without a note, but maybe she’d gone out to the greenhouse to talk to Tessa. Grabbing a mug of coffee on the way, Zoe stepped out to the tiny back patio of the bungalow, one of a half-dozen units that had been built for resort staff who would move in once Casa Blanca was fully up and, they hoped, booked, in the next few months. The little cul-de-sac of cottages was tucked behind all the villas, overlooking the gardens that Tessa Galloway had planted and nurtured since she’d taken over the job as Casa Blanca’s gardener.

Zoe didn’t see Pasha in the rows of veggies and leafy greens. Or on any of the paths, which meandered through the gardens and were lined with palm trees that stood stark against the midday sky. Beyond the gardens color splashed everywhere, from purple and red hibiscus flowers to the poinciana trees bursting with persimmon buds, but no sign of Pasha.

Despite the hurricane that had ripped through Mimosa Key’s northern inlet nearly two years before, Barefoot Bay now thrummed with life again—plant and people life. Now that it was June, Casa Blanca had a few “beta” guests—travel agents and friendly bloggers—and Lacey had started to hire in anticipation of a trickle of summer guests. In a few months, it would be the first real “season” for the Northern snowbirds they hoped to attract to the small, upscale resort.

Zoe leaned against the railing, enjoying the salty Gulf breeze from an inlet she couldn’t quite see this far away from the beach.

God, she loved Barefoot Bay. Of course she hadn’t admitted that to anyone, even though her three best friends from college, Lacey, Tessa, and Jocelyn, were all living on this island now. Tessa had taken the staff bungalow right next door, and Jocelyn had moved in with Will on the southern end of Mimosa Key, living next door to her aging father.

If the girls even got a whiff of Zoe’s desire to stay, they’d start a full-court press to permanently reunite the Fearsome Foursome of Tolbert Hall.

The sweet idea had been teasing her for weeks, and she’d been ready to whisper the possibility to Pasha, planning to start with a reminder that they’d been in Arizona three years, which was the longest they’d ever stayed anywhere except for the years Zoe had gone to college in Gainesville. She’d been hoping Pasha would get better and finally let go of her determination to run fast and far and often.

But that hope was dashed now, and not by Aunt Pasha. By Oliver.

Truth was, she couldn’t live in a place that was one causeway drive away from Oliver. And his son.

The son conceived before they’d even met.

Blowing out a breath, she let all the disappointment that had been brewing since yesterday morning settle low in her belly. Pasha needed a doctor, and she’d let pride and jealousy steal the best possible solution.

Somehow, she had to go back to Oliver and try again.

Or did she?

The debate had raged for twenty-four hours now. Would he treat Pasha in secret? The man who obviously felt compelled to marry the woman he got pregnant, whether or not he loved her? Because Zoe might question a lot of things in her life, but not that. Oliver had loved her; she believed that. But he would always do the right thing in any situation—that was what made him tick.

So what was the right thing in this situation?

And, really, did he have to be hot, even these nine years later? Did he have to still emit some kind of crazy, sinful, senseless pheromones that attacked Zoe’s sex-deprived brain like little hormone ninjas? Would Oliver fire up her girly bits if she hadn’t sworn off sex after a string of excruciating few-night-stands almost four years ago? Probably.

Come on, Zoe. You practically inhaled the guy the night you met.

But we’d waited, she countered her mental adversary, also known as the voice. They’d waited—almost twenty-four whole hours. And in that time, Oliver said, he’d gone straight to his girlfriend, the daughter of Mount Mercy Hospital’s CEO, and broken up with her.

But obviously not for good.

You left him!

What else could she do after he insisted they turn Pasha in? Pasha had had that panic bag packed and in the car in a flash. She’d given Zoe the choice to stay, but, really, there was no choice. She loved Pasha. And Oliver? Well, how would she know romantic love if it bit her in the nose? She’d never lived with a happily married couple. She didn’t know the rules and regs, or where the lines were drawn with people who were in love—don’t you tell your true love everything?

Zoe had, and look how that turned out. Oliver had practically jumped out of the balloon that day. So she ran. Honestly, both she and Oliver had to be accountable for the demise of that romance.

A trickle of sweat meandered down her back, the midday sun brutal already. She went inside to dress in the only suitable clothes for a day this hot: a bikini and thin cotton cover-up, which was good enough for finding Pasha, wherever she was.

A tendril of worry wrapped around her throat. Where was Pasha?

She hadn’t even mentioned the visit to Oliver’s office to her aunt because, well, she wasn’t ready to leave Barefoot Bay and she knew what Pasha’s response to Zoe’s idea would be. Exit stage right.

And Zoe would go because she and Pasha were a team, partners, together forever.

She rinsed her cup and looked out into the gardens again.

There was no such thing as forever. Pasha was sick and this team would inevitably end. And the funny thing was, when that happened, Zoe would finally be free. There’d be no need to live “off the grid” once Pasha was gone.

So why was she fighting so hard to keep her alive? Because the only “love” Zoe had ever known, other than her three closest girlfriends, was given and taken by Pasha. Zoe might not have had normal parents to be role models of how good couples acted, but she had had Pasha to shower her with attention and affection for almost all of her life, ever since Bridget Lessington disappeared and Zoe Tamarin was born.

We’ll call you Zoe. …Zoe means “new life.”

And twenty-four years later, she was still Zoe and they were still running. God, she was so, so tired of running. Of keeping everyone in the dark and at a distance. Of building walls made of sarcasm and apathy. Of skimming the surface with men because anything more would mean repeating what had happened with Oliver.

Tired, but scared of losing the only person who’d ever truly loved her, Zoe headed outside again to find Pasha.

She wandered through the gardens, marveling at Tessa’s pungent herbs, sniffing tangy basil and sweet tomatoes as she made her way to the greenhouse where her friend spent every waking hour.

But the greenhouse was locked.

Worry ratcheted up a notch as Zoe scanned the grounds, her eyes landing on the barrel-tile roof of Clay and Lacey’s home, perched on a rise of land between the gardens and the Gulf.

But where was Pasha? Had she collapsed somewhere? Out in the west field, hidden in the cornstalks? Zoe froze, torn between common sense and her wild imagination. Maybe—

“Hey, Aunt Zoe! Come and see my new brother!” Lacey’s teenage daughter, Ashley, stood on the upstairs balcony, waving. “They just brought him home from the hospital! Everyone’s here!”

“Pasha, too?”

“She’s reading his little palm right this minute!”

Zoe puffed out a prayer of thanks and made her way to the house, not surprised that relief washed her skin with a chill despite the heat. She paused in a cluster of sea grass to gather her wits and push away all those thoughts of staying and regretting and running. Pasha was safe and, right now, that was all that mattered.

Although, damn it, she really didn’t want to leave this time. “Look at this place,” she mumbled to herself. Why did they always have to leave?

Because Pasha freaked the minute people asked questions or became too close or needed some official paper. But that wouldn’t happen here, would it? Zoe looked around at the nearly complete resort. Casa Blanca was nothing less than heavenly. Clay Walker, Lacey’s husband, had somehow managed to break the mold of the typical Florida resort, building a place that was clean, natural, and fitted into the foliage like Mother Nature herself had been on the architectural review board.

Stop ogling. You can’t live here.

Zoe followed the path to the private drive to Lacey and Clay’s two-story hacienda, which was already hugged by vibrant bougainvillea vines wrapped over the arched entryway.

A pang of something that could only be called the green monster twisted inside Zoe as tight as those flowery vines. Tessa may be envious of Lacey’s baby, but Zoe longed for something different.

What would it be like to call a place like this home? To build a family. To put down roots. To come home every night, year after year after year, to…home?

Not in your lifetime, girlie. Well, certainly not in Pasha’s lifetime.

The front door swung open before she reached it, and Jocelyn Bloom stood in the doorway, sporting a most uncharacteristic wet splotch on the shoulder of her always-pressed-to-perfection blouse.

Zoe pointed at the stain. “Will really ought to wipe his drool.”

“Very funny.” Jocelyn took a cursory swipe at the stain, remarkably unconcerned by it. A year ago she’d be changed into something fresh and already have this shirt cataloged in her closet under D for Dry Cleaners. “It’s baby vomit.”

Zoe sniffed. “Tessa probably wants to bottle and drink that.”

Jocelyn gave her a look. “Don’t start.”

“What? We can’t make jokes about each other’s not-so-secret desires anymore?”

“Tessa’s infertility issues aren’t the butt of your crass jokes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everything’s the butt of my crass jokes. Even Baby Pukes-A-Lot. Where is he, anyway?” She inched around Jocelyn to look into the house. “I heard Pasha’s giving a reading.”

“She is.” Jocelyn laughed. “Oh, Zoe. He’s so tiny and perfect. It makes you want to…” She squeezed her hands together and made a soft mewing sound that could only be hormonally driven.

“Woman, you got engaged two nights ago.” Zoe nudged her. “No ovary bomb detonations yet.”

Will Palmer stepped into the hallway, tall and tanned and looking at Jocelyn like he’d trudged through the desert and found an oasis. “Who’s detonating?” he asked, still beaming like he had been the night the baby was born and he’d squeezed a “yes” out of Jocelyn.

“Don’t rush her, Will,” Zoe said. “She’ll need months just for the list making.”

“Not true,” Jocelyn countered. “I’ve already promised him a quick and easy ceremony with no stress.”

“And no waiting,” Will added, capturing Jocelyn under his arm.

“You two are killing me.” Zoe shouldered between them. “Let me at the kid, please.”

“Get in line,” Will said. “Pasha and Tessa aren’t about to give him up. Lacey went to rest, and Clay’s with her.”

“Is Pasha feeling okay?” she asked.

Jocelyn shrugged. “She seems tired today. All the excitement, I guess.”

“I guess,” Zoe agreed. She hadn’t told her friends about the initial diagnosis they’d gotten before they’d left Arizona. Pasha had sworn Zoe to secrecy—big shockeroo there—and the others didn’t know Pasha well enough to notice the subtle signs of deterioration, weight loss, and easy exhaustion.

Of course, if Zoe told them, she’d have to have a damn good explanation for why they didn’t just go to a doctor. And she’d have to do better than her usual joking and sarcasm. They loved Pasha, too. Especially Tessa, who, after her divorce, had lived with Pasha and Zoe for a few months and gotten close to the older woman.

But not close enough to know the truth.

How much longer could she keep her closest friends in the dark? Not only was Pasha’s illness forcing Zoe to find medical care—a daunting task without insurance, let alone without legal identification—but it was entirely possible the jig was up for Zoe, too. At the very least, she might have to face Lacey, Jocelyn, and Tessa and admit they didn’t even know her name.

A splash of hot, dark dread shot through her stomach at the thought.

“We’re in the family room,” Tessa called to Zoe. “Come and see your nephew.”

“Brace yourself, Elijah!” Zoe called in a singsong voice. “Here comes the fun aunt!”

Zoe headed into the large, high-ceilinged great room to find Pasha in an overstuffed chair, baby in arms. It was like an artist’s rendering of time passages: Pasha with her silver hair shooting in a few different directions, her skin hanging like crepe paper on bony cheeks, her arms holding the perfect, pink, baby bud of new life.

One ending the journey, the other just beginning.

“Zoe!” Pasha scolded, her voice even raspier than usual, her brown eyes misty. “Don’t you know it’s incredibly bad luck to cry the first time you see a baby?”

Without a quip handy, Zoe dropped to her knees in front of Pasha, swallowing the unexpected lump in her throat.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him,” she said, reaching out to take the tiny bundle, the move revealing his tuft of reddish blonde wisps, the perfect combination of Lacey’s strawberry and Clay’s golden hair. “I was there the other night when Lacey spread her legs and gave new meaning to the term ‘grand opening’ party.” He was ridiculously light. “Hey, little dude. Way to blow lunch on Joss. Didn’t anyone tell you she doesn’t like to get dirty?”

She ran a finger over his air-soft cheek and the dip in his tiny chin, almost speechless at the perfection of his bowed lips and speck of a nose.

Tessa perched on the armrest of the sofa. “He throws up a lot,” she said. “I think Lacey might have to watch the nitrates in her diet.”

Zoe leaned close to inhale powder and warm baby. “That’s Tessa, the healthy auntie who won’t let you eat evil Froot Loops and Pop-Tarts. Don’t worry, I will.” She looked at Pasha. “What did his palms say?”

Pasha lifted her narrow shoulders in a casual shrug. “Longevity, health, happiness, three children, and a weakness for brunettes.”

“Brunettes? We better work on that.” Zoe frowned and wormed her finger into his fist to spread out his hand and see that info-rich palm. He squeezed tighter. “Does that mean he’s going to hold on to his money or something?”

Tessa moved closer. “It means you’re not a brunette. Give that child to me.”

They held each other’s eyes, smiling. “You’ve been holding him all day.”

“How do you know?”

“Am I right?”

“So?” Tessa lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, no trace of the sadness Zoe had expected in her eyes as she held out greedy hands. “Come to Aunt Tess, Eli.”

“Don’t go, baby.” Zoe turned, refusing to give him up. “She’ll make you wear hemp diapers. Are we calling him Eli or Elijah?”

“I don’t know what we’re calling him,” Jocelyn said, coming to the other side so that the three of them surrounded the baby.

“She changed her mind about the name?” Zoe couldn’t believe it. “He’s been Elijah since the day we found out which team he played for.”

Jocelyn shook her head. “Lacey is on a tear to find out that doctor’s name. You wouldn’t happen to know, would you, Zoe?”

“Me?” She felt her cheeks warm and directed all her attention to the baby, lifting his little body to her face, hoping he’d cover any unwanted blushing. “Oh, my goodness. Nothing smells like a baby, huh?”

Nobody answered.

Of course they’d all been in the room when Oliver had swept in; they’d all seen Zoe and Oliver react to each other. Had she said his name? Had he said hers? She didn’t even remember. The moment had been like the slow motion of a car wreck—afterwards, the details are impossible to remember. The only thing that lingered was the shock of impact.

When she looked up, she met Jocelyn’s gaze and gave her a look that she hoped, after fifteen years of friendship, could be interpreted correctly: Shut the hell up or die.

If Jocelyn even mentioned the name of the only human on earth who knew their secret in front of Pasha, Zoe would scream. She had to tell Pasha herself, and in her own way, about Oliver’s arrival in their life.

“We are not naming him after the doctor.” Surprising them all, Lacey stood in the kitchen, earning a cheer of greetings and “How are you feeling?” questions from everyone, which made little Elijah stir and shudder in Zoe’s arms.

As Lacey came into the room to give Zoe a hug, Pasha asked, “Why not name the baby after this doctor? I think that would be a wonderful tribute to the hero who saved him.”

Oh, Lord. “I wouldn’t go so far as saying he saved the baby,” Zoe said quickly.

“Zoe, I was crowning. God only knows what would have happened if he hadn’t come.”

“The paramedics were on the way,” Zoe countered.

“Not fast enough. I can’t imagine what would have happened if that doctor hadn’t been there,” Lacey insisted. “I was freaking out.”

“You were in labor,” Zoe said. “From what I saw, that’d freak anyone out.”

“You’re wrong, Zoe,” Pasha said, her voice reed thin but still carrying the authority of age. “It would be extremely good karma to name the child after him.”

“I don’t know.” Zoe fought to remain completely calm, and to keep the emotions welling up in her throat out of her voice. “There were no complications and he wasn’t Superman, just some guy who’s been through medical school. Anyone can deliver a baby; you don’t have to be a god or…” Her voice trailed off as she realized that everyone was silent, and staring at her.

“Anyway,” she mumbled, looking down at the baby. “Elijah Clay is a beautiful name and that’s what his name is. Right, little man?”

“Right,” Clay answered, following Lacey into the room wearing his own stained T-shirt. Elijah strikes again. “Plus I just talked to the doc and he told me he thinks we should stick to Elijah.”

Zoe froze. “You talked to him?” Fortunately, three people asked the question at the same time, so no one heard Zoe’s voice crack.

“Just hung up,” Clay said, holding up a cell phone as if that proved it.

“What’s his name?” Tessa asked.

“How did you find him?” Jocelyn wondered.

“I bet he wants to see the baby,” Pasha said.

Zoe clamped her mouth shut as Clay reached for his son, taking him out of Zoe’s arms with more assurance than she’d expect for a new papa. “He does want to see the baby. In fact, he and his son are on their way over here right now.”

What? “Now?” Zoe asked.

“Oh, and since we don’t want this boy to be called Ollie for short, we’re sticking with Elijah.”

“The doctor’s name was Oliver?” Pasha asked.

Please don’t say his last name. Please don’t—

“Dr. Oliver Bradbury.” Clay cuddled his son, the tiny baby lost in his daddy’s broad chest.

Pasha took in the slightest breath, so tiny that no one noticed but Zoe, who instantly swooped in. “You are looking so wiped out, Aunt P. Let’s get you home for an afternoon nap before…strangers invade the place.”

But the color drained from Pasha’s face, leaving her pale. He’s not a stranger. Zoe could practically hear the other woman’s thoughts.

“I’ll take her home,” Will offered quickly. “I’ve got my car and she shouldn’t walk all the way back to the bungalows.”

“I’ll go with you,” Zoe said.

“No.” Pasha’s command was harsh enough for the others to notice. She recovered quickly. “I want to nap, Zoe. You stay here. Please, you stay.”

Unsure, Zoe tried to gauge what Pasha was thinking. “Are you sure?”

Pasha stood when Will offered his hand. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she said, her dark eyes slicing through Zoe with an incomprehensible message.

No way Zoe was staying here and facing Oliver in front of her friends. “I’m coming back with you,” she said, standing up as Pasha hooked her arm into Will’s and headed out.

Tessa grabbed the strap of Zoe’s cover-up. “Hang on, Miss Z. You’re not running away this time.”

“Tessa, I want to go with her.”

“She’s fine.” She kept a grip on Zoe long enough for Pasha to get on her way. “Do you think I’m blind and stupid?” Tessa whispered so soflty only Zoe could hear her. “You could have lit up the whole resort with the electricity in that room last night. You need to face this guy down and get rid of whatever hold he has over you.”

Just before Pasha disappeared around the corner, she turned and gave Zoe a long, incomprehensible look. Then she was gone.

“He doesn’t have any hold over me,” Zoe said softly.

Except he knew her darkest secret and he’d been the only man she’d ever loved. But all that mattered now was that he held the keys to the one thing she wanted most in the whole world: Pasha’s life.

“Prove it,” Tessa challenged.

“I will.” She wasn’t sure how, but she had to. Pasha’s life depended on it.