Barefoot in the Rain (44 page)

The women in the doorway instantly disappeared, leaving them alone for a better drama.

“You said yes,” Will whispered.

“I screamed yes.”

“Even better.” He gave her that slow, sweet, sexy smile that turned her entire body to mush. “So guess what I finally have?”

“A fiancée?”

He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, and put his lips against hers to whisper the answer. “I have…
everything
.”

W
hoever invented the expression “the heat of a thousand suns” must have been sitting right here, in a top-down convertible on the black asphalt of Naples, Florida, in the dead of summer. Boiling. Frying. Sizzling like a piece of bacon. Surely no
single
sun could generate the amount of heat blasting down on Zoe Tamarin’s head as she closed her eyes and tried to gather the nerve to do what she’d come to do.

She dug deep for inner Zen, came up with nothing, and melted some more against the burning leather seat of her rented 4x4.

Come on, Zoe
. Get out of the car and
face him
.

She slid a glance across the wide boulevard that cut a swath through the exclusive business district of the beachside city, studying the two-story Spanish hacienda–style building. Between her and that destination, heat shimmered off the road like burning coals.

I’d walk across fire for you.

Yeah,
right.

Inhaling some soggy, humid air, Zoe lifted her hair and fanned her face and neck with her other hand. She had to do this. What was a little humiliation, heartbreak, or pathetic desperation between old friends, right? Zoe had been raised on the altar of “signs from the universe,” and last night the universe had smacked her over the head with a billboard.

While all her closest friends celebrated the stunning drama of a baby’s birth, arriving in breathtaking style during the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa grand-opening party, Zoe merely reeled from the sight of the man who’d
materialized
to bring Lacey and Clay Walker’s baby into the world.

She’d never forget the shock of looking up from Lacey’s makeshift delivery table to see the “doctor” who’d swept into the room to help bring a healthy baby into the world.

By the time the paramedics whisked mother, son, and proud papa off to the hospital, the doctor—who’d been a party guest—had disappeared. From the stretcher, holding her little bundle, Lacey had called him “an angel.”

Au contraire, my friend.
That man was no angel. Quite the opposite. And right now it was time to make a deal with the devil, who happened to owe Zoe, and owe her big. Because if he thought they were “square” when he blew in and delivered Lacey’s baby in an emergency, he was sorely mistaken.

They weren’t even close to square for what he’d done to her, and it was time to collect.

Fired by that thought, she yanked the keys out of the ignition and jumped out, heat immediately singeing through wafer-thin sandals as she hit the pavement.
Squaring her shoulders, she pinned her gaze on the double mahogany doors and jaywalked to find out her destiny.

Would he or would he not…

He
had
to.

At the door, she took a shallow breath and ran her fingers over the elegant gold lettering that announced exactly what went on in this unassuming building tucked between an art gallery and a frozen-yogurt shop in the ritzy medical district of one of the world’s wealthiest cities.

Dr. Oliver Bradbury

Oncology

There was only one way to—

Both doors popped open, shoved from the inside, forcing Zoe out of the way. A woman strode out, stopping to blink into the sun and throw open a giant bag covered with some designer’s initials. She whipped out a pair of sunglasses with the very same initials on the side.

But before she got them on Zoe saw her face.

And her heart fell right onto that sizzling sidewalk and fried.

A phone followed the sunglasses, thrust under silky black hair that brushed her shoulders. “Thank Christ,” she said, an amazing amount of sultry in the sarcasm. “It’s done.”

Zoe stood frozen and mesmerized. As if the woman was suddenly aware that someone was staring, she turned, her eyes hidden by the sunglasses but her glare powerful nonetheless. Zoe still couldn’t move as she drank in the stark beauty of the woman’s face, the aura of wealth that clung like a spritz of Chanel, and the condescending attitude of dismissal.

She knew that face, of course, thanks to the power of
Google and a few glasses of wine. Small consolation that Oliver’s wife didn’t look quite as perfect without benefit of photo shop.

“Excuse me,” Zoe said, reaching for the door.

“Of course, dear.” Adele stepped aside, switching the phone to the other ear. “No,” she said into the phone as Zoe went inside. “That was no one. I’m listening.”

No one
? Zoe spun around, but the door closed, blessedly shutting out the sun and the sight of the woman who’d married the only man Zoe had ever loved.

Inside, cool air settled over Zoe like a perfectly chilled martini as she took in the room’s creamy white walls and icy marble floor. She took a moment to let the sensation work its magic, looking around at a reception area that was like no doctor’s office she’d ever been in. No mess of magazines on a cheap coffee table for Dr. Bradbury. No impersonal glass panel that slid open and closed like a confessional, either. No worn leather chairs, cheesy art, or canned video presentation.

Nothing but old money and elegant sophistication.

So,
Mrs
. Bradbury must have decorated the offices.

“Can I help you?”

Zoe turned to a striking redhead with a tiny headset in her ear, seated at a glass table with nothing but a tablet computer in front of her. Her smile matched the surroundings, cold and impersonal, just like her Arctic-blue eyes.

“I’m here…” Zoe’s voice cracked like a teenage boy’s. She cleared her throat. “I’d like to see Dr. Bradbury.”

The faintest frown pulled. “What time is your appointment?”

“He’ll see me.” Especially now that his
wife
had just left.

“I’m sorry.” The woman angled her head, a practiced mix of pity and power in her expression. “You have to make an appointment, and that requires a referral, and to be perfectly honest, Dr. Bradbury has a one-year waiting list. We can provide you with the names of—”

“He’ll see me,” she said sharply. “My name is—”

“No.” The young woman held up her hand. “Please. If you don’t have an appointment, he will
not
see you. There are absolutely no exceptions to that rule.”

“I’m the exception. Zoe Tamarin.”

The woman didn’t move, leveling her icy eyes in a showdown. “Would you like the list of doctors I mentioned?”

“No. I’d like to talk to Oliver. I’m a personal acquaintance.”

The woman replied by dropping her gaze over Zoe, lingering on the thin tank top stuck to her sweaty skin; the white cotton skirt that had seemed so whimsical when she’d picked it up at Old Navy suddenly felt like a cheap rag compared to the receptionist’s silk and pearls.

Red gave a tight smile and shook her head as she stood, easily six feet tall in four-inch heels. “I’m very sorry for your situation, but you need to leave, now.”

Zoe just blinked at her. “My situation?” She didn’t even freaking know her situation. “Please call his assistant or whoever and tell him that Zoe Tamarin is waiting to see him.”

After a moment the woman touched her earpiece, and Zoe let out a soft sigh of relief. As soon as Oliv—

“Beth, we need security in the lobby.”

Zoe croaked out a cough. “Excuse me?”

The other woman completely ignored her. “Immediately,”
she said into the air. Then, to Zoe, “We get a lot of desperate people wanting to see Dr. Bradbury, and—”

“Well, I’m not one of them.” Which was a complete lie, but she stepped forward anyway. “Just give him my damn name.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” She looked down at her tablet, like something more important had come up.

Zoe eyed the single door to the back, a nearly invisible slab of polished rosewood that blended right into the wall. But there was a slender silver doorknob that just might not be locked. What the hell did she have to lose? With one more glance at Red, who was pointedly ignoring her now, Zoe lunged at the door.

“Hey!” the woman cried, but Zoe slammed down the handle and pushed.

“Oliver! It’s me! Zoe!”

Red got her then, grabbing her arm to yank her back to the lobby. “You will leave the premises, ma’am. Right. This. Minute.”

Zoe fought the fingers, wresting her body away with every ounce of strength she had, and suddenly the woman let go and Zoe stumbled forward, tripping to the floor, her hair falling over her face.

“What in God’s name is going on out here?”

Velvet. Baritone. Power.
Oliver
. She didn’t look up, but closed her eyes and just let the sound of him reach all the way inside and touch her.

“
Zoe?
”

“You know her, Dr. Bradbury?”

The little bit of horror in Red’s voice was almost worth the humiliation of looking up to meet his gaze.

But the sight of those bottomless espresso eyes nearly flattened her again.

“Good God,” he said, dropping to one knee and reaching out a hand. “What are you… here, get up.” His hand enveloped hers, that strong, masculine, capable hand that healed and heated her with one stroke of his fingers. “What are you doing—”

She lifted an eyebrow as she stood to her full height, which was a few hairs shy of five-four, so not as impressive as her adversary and only chest high with Oliver. But, oh, what a chest it was. In a zillion-dollar white shirt so soft and expensive she imagined it was hand-loomed just to fit those incredible shoulders.

“It’s easier to get into the Oval Office,” she said simply.

He almost smiled, that hint of a smile that sparked the amber in his eyes. “You don’t need an appointment to see me.”

Zoe was dying to give a dose of “Take that, bitch” to the receptionist, but Oliver still held her hand and inched her a little closer, dizzying her with that clean, smart, crisp smell of authority—and Oliver. “You
do
want to see me?”

The littlest bit of uncertainty almost undid her. “I do.”

I do. I do.
God, how she’d once longed to say those words to him.

But she said other words, and those had sealed her fate in a completely different way.

But someone said “I do” to him. Someone with dark hair and designer bags and the stink of wealth and family. Big, powerful, undeniable family. The one thing Zoe could never offer him.

She lifted her chin and his expression flickered,
zigzagging somewhere between breathtaking and gorgeous as he studied her.

“Come into my office,” he ordered, the words of a man who didn’t know the fine art of
suggestion
. She’d noticed that about him last night when he’d cleared the room with one barked order. Authority sat well on those broad shoulders.

So Zoe followed.

“Would you like some coffee? Water?” he asked, pausing before they took a step.

“After what it takes to get in this place? Grey Goose, straight up.”

He just nodded to the receptionist. “Tell Mr. Reddick I’ll be a few minutes longer.”

Zoe blasted Red with a fake smile. “Thank you so much for your help. Attila, was it?”

The other woman looked at Oliver, who bit his lip. “C’mon, Zoe. In here.”

He gestured down the hall, staying one step behind her as they rounded a corner wordlessly. She brushed her hands over the wrinkled skirt; her sandals were silent on plush carpet. But her heart thudded loud enough to reverberate through the hall of Dr. Bradbury’s superplush, mega-exclusive, you-can’t-have-an-appointment-for-a-year practice.

His office was large, of course—everything about Oliver was oversized and substantial—but much warmer than the reception area. Cherry, leather, and an aroma of pine and comfort.

She kept her back to him, taking one last inhale and reviewing her game plan.

Which didn’t exactly exist for this fairly spontaneous
visit. Should she plead? Demand? Blackmail? Whatever she did, she had to be strong and unyielding. She would not take no for an answer. She would not—

“Turn around.”

Melt
.

Yeah, she might do that. Because Oliver always melted her. Steeling herself, she vowed not to succumb. For this, Zoe had to be rock solid and ready to fight for what she wanted.

Slowly, she turned, meeting the expression of a man who looked at her like he hadn’t eaten in days and she was a human cream puff.

While his eyes trailed over every inch of her, she took her own visual vacation, gobbling up the things about him that had kept her awake so many, many nights. Not his classically handsome face, with all those angles of raw strength, and not his broad shoulders or silky black hair. Zoe hadn’t fallen for “the man with the teeth” as her Aunt Pasha had once described him with his movie-star smile or the prominent nose that hinted at Roman or Greek ancestors, probably Julius Caesar himself.