- -
- 100%
- +
“All things considered, that was damned impressive,” John admitted with a reflective nod. He looked at Marion, his expression hopeful. “Can you join us? We’d—”
She inwardly gasped and shook her head. “Sorry. I’m with a—”
“Ah, there you are,” her almost forgotten companion Jason said, sidling up next to her. He glanced at John and Robin—doing an understandable double take—and then slung an arm over her shoulder, which immediately set her teeth on edge. “I was beginning to wonder if I needed to send out a search party.”
Strictly speaking, this wasn’t a date, though she was sure Jason Reeves would beg to differ. Jason’s goal was to get her into bed—Marion’s goal was to collect the substantial pledge he’d made to the clinic two months ago. A recent newcomer to wealth through an innovative fast food chain, she knew that he had the money, but he didn’t seem to understand the definition of a pledge, that it truly was a commitment. When the repeated but polite reminders hadn’t worked, she’d made a phone call—sometimes that’s what it took, after all—and he’d taken the opportunity to invite her to dinner, promising to bring along his checkbook. This was their third dinner and she still hadn’t seen the check he’d promised.
She’d learned an awful lot about him, though. Lots and lots and lots. Ad nauseum. In fact, she could safely say that he was his favorite topic of conversation. It was extremely unpleasant … but, unfortunately, necessary.
Though Robin’s yearly donation for operations was substantial, there was always new equipment to be bought, newer, better medicines she needed to have on hand and more patients to be seen. It was the sad reality of the current economy and health care situation, one that never seemed to change from generation to generation. Her heart pricked.
She knew that all too well.
Marion had always prided herself on staying under budget, but by soliciting donations she’d managed to put enough in savings to float them for a while should they need it, as well as add additional staff, equipment, medicines and, ultimately, care for more patients. She had developed a good working relationship with the doctors and nurses who volunteered their time and she ran an extremely tight ship. Though her secretary, Justine, often accused her of having no life outside the clinic—one she couldn’t confidently deny—Marion didn’t care. The clinic and the people who came through it were her life, one that Robin had handed her when she’d graduated from college. It was one with purpose, one that met a true need in the community and one that honored her late brother.
Michael had only been sixteen when he’d died—she’d been eleven at the time—and there wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think of him, when she didn’t miss his smile, when she didn’t mourn the loss of the life he should have had.
Because they hadn’t had health insurance, her parents had always been careful about what sort of illness or accident had warranted a trip to the doctor’s office. Had Michael seen a doctor when his symptoms first started to show, there was no doubt in her mind that her brother would be alive today.
But he hadn’t.
And by the time her parents had realized that Michael was in serious danger, it was too late. He’d died within hours of getting to an emergency room.
Though she’d always adored Robin and his father, Marion had never liked Henry Sherwood. After Michael died, she’d positively hated him. The father she’d loved and respected turned to drink and, within months of her brother’s death, he’d abandoned the family. She hadn’t heard from him in years. Her mother, left with little choice, had stayed on and continued to work for Mr. Sherwood, though she’d ultimately blamed his stinginess for the death of her son. She’d become bitter and distant, a mere shadow of the lively, hardworking woman Marion remembered.
Odd how a single occurrence could change the landscape of one’s life. Michael’s death had marked one period for Marion, taking over the clinic, the next. Her gaze swung to Robin and her heart gave a pathetic little jump. Intuition told her if she wasn’t careful, Robin Sherwood’s return to Atlanta could herald another era, one that would spell absolute disaster for her heart.
Though he’d never orbited around her universe very often or for very long, he’d never failed to make a substantial impact.
Most significantly, the night before she’d left for college and he’d left for the military. It was a new beginning for both of them, with all the excitement and anxiety that came along with them. Marion had thought a lot about that night over the years—he’d been her first, after all—and though she could easily chalk up what happened between them to too much alcohol, recklessness, hormones and nostalgia, ultimately she knew better. It had felt magical, fated even. She’d had the occasional partner since then, of course, but nothing ever came close to how Robin had made her feel. The desperation, the desire, the unadulterated need. She was drawn to him in a way that she’d never been to another person. She always had been.
When she’d first learned that he’d been wounded in Iraq, the panic and dread that had rocketed through her had sent her into the nearest chair, her head between her knees to keep from hyperventilating. The mere thought of him being hurt—or worse, a world that he was no longer in—had literally terrified her. It was even more proof, as if she needed it, that he was still, after all these years, the most significant man in her life.
Was it because he’d set the bar so high? Marion wondered now. Or was it something else? Were the feelings she had for him genuinely that special, not just a romanticized memory of what was?
No matter. Michael’s death was always going to haunt them—the association with his grandfather and the part he’d played in her brother’s death was a shadow they’d never be able to shake. And, though she knew enough dinner etiquette to get her through a nice meal, she’d just as soon eat a slice of pizza over a paper plate. Because rubbing elbows with the Atlanta’s wealthy set was necessary to get additional funding for the clinic, she’d learned to speak a bit of the language and had acquired a decent second-hand wardrobe for formal events, but she never failed to feel like an imposter, an outsider in a world she didn’t even want to be a part of.
Robin’s world.
Granted, he’d never made her feel that way, but his grandfather had. The old man had never even bothered to learn her name, had simply called her Cook’s Daughter. It was degrading.
Jason gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, Marion?”
She blinked, startled out of her reverie. “Er, yes, of course. This is Robin Sherwood and John Little,” she said, gesturing to both in turn. “They’re old friends of mine.”
As though he were a shark and had caught the scent of blood in the water—but only if blood smelled like money—Jason’s expression brightened with shrewd intensity. Clearly recognizing what businesses they belonged to—the truly wealthy was a small set, after all—he extended his hand. “Jason Reeves,” he said smoothly with a painfully affected smile. She was surprised his eye tooth didn’t sparkle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He glanced at Robin. “Sherwood Holdings, am I correct?”
At Robin’s nod, Jason flushed with giddy pleasure, then turned to John and arched a brow. “Red Rock Developments?” The massive development company was responsible for roughly half of all new construction in the greater Atlanta area.
John’s jovial expression had devolved from blank to a bemused WTF. “That’s right.”
“Excellent,” her non-date enthused, further mortifying her with his utter lack of self-awareness. “My family’s in commercial eateries. We’re new to the big business scene—we didn’t build any railroads,” he said aside to Robin with a wink, “but we’ve seen substantial growth and are rapidly expanding into other markets. It’s an excellent time to be in the food business.”
Marion would like to know when it was a bad time to be in the food business—everyone had to eat, after all—but rather than linger and allow this train wreck of a conversation to keep going, she pasted a bright smile on her face, glanced past Jason’s shoulder and said, “Oh, I think they’re ready to serve us. We should—” She attempted to nudge him away, but he held fast.
Evidently realizing that she was mortified and miserable, Robin decided that was the perfect time to ask Jason about his “commercial eateries.” She inwardly snorted. Newsflash, Jason. It’s called “fast food.”
“Commercial eateries?” Robin asked, his tone thoughtful. “It sounds fascinating.”
She couldn’t believe he said that with a straight face. John turned and coughed into his arm.
“Oh, it is,” Jason told him, utterly delighted. “It’s—”
“Carnival Cuisine,” Marion interjected quickly, hoping to shut down the long and involved story that led to his family’s business. “Funnel cakes, corn dogs, candied apples, deep-fried Snickers, cotton candy,” she said, the words practically running together, she said them so fast. “Anything you can get at a traditional carnival. Genius, right?”
To her horror, John’s face lit up with genuine interest. “It is. I went through the drive-thru recently for an ear of roasted corn and a turkey leg. Good stuff.” He jabbed Robin in the side. “Remember, I told you about it?
“I do remember,” Robin said, watching her closely. Those hazel eyes were rife with knowing humor, his beautifully sculpted lips curled into an almost-smile. He was enjoying this entirely too much, the wretch.
“Another satisfied customer,” Jason remarked with a smug chuckle. “I knew it would be a success. I just knew it. I had faith in the idea—it was mine, after all,” he bragged proudly, “and was certain that it would resonate with the masses.”
Oh, good Lord, Marion thought with a massive internal eye-roll. What masses? They were in the South, for heaven’s sake. Butter, lard and sugar were practically their own food groups. Good ones, too, in moderation she’d admit. Still …
Robin gestured widely to the table. “Have a seat and tell us all about it. I’d love to hear where you two met, as well. I’m sure that’s equally interesting.”
“It’s not, really,” Jason told him, plopping his rude ass into a chair without a thought for her. “It was at one of those tedious charity events. I’m sure you know the kind.”
“I typically like those,” the Prince of Mischief, as she’d renamed Robin, said. “It gives me a good feeling when I know my money is doing something important.”
With another veiled glance at her, Robin chewed the inside of his cheek, then, ever the gentleman, pulled out a chair for her and quirked a brow. Seething, she accepted it grudgingly and mentally braced herself for further humiliation.
“Right, right. Me, too,” Jason immediately back-pedaled. “That’s what I meant.”
And that’s how the rest of the meal went. Robin and John let Jason liberally share his opinions, then purposely voiced a different view—no matter how ludicrous—and watched him recant and agree with them.
It was a game. They kept score. Occasionally, she’d referee.
By the end of the evening, Jason had renounced real butter in favor of margarine, switched political parties, promised to cancel his country club membership and nam his firstborn son Sue because Johnny Cash had a point. (Yes, he did, but that wasn’t it!) To her disbelief, Jason had whipped out his cell phone and downloaded the Man in Black’s “A Boy Named Sue,” and set it as his new ring-tone. At John’s urging, he’d purchased the accompanying screen saver.
It was at that point that Marion started to drink.
And despite the fact that she’d arrived with Jason—who still hadn’t given her the damned check for the clinic—it was Robin, naturally, who ended up driving her home. A smarter woman would have protested, but her foolish heart had lifted at the thought and a secret thrill of anticipation had whipped through her. She inwardly sighed.
Which only served to prove how little perspective she had when it came to Robin Sherwood. And the hell of it? Right now, she didn’t care.
3
ROBIN WAITED UNTIL the automatic door locks had clicked into place before sending Marion a sidelong glance. “Your boyfriend is charming,” he remarked as he aimed the truck toward her address. “Eager. Hungry.” Self-important. Small-minded. A prick, Robin thought silently. In what sort of world did a girl like Marion go out with a guy like him? Honestly, when he’d watched Jason’s arm go around her shoulders, Robin’s irritation level had needled dangerously toward Kick His Ass.
Marion sighed, a weary smile playing over her lips. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Irrational relief wilted through him. “Has anyone told him that? Because he seems to be laboring under the assumption that the two of you are an item.”
She gave an indelicate snort. “Jason labors under a lot of incorrect assumptions. Or hadn’t you noticed?” she asked, sending him a pointed glance.
Even in the darkened interior, he could see the knowing humor glinting in her ice-blue eyes. They were remarkable, those eyes. The purest, brightest blue, very round with an exotic lift in the far corners that gave her an almost catlike appearance. Paired with that milky fair skin and gleaming black hair, she put him in mind of John William Waterhouse’s painting of Pandora opening the box. The metaphor wasn’t lost on him, but it hadn’t kept him from buying the print or hanging it in his living room, either.
Marion had the same grace, an innate regality that would put some of the world’s modern-day royalty to shame. She was strikingly lovely, beautiful to watch and, refreshingly, not the least bit aware of it.
“He certainly has a lot of opinions,” Robin conceded. “And is more than willing to share them.”
“Or change them, when properly led,” she remarked drolly. “You and John were in fine form tonight.”
Yes, they were, he thought, inwardly smiling. But when presented with such an easy target, how were they to resist? “It’s the costume,” Robin confided. “It brings out the worst in me.”
He felt her gaze skim over him, an infinitesimal pause along his thigh. A gratifying flush of color bloomed beneath her skin and she swallowed, drawing his attention to the fine muscles of her throat. She released a shaky breath. “I don’t think it’s fair to blame the costume for that.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s John, but we’ve been friends too long now to change the status quo.”
She chuckled, the sound low and smoky between them. “I don’t think it’s fair to blame John, either.”
He negotiated a turn. “Well, we have to blame someone, otherwise I’d have to assume that you thought it was some sort of character flaw on my part, and—” he sighed deeply and gave his head a lamentable shake “—that just wouldn’t do.”
Another soft laugh. “Oh, because you care what I think?”
He flashed a grin at her. “Of course.”
She hummed under her breath, studying him for a moment. It was unnerving, that measured stare. It made him feel exposed, laid bare and open. Vulnerable. “You’ve gotten better at it,” she said.
Shaken, Robin attempted to shrug the odd sensation off. “I’m always trying to improve, so that’s not surprising, but what exactly have I gotten better at?”
“Bullshit,” she told him. “You’re a black belt.”
A bark of laughter erupted from his throat. “A black belt in bullshit? Really? And here I thought I was being charming,” he drawled.
“That, too,” she admitted, seemingly reluctantly. “But it doesn’t make you any less a pain in the ass.” She sat a little straighter and shot him an accusing glare. “You insisted that we sit with you simply for the sport of it—just so Jason could double as the entertainment. And you’ve no doubt cost me another evening I’ll never get back with Mr. I-Love-Myself-Enough-For-Both-of-Us. Awesome,” she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm. “That’s just what I wanted.”
“I’m … sorry,” Robin said, because an apology seemed like an appropriate response to that interesting but thoroughly nonsensical diatribe. Another evening that she’ll never get back? What the hell was she talking about? Hadn’t she been on a date?
She grunted. “Ha. No, you’re not.”
He wasn’t, really, but there was no way she could be certain of that. He’d forgotten what a know-it-all she could be. How odd that he hated the quality in others, but found it endearing when it came to her.
“You’re smiling,” she said, as though she’d read his mind. “Interestingly enough, it makes one doubt your sincerity.”
His grin widened. “Sorry.”
Her ripe lips twitched, taking the sting out of her outrage. “This is my street.”
He glanced at his GPS. The unit, or “Hilda,” who’d been giving him turn by turn instructions, hadn’t said a word.
She arched a wry brow and bit the corner of her lip. “I’ll admit I’ve had a little too much to drink, but I’m not so far gone that I don’t know where I live.”
He made the turn, and Hilda immediately found her voice. “Recalculating.”
The put-upon announcement garnered a chuckle from the passenger seat.
“How civil,” she remarked.
“Ha,” he told her. “That’s just its polite way of saying, ‘You’re going the wrong way, fool.’”
“Third house on the right, fool,” she said with an affected Swedish accent, much like Hilda’s.
He grinned and pulled into her narrow driveway, admittedly curious about her lair. You could tell a lot about a person by looking at the things they surrounded themselves with. Color, texture, art, knickknacks and keepsakes. A home was the sum total of a personality, told in objects, shared in photos.
Though nice and in a decent part of town—one the city had decided to revitalize—her house was much more modest than he would have thought, particularly given her salary. He knew it, after all, since it was part of the budget for the clinic, and it had always been important to him that she was well compensated for her work. It was hard, he knew, not to mention important and emotionally draining. Rewarding, too, he imagined, but rewards didn’t pay the bills.
A traditional shotgun style, the house was pink, a color that clearly said “No Men Allowed,” because no self-respecting man would live in a pink house. Interesting. He filed it away for future thought. Lacy white fretwork decorated the small front porch, giving it a whimsical appeal. Potted yellow mums and some sort of purple flowers marched along both sides of the steps and, though it was dark, he could make out a bird bath nestled in the shrubbery. All in all, very charming, very efficient. Much like its owner.
She unfastened her seat belt and dug around her purse for her keys, then turned to look at him. He knew that particular look, though admittedly he wasn’t used to seeing it directed at him. “Thanks so much for—”
“Hold that thought,” Robin told her before she could give him the official brush-off. He jumped out of the truck, bustled around the front and then opened her door for her.
“—bringing me home,” she finished, looking mildly startled. She swallowed, the long, creamy column of her throat moving with the effort. “You don’t have to walk me in. I don’t want to put you to any more trouble.”
Wrong. He unnerved her every bit as much as she unnerved him, but he was too damned curious about her—what had made her the person she was today, specifically—to allow her to send him packing now. A pink house? Really? Had it been pink when she’d bought it or had she painted it this anti-man color on purpose? And why was she going to have to go out with Jason again? What was she doing out with him in the first place? Especially if she didn’t consider him—thank God—dating material?
The answers to these questions were tucked away in that intriguing little mind of hers and, if he could spend a bit of time with her, he hoped to coax them right out of that beautiful, kissable mouth.
This was why he’d avoided her. He was never curious enough to care about any other woman. Only her.
“It’s no trouble at all,” he said, offering her his hand to help her out the passenger side, another mistake, but one he couldn’t seem to help. She hesitated only the merest fraction of a second, but his gut clenched all the same. Then her small palm connected with his—soft silky skin, delicate feminine bones—and a jolt of sensation rocketed through him, an odd mixture of relief, longing, anticipation and desire. His dick instantly stirred beneath the thin fabric of his breeches, as though his skin somehow recognized hers.
Her chest rose in an inaudible gasp and she glanced up, her gaze meeting his. Silent confirmation that she’d felt it, too. “Th-thank you,” she murmured. She stood and quickly released his hand.
Robin closed the door and followed her up the walkway. A slight breeze lifted the ends of her hair and molded the garnet-colored dress she wore even more closely to her frame. The dress was long with bell-like sleeves, and a small, jeweled sash encircled her slim waist, then tied and dangled over her hip. He mentally added a halo of flowers on her head. She might as well have stepped out of one of those Waterhouse paintings.
Which was fitting, he supposed, because she certainly had the renaissance frame to pull off the look. She was tall and slender, but generously curved and lush in all the right places. No doubt the hips she probably thought were too wide were the very ones he’d like to hold on to while he plunged in and out of her warm, soft body. A natural cradle made for carnal things. A vision of her arching up beneath him temporarily blinded him, making him stumble on the path, and he uttered a low curse, painfully aroused and mortified.
Especially since there was no room for error in these damned pants.
Marion paused at the door, then turned to face him. The send-him-packing look was firmly back in place and it galled him to no end. He wasn’t some random guy she’d just met—she’d known him nearly all her life. Manners alone should dictate a cup of coffee, at the very least. A slice of cake, if it was on hand. Granted, he’d been in the military a long time, but he still knew enough about Southern hospitality to know that.
“Thanks again for the ride,” she said, her skin especially creamy beneath the glow of her porch light. If she wore any lipstick at all, it had long ago worn off, leaving her mouth a lovely rose color. “Can I expect you at the clinic anytime soon?” she asked lightly. Too lightly.
“First thing in the morning,” he said, just to unnerve her. “Things are slow at Ranger Security at the moment. Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I leave?” he asked. “It’s a bit of a drive to Hawthorne Lake.”
Her eyes rounded in surprise, from his request or the Hawthorne Lake comment, he couldn’t be sure. “Er, yes, of course.” Her shoulders sagged minimally—a sign of defeat?—and she inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. A loud meow immediately issued from the depths of the house and then a very large gray cat with misshapen ears streaked straight at Marion and curled around her legs.
Meow, meow, MEOW.
She chuckled, set her purse aside and then scooped the massive animal up into her arms and cuddled it close. “Yes, yes, I know. I’m late again. My apologies, Angus.” She glanced at Robin, a smile on her face. “The bathroom’s through there,” she said, gesturing through the dining room door.
He nodded and headed in that direction, taking note of the wide plank hardwood floors, the squashy floral patterned furniture arranged around the working fireplace. Soft pastels covered the walls—pale pink in the living room, robin’s-egg-blue in the dining room, pale yellow in the kitchen and, since the bathroom had been added by erecting another wall along the back of the kitchen to create a small hall, a quick peek into her bedroom revealed a lilac shade with spindly white furniture and mountains of accent pillows.
The whole place was light and airy and, more significantly … girly.