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He sauntered forward and, looking more than a little pleased with himself, carefully laid a check on top of her desk. A quick glance confirmed it was from Jason … and it was double the amount of his original pledge. A smile flirted with her lips.
Only Robin.
“Thank you,” she said, grinning up at him. Irrationally pleased—hell, it wasn’t like he’d slain a damned dragon—she poked her tongue in her cheek and slid the check into her top drawer. “You made quick work of that.”
He settled his six-and-a-half-foot muscled frame into the smallish chair in front of her desk and somehow managed to appear comfortable. “I talked to him before I went home last night.”
“Talked?” she queried skeptically. “Did he acquire any bruises during this particular conversation?”
Robin’s warm chuckle matched his good-humored gaze. “Only to his ego, I assure you. Though I was prepared to make him see reason in any number of ways, had he not been so cooperative,” he added in a grimmer tone.
She’d just bet he was. And the very idea made her foolish heart thrill at the thought of each one. It was down-right … bloodthirsty. What the hell was wrong with her? And if it was wrong, then why did it feel so right?
“As promised, here’s the list,” she said, handing him the file she’d pulled together early this morning.
He accepted it without looking at it, which she didn’t question but thought was strange considering it was supposed to be the reason he was here this morning. “Thanks,” he told her. “Do you have plans for this evening?”
Marion blinked and her pathetic heart jumped into her throat. Her? Plans? Only if watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory and painting her toenails passed for plans. “Er, I—”
He gestured to the folder. “I’m guessing that the bulk of the people on this list will be at the Red Ball tonight, and I was hoping you’d accompany me.” He grinned at her. “We can tag team them, make them pay up.”
Ah, Marion thought, her own smile frozen. Actually, she preferred her own plans for the evening, such as they were, to attending a formal event with people who paid more for their lawn care than her annual salary. But technically, it was part of her job. And since Robin had already proved he could make reluctant pledges honor their promises, how could she refuse? It was for the good of the clinic, right? And watching him in action would no doubt be entertaining and gratifying.
Frankly, only the possibility of doing more harm than good for the clinic had kept her from taking a more forceful approach to collecting the outstanding pledges. Robin was better connected, better insulated and could do much more in that regard than she could.
She nodded. “Sounds good. I’ll meet you there.” This was a slippery slope and she was clinging determinedly to the edge. She didn’t trust herself enough to allow him another home visit. Intuition told her if Robin crossed her threshold again, he’d be doing more than breaching her inner sanctum, he’d be invading—with her full cooperation—her bedroom, as well.
From the moment she’d seen him last night, every bit of forgotten longing and unresolved sexual frustration had boiled to the surface, making her feel feverish and jittery, spun up and wound tight. Like a coiled spring ready to snap. Every moment spent in his company only compounded the issue and eroded what little remained of her self-control.
Robin stilled for a fraction of a second, his easy smile turning brittle. “I’ve just invited you to the Red Ball and you said yes. It’s a date, Marion,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “I’ll pick you up.”
The breath in her lungs thinned. A date? Well, yes, by that definition she supposed it was. Her head spun. A date. Right. She cleared her throat, tried to gather her fractured thoughts. “Part of the service, is it?” she asked, her voice weak.
He smiled, the corner of his mouth hitching into that grin she couldn’t resist. “In a manner of speaking.”
A date …
God help her. She was so going to need some divine intervention.
WELL, THAT CERTAINLY HADN’T gone as planned, Robin thought as Marion led him through the clinic. Though he could tell she’d made various improvements and, as usual, had everything as efficient and streamlined as possible, he could barely hear her from the noise in his own head.
Date? Yes, he’d asked her to go with him to the Red Ball, more as a ploy to get to spend some more time with her—and to show off, if he was honest, because he’d devised some pretty devious ways to get people to part with their promised money—he hadn’t actually meant it to be a genuine honest-to-goodness date.
At least, he didn’t think he did, but at this point, who the hell knew? Perspective—if he’d ever had any to begin with—had gone by the wayside. He just knew that when she’d offered to meet him—meet him, for crying out loud—at the venue … something had just snapped inside him. Her determination to keep him at arm’s length, even when he was trying to help her, galled him to no end.
She might as well have waved a red flag in front of a bull.
While “retreat” might be in other men’s character, it wasn’t in his.
Her little attempt to dodge him only made him want to advance and reload. Made him want to grab hold of the long braid presently bobbing between her shoulder blades and tug her to him, then lick the sweet spot on the back of her neck. She was in another long and flowing dress today, this one a dark purple with a fitted bodice that fully covered her breasts, but somehow managed to display them to perfect advantage anyway. The color accentuated her pale skin, made it glow, even in this horrendous commercial light.
And the way she moved … She didn’t just walk. She glided, head high and swanlike.
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