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Of Rhonda Nelson …

“I loved The Keeper. Jack and Mariette strike sparks off one another from their very first meeting and there is an emotional intensity to the mystery that will bring a few tears to your eyes.” —Fresh Fiction

“This highly romantic tale is filled with emotion and wonderful characters. It’s a heart-melting romance.”

—RT Book Reviews on Letters From Home

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“[G]uaranteed to keep you turning the pages!”

—RT Book Reviews on Devil in Dress Blues

“[T]he romance is intense and sure to please.”

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA® Award nominee, RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice nominee and National Readers’ Choice Award winner, RHONDA NELSON writes hot romantic comedy for the Mills & Boon® Blaze® line. With more than thirty-five published books to her credit, she’s thrilled with her career and enjoys dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure and check her out at www.readRhondaNelson.com, follow her on Twitter @ RhondaRNelson and like her on Facebook.

KAREN FOLEY is an incurable romantic. When she’s not working for the Department of Defense, she’s writing sexy romances with strong heroes and happy endings. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and two daughters, an overgrown puppy and two very spoiled cats. Karen enjoys hearing from her readers. You can find out more about her by visiting www.karenefoley.com.

Blazing Bedtime
Stories,
Volume IX
The Equalizer

Rhonda Nelson

God’s Gift to Women

Karen Foley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Equalizer

Rhonda Nelson

For Cara Summers, a wonderful storyteller, intrepid white-water kayaker—

I’m sure you remember Reno :-)—and all around sweetheart. You’re an inspiration, truly.

1

WITH A NAME SIMILAR TO A fabled outlaw, a passion for archery and a best friend named John Little, former Ranger Robin Sherwood had been the butt of many jokes, the bulk of which he’d accepted good-naturedly.

This, however, was different, because the situation he presently found himself in was a hell of his own making.

The maître d’s eyes rounded in alarm, presumably because Robin was in every possible violation of the dress code and, while it was October, it wasn’t yet quite Halloween. The conundrum had clearly flummoxed him.

“My usual table, please, Branson,” Robin instructed briskly, sparing the man their usual chit-chat.

“Certainly, sir.” His gaze slid over him once again—further confirmation that his eyes hadn’t deceived him, Robin imagined—and, with a small gulp, Branson turned and led the way. “If you’ll follow me.”

“It’s like Christmas has come early,” John crowed behind him through fits of smothered, wheezing laughter. “And this is the best present ever.”

Determined to see this humiliation through to the end, Robin released a long suffering sigh and soldiered on.

A series of gasps, snickers and the clatter of fumbled cutlery followed him through the five-star restaurant. Though he was generally shameless and couldn’t be bothered to care what people thought, he came as close to blushing as he ever hoped to and knew a small measure of relief when they finally arrived at their table.

“Paybacks are hell,” Robin told him, his tone mild. He casually placed his napkin over his lap. “Just remember that.”

John, irritatingly, continued to beam. He was in custom Armani, naturally—nothing off the rack would fit his Hercules-like frame—and every blond hair had been gelled meticulously into place. “You shouldn’t have accepted the bet if you weren’t certain of the outcome. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me? A glass of Cristal,” he happily told the waiter. “I’m celebrating.”

Robin ordered a nice red wine and pretended not to notice that almost every eye in the exclusive restaurant was trained on him. He glanced out the window and admired the view instead. Downtown Atlanta lay spread out in a sea of night, punctuated with glittering lights and the occasional flash of neon. Though many of the storefronts were decorated with pretty mums, hay bales and gourds, fall seemed reluctant to make an official appearance thus far. It was unseasonably warm in Hotlanta for this time of year, which made his current outfit all the more uncomfortable. He grimaced.

That would teach him to bet when drunk.

“You look positively miserable,” John said, smiling.

Robin smothered a curse and glared at his friend. “I’m hot.”

“I imagine so.” John’s gaze darted to the top of Robin’s head and he heaved a grudging sigh. “You can take off the hat, I suppose, but be careful not the crush that feather,” he warned with a scowl. “It’s rented, not bought.”

Thank God for small favors, Robin thought. Better that the damned thing was returned than put away for future use. Particularly his. And given how much fun his friend was currently enjoying at his expense, he could easily see John pulling this little number out again and again.

Robin’s phone suddenly vibrated in the leather pouch attached to his waist and, though it was bad form to answer it in the restaurant, he couldn’t dismiss the call. It was an old friend from boarding school, Brian Payne, and more recently—more importantly—his new boss at Ranger Security. After the hit to his leg in Mosul had shredded his thigh muscle and thus ended his career in the military—as he’d envisioned it, anyway—Robin was eternally thankful for the job. Though there were many who would argue that he didn’t need gainful employment, he’d never felt that way. Trust fund or not, he’d always needed a purpose. Needed to be useful. What was that old saying? Idle hands were the devil’s playground?

He didn’t know if he completely agreed with that—a battlefield seemed more apt—but he understood the sentiment. Busy people didn’t have time to get into trouble. The only reason he’d been horsing around with John and had lost this damned bet was because he was between jobs at Ranger Security.

“Sherwood,” he answered, turning away from the din.

“My Facebook feed just blew up with pictures of you, taken at Dolce Maria’s, in what appears to be some sort of costume,” Payne said, the humor barely registering in his cool voice. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve been in polite society, Robin, but surely you haven’t forgotten all the rules.”

Robin swore hotly under his breath and Payne’s chuckle echoed over the line.

“‘The boy who wouldn’t grow up,’ one caption reads,” Payne continued. He laughed appreciatively. “Clever.”

Robin felt his eyes widen and he shot a dark look at John. “I’m not freakin’ Peter Pan,” he told him, outraged. “I’m Robin Hood, dammit.” He glared accusingly across the table and lowered his voice. “I told you I needed the bow and arrows, but would you listen? No.”

John blinked innocently. “I was afraid they’d call security if you came in with a weapon.”

The staff would make them leave, more likely, thus ruining John’s prank, Robin thought. Bastard.

“Ah, I see it now,” Payne remarked, as though he’d just noticed something in the photo he’d missed before. He paused. “Fine. I’ll ask the obvious question. Why are you dressed up like Robin Hood?”

Robin chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before responding. “Because I lost a bet.”

Payne grunted knowingly, as if this explanation made perfect sense. Which it did, Robin knew, because like him, Payne was a man who believed reneging on a bet—no matter how ill-conceived or asinine—was the same as lying.

He’d agreed to the terms and given his word. Balking was out of the question.

“And what if you hadn’t lost?”

Robin grinned and glanced across the table at his completely unrepentant friend. “Then John would be dressed up like a vampire, acting out the Twilight saga via interpretative dance outside the High Museum. For tips.”

Payne laughed softly again. “Oh, I would have liked to see that,” he said. “Too bad you lost.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” Robin told him, firmly in the glass-half-full camp. He took another sip of his wine. “Did you need anything else? Any new assignments come in?”

“No, that was all. Everything’s covered for the moment. Enjoy the downtime. I’m sure it won’t last.”

Robin certainly hoped not. Though he had plenty to do to oversee his own business—look at financial reports, review his various charitable endeavors—he’d hired good people to attend to those things in his absence while in the military and, though he’d had a career change, he didn’t mean to impose one on them, as well. That was not how one repaid good service.

In fact, everything he’d learned about being a good boss had come from following his father’s short-lived example and by not taking any advice from his grandfather—railroad mogul, Henry Sherwood—who was a notoriously hard man. Robin inwardly snorted.

Hard hell. He was greedy and mean, a textbook narcissist whose first love was himself, his second, money. The old adage “only the good die young” had certainly proved true in Robin’s experience. He imagined his grandfather would outlive Methuselah.

Currently, the old bastard was confined to his bed, a rotation of nurses on staff to see to his every need. His master suite had been outfitted to look like something that would no doubt rival NASA’s Mission Command center, with banks of televisions streaming information from all over the globe—and the house and grounds, of course—attached to the walls and portable computers a mere roller table away at all times. He was just as formidable at eighty as he’d been at forty-eight and kept an eagle eye on his vast business and estate domains.

Though he’d always accused Robin of “being weak just like his father” and had never shown any interest in his grandson, evidently the significance of his own mortality had finally surfaced. Now the old man was acting as if he’d like nothing better than to groom Robin to take over the reins. Robin’s response? Not no, but hell, no. He didn’t have to own a crystal ball or possess any supernatural powers to know that they’d never see eye to eye, particularly when it came to how to treat employees. How the old man had managed to sire Robin’s unbelievably kind father was an unsolvable mystery, one that had always baffled him.

Having lost his mother to an aneurysm while just a toddler, Robin had no memories of her, but he cherished the ones he had of his dad. And those were too few. Robin had been officially orphaned at fifteen, when his dad had died in a car accident. Gavin Sherwood had been buried less than a week before Robin’s grandfather had shipped his grandson off to an exclusive boarding school—one notorious for corporal punishment, of course—in Maryland. That’s where he’d met Payn, and a lifelong friendship was formed. Robin inwardly grinned. Nothing like a good thrashing to forge a bond.

As for John—his gaze darted to his friend across the table—that bond had been formed from the cradle. John Little was the son of Robin’s father’s best friend and as such, they’d grown up more like brothers than friends. Laughing one minute, pummeling the hell out of each other the next. Robin inwardly grinned. Good times.

John’s father, Vince, had stepped in to fill the gap after his father had passed away and for that, Robin would always be thankful. Despite the distance once he’d been sent away to school, Vince and John had kept in constant contact, always writing and calling, occasionally visiting. And it was Vince who came to his graduation—both high school and college—and Vince who’d clapped him on the shoulder, tears in his eyes, and told him how proud his father would have been when he’d been accepted into Ranger school. It was Vince who shared memories of his dad, who’d painted a picture of him that he’d been able to hero-worship as a boy, and later appreciate as a man. A priceless gift, indeed.

Still thoroughly enjoying himself, John waved at a table of friends across the room and continued to savor his victory champagne. He sighed deeply. “Other than sex, there is absolutely nothing I like better than winning.”

“And since you do both so infrequently, I’m sure this is a novel experience for you,” Robin drawled.

John merely laughed and his gaze drifted fleetingly past Robin’s shoulder before finding his again. “Smart-assed bastard,” he groused good-naturedly. “I’m entitled to gloat. That’s what happens when you win.” He snorted. “You should know, you’ve done it often enough. By the way, have you been by the clinic to see Marion or are you still avoiding her?” he asked suddenly, his tone light.

Tone aside, the question itself carried enough weight to flatten an anvil and John bloody well knew it.

The clinic in question was the Michael Cross Clinic, one that Robin had founded as soon as he’d inherited at twenty-two in memory of a dear childhood friend who’d died officially of sepsis, but more truthfully of being poor and not having health insurance. Michael’s family had lived on the estate grounds and worked for his grandfather. His mother was the cook, his father the head gardener. By all rights, as a capable employer, Robin’s grandfather should have offered them coverage, but he’d been too tight-fisted to provide it.

Michael’s younger sister, Marion—the mere thought of her made something in Robin’s chest shift and ache—ran the clinic. She was a former friend, a onetime lover and the only woman Robin could honestly say ever terrified him.

Though his grandfather hadn’t approved of the Cross children as proper playmates for him, that hadn’t kept the four of them—Robin, Michael, John and later, Marion, who couldn’t bear to be left behind—from spending as much time together as possible. They’d built a tree house and forts in the forest around the estate, swum in the creek that cut through the woods. They’d invented their own type of Morse code with flashlights and had communicated late into the night. They’d caught lightning bugs, played hide-and-seek and I Spy. Though five years younger than the rest of them, Marion had been determined to keep up and though she occasionally got on her older brother’s nerves, Robin never minded when she came along.

She’d been special, even then.

And the adult version of Marion was even more potent. She made him feel things he couldn’t recognize much less name, stirred a longing, an ache, a need beyond the basest level of attraction.

Because he’d needed to do something to show her that first, he wasn’t like his grandfather and second that he had genuinely cared for her brother, Robin had founded the clinic and then handed her the reins to run as she saw fit once she’d graduated from college. He’d run into her half a dozen times in the ten years since she’d officially opened the door to the clinic and each time, no matter how fleeting, was more powerful than the last. It wasn’t enough to talk to her—he needed to see her. It wasn’t enough to see her—he had to touch her. Even if it was the merest brush of his shoulder against hers, it electrified him. Though he’d been with countless women over the past ten years—and had been with others prior to her—that single ill-conceived night with Marion a decade ago was still somehow the most significant experience he’d ever had, and had become the measuring stick by which any other coupling was evaluated.

Ridiculous, he knew, but there it was.

He’d been back in town for nearly three months now and, while he’d done on-site visits to the other charities and businesses he supported, he’d avoided going to the clinic.

Why? Because he knew what would happen when he saw her—what he’d feel—and he had enough self-preservation instincts to delay it as long as possible.

Though there’d always been an easy camaraderie between them before, the tension now was palpable. She deliberately kept her distance and made sure they were never alone. It was obvious that she regretted their night together—and to some degree, he did, too, because he’d never been able to forget it—and wanted to keep their relationship on a strictly professional level.

His consolation? He knew she still wanted him, as well. He could practically feel the desire humming off her, caught glimpses of it when she thought he wasn’t looking. He never left that clinic without feeling emotionally drained and wound tighter than a three-day clock.

“I’m not avoiding her,” Robin lied, annoyed that John had noticed. “I’ve been busy. She has everything in hand at the clinic. There’s no reason for me to check up on her.” There. That sounded perfectly logical. Even John should appreciate that.

“How about just checking in on her then?” John pressed, the dart penetrating. “She’s a friend, isn’t she? You’ve known her most of your life.”

Robin scowled, growing increasingly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation. “I know how long I’ve known her, dammit,” he snapped, reaching again for his glass. “I don’t need you to tell me.”

John shrugged, seemingly unconcerned, then leaned forward and smiled with all of his teeth. “Maybe so, but do you know what you do need me to tell you?”

John’s gaze shifted past his shoulder once more and a prickling of uneasiness slid up Robin’s spine as a grin that wasn’t directed at him broke impossibly wider over his friend’s face.

“What?” he asked ominously.

John beamed at him. “Marion’s here and headed this way. Put the hat back on.”

2

MARION CROSS HAD BEEN LOCKED in a state of dreadful anticipation since the moment she learned several months ago that Robin Sherwood was back in Atlanta. As her boss, she’d imagined their first meeting would take place at the clinic—rumor had it he’d been making the rounds, doing on-site inspections of his various interests around town, though irritatingly, he hadn’t made it to hers yet. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted and, if she was honest, she’d admit to being a little hurt, as well. She hadn’t expected to be the first on his list—too much history—but she’d expected him to at least make it.

Although, had anyone told her that she’d run into him at one of the city’s finest, most exclusive restaurants dressed in an extravagant Robin Hood costume, she would have never believed it. Her lips quirked.

Of course, knowing Robin, she probably should have.

No doubt this was the result of one of his and John’s equally notorious and ridiculous bets. They’d been doing it as long as she could remember. The daring and daunting, goading and gloating, the cork-brained testosterone-induced idiocy that, for reasons that would always escape her, she found reluctantly endearing. There was something so natural about their friendship, the mutual understanding of what made the other one tick. It was a beautiful thing to watch.

John immediately smiled and got to his feet when he saw her. His bright blue eyes twinkled with mischievous pleasure. “Marion,” he said warmly, wrapping his massive arms around her. The only thing little about John was his last name. More blond Adonis than ogre, he’d left a string of broken hearts around Atlanta.

Unaccountably nervous, she returned the embrace. “Hi, John. It’s good to see you.”

He drew back. “You, too, sprite. You’re looking lovely as always.”

She murmured her thanks, her heartbeat suddenly thundering in her ears. She didn’t have to see him to know that Robin was looming right behind her—she could feel him. The weight of his presence rolled over her, prickling her skin. Her stomach gave an involuntarily little jump and her pulse quickened right along with her mounting anxiety. She felt the weight of his gaze bore into the back of her head, then trail ever-so-slowly down her frame—lingering on her ass, of course—leaving a rash of gooseflesh in its wake.

She gulped and mentally braced herself.

It took every iota of willpower she possessed to turn around and face him.

Naturally, she still wasn’t prepared. Her breath caught in her throat, her insides vibrated like a tuning fork and longing, stark and potent, rose so quickly she nearly wobbled on her feet.

That’s what he did to her. What he’d always done to her, damn him.

In a just world, he would have looked utterly ridiculous in the costume. His powerful shoulders wouldn’t have been displayed to mouthwatering advantage beneath the loose linen material, his chest emphasized by the leather vest, his narrow waist accentuated with the belt. The knee-high boots wouldn’t have drawn attention to his muscled thighs and the distinct bulge that formed between them beneath the obscenely thin pants. Even the hat, curse him, perched at a jaunty angle on his head, looked good with his tawny curls and seemed to highlight the elegantly masculine lines of his face. Heavily lashed hazel eyes peered down at her with a mixture of rueful humor, a hint of trepidation and something else, something not readily identifiable.

It was that something else, naturally, that would haunt her.

He doffed his hat and offered her an extravagant, theatrical bow. “My lady,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

She nodded primly, playing along, and arched a brow. “Going to a costume party later, or is this a new trend I’m unaware of?”

“Oh, it’s definitely a new trend in men’s fashion,” he assured her, as though he were an expert on the subject. “It’s all the rage in Paris, trust me. You can’t go anywhere without seeing one of the Three Musketeers, Napoleon, Henry the Eighth or even Davy Crockett.”

She chuckled. “Davy Crockett? Really?”

Humor lit his gaze. “It’s the coonskin cap,” he confided conspiratorially, leaning close enough to make her pulse clamor. “They can’t get enough of it.”

“It’s getting a little deep in here, Robin, and you’re the only one wearing boots,” John interjected. He glanced at Marion. “The truth is Robin thought he could put an arrow through a tire swing from a hundred yards.”

She didn’t see why that should have posed any problem. He’d always been a keen archer. He’d been competing for as long as she could remember. Truth be told, she’d always enjoyed watching him shoot. The careful way his fingers nocked the arrow, the wide-legged stance, the way his muscles rippled in his long arms as he drew back the string, then sighted his target. Every motion was deliberate, but strangely natural, a beautiful combination of skill and strength. Just the thought of it made her belly flutter and grow warm.

With effort, she ignored the sensation and frowned. “That shouldn’t have—”

John grinned. “He was knee-walking drunk and the tire swing was in motion.”

Her gaze darted to Robin’s and she smothered a laugh. “And you’re surprised you lost?”

He sighed deeply. “Chagrined, I think, is the word you’re looking for,” he said, hanging his head in mock shame. “And for the record, I still hit the swing.”

“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.

She might as well put a sign out by the curb that said No Boys Allowed.

He’d noted several pictures of her family—mostly Michael—on her mantle, a collection of old colored-glass bottles and several prints from the Art Deco era—Parrish, Fox, Icart. A corkboard with postcards of various famous landscapes—Venice, Rome, Paris, Greece, London—was adhered to the wall in the kitchen, along with the caption “Bucket List.” Another little insight into her soul.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she called, much to his delight. “Coffee? Iced tea?”

“Iced tea would be great,” he said. He hadn’t really needed to use the restroom, of course. It had just been a ploy to get inside. She probably suspected that, so he flushed the commode and washed his hands just in case she was listening.

She was just sliding a few cookies onto a plate when he entered the kitchen. Spying the dessert, his eyes widened and a hopeful smile slide over his lips. “Are those—”

“Snickerdoodles?” she finished, shooting him a grin. “Yes, they are. It’s my mother’s recipe and still my favorite, though I still haven’t managed to make them quite as well as she did.”

If his childhood could be labeled with flavors, no doubt butter, brown sugar and cinnamon would be high on the list. The cookies were melt-in-your-mouth delicious. He swallowed, his smile dimming. The cookies had been Michael’s favorite, as well. Marion’s mother had stopped making them after he’d died and no amount of hints or wheedling had changed her mind.

A quick glance at Marion’s face confirmed that she knew he’d made the connection, that he remembered. She released a small breath and handed him a glass of tea. “Let’s go to the living room, shall we?” And get this over with hung, unspoken, between them.

Back to square one, Robin thought with an inward sigh. And it was too damned familiar.

4

FEELING AN INCREASING SENSE of doom, Marion led the way to the living room and watched Robin lower his considerable frame onto her ultrafeminine couch. He should have looked out of place—ridiculous even, considering that costume—and yet … he didn’t.

Just as she’d feared.

Marion had bought the house a little more than three years ago and had personally overseen every nuance of the renovation. It was the first time she’d ever had a place of her own. Before that, she’d lived with her mother. Guilt could be a serious tether.

When her mother had decided to move to North Carolina to live with her sister, Marion had taken the opportunity to finally feather her own nest. Friends kept trying to convince her to get a bigger place, one that would accommodate a future husband and family, but Marion had ignored their advice because she wanted something that was just hers. Did that mean she was opposed to this mythical husband and family? No, though admittedly she was beginning to have her doubts as to whether or not either of those were in her future. It just meant that she wasn’t going to live in perpetual expectation of that happening. Her gaze slid to Robin and her heart gave a little squeeze.

He was the first man, other than the ones she’d hired to renovate, who’d stepped over her threshold. She could only name two who’d ever made it to the front porch. No doubt he thought she was being ungrateful and rude by not inviting him in, but the truth of the matter was, she’d wanted to issue the invitation too much.

Robin Sherwood was her Achilles’ heel, her ultimate weakness. She knew that an inside visit would shatter the boundaries she’d been so carefully trying to put into place. Of course, the fissure had started tonight when she’d seen him again. It was easy to imagine that she had some sort of control over her feelings when he wasn’t around.

And now he was going to be around—in Atlanta—on a permanent basis.

At Hawthorne Lake.

“When did you move to Hawthorne Lake?” she asked, unable to help herself. It had never occurred to her that he wasn’t living on the family estate. Though she hadn’t seen him in years—not since she’d moved her mother out of their old cottage—she knew his grandfather was in terrible health. Not that she cared, of course. He was a rotten man—it was only fitting that he … rot. Which was horrible, she knew, particularly coming from her, but Marion couldn’t help the way she felt. Henry Sherwood was an awful, awful man, the one who was ultimately responsible for the death of her brother. Forgiveness—and perspective, she’d admit—was never going to be forthcoming.

“I’ve always lived there when I was stateside,” he said. “Because Ranger Security is downtown, I considered a loft, but decided I’d rather make the commute than live with the noise.” He smiled at her, his honey-colored eyes crinkling at the corners. “Cottonwood is peaceful. I like watching the sunset over the meadow, listening to the bullfrogs croak from the pond.”

He couldn’t have surprised her more if he’d told her he lived in a mud-covered hut. Cottonwood was an old two-story white clapboard farmhouse that was idyllic but not grand. It sat back on a small knoll overlooking a pond and was surrounded by a grove of cottonwood trees, thus its name. It achieved a bit of notoriety during the Civil War, when Robert E. Lee was purported to have stayed there. Her mother had taken them all there the summer before Michael died, during Robin, John and Michael’s “civil war phase.”

They’d tromped over a lot of battlefields and visited several plantation homes, but Cottonwood had appealed to Marion the most because of the second-story porch. At the time it had felt a bit like a tower and she’d been going through her princess stage. Unbeknownst to the rest of them, she’d slipped away from the tour, ducked under the velvet rope and snuck up there. Michael ultimately spotted her from the ground and demanded that she come down—which she’d refused to do of course because “he wasn’t the boss of her”—and it had been Robin who’d coaxed her back. He’d told her that princesses weren’t meant to be locked away in musty old towers, they were supposed to be at Court. That had made sense to her, so she’d come down of her own volition. She smiled, remembering.

At any rate, it was a lovely house, one that held a special memory in her heart and it would definitely accommodate a sizable family.

The thought was oddly depressing.

She cleared her throat. “I imagine it would be.”

He arched a brow, an odd expression in his eyes. Hopeful? “You remember it then?”

She nodded, offered him a grin. “I do.”

“You should come see it sometime,” Robin said, gifting her with another of those charming smiles. “I’ll give you the whole tour, even show you the room Lee supposedly slept in.” His gaze turned mischievous. “I’ll even give you unlimited access to the second-story porch.”

Of course he would remember. Something told her Robin Sherwood didn’t forget much. Still …

Marion made a noncommittal sound and popped another bite of cookie in her mouth. Temping though it was, she didn’t think so. She was too damned aware of him now—the slope of his jaw, the exact curve of his lips, the masculine veins in his large hands, the muscles bunching beneath the fabric of his costume every time he moved, not to mention the tawny curls hugging the shell of his ear. Something about those irreverent curls against the strangely vulnerable skin around his ear, his neck, made her long to nuzzle them with her nose, to breathe him in. Her nipples tightened behind her bra and a ribbon of heat unfurled low in her belly. She felt herself leaning toward him, inexplicably drawn to him.

As always.

With effort, she righted herself.

Robin shot her a speculative glance, one that made her worry that he knew the effect he had on her, that he knew exactly how she felt about him. Every wicked, depraved thought.

“So if Jason wasn’t a date, then what were you doing with him?”

Back to that, were they? She released an exasperated sigh. “Trying to collect a pledge he made to the clinic. He keeps ‘forgetting’ to bring his checkbook.”

Robin frowned and his gaze sharpened. “I wasn’t aware that you were soliciting pledges.”

She knew he wasn’t. Because she hadn’t told him. Thankfully, she’d prepared for this conversation, had been in anticipation of it for three long months. Marion lifted an unconcerned shoulder and feigned an irreverence she didn’t feel. “It’s common practice with non-profit organizations.”

He set his glass aside and she felt the full force of his regard. “I realize that, but when did we start doing it?”

“Two years ago.” She took another nibble of cookie. “We had a big kick-off. It was a huge success. I was able to purchase a new X-ray machine with the proceeds.”

He made a noise low in his throat, but she couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He was unnaturally still, as though he were holding himself that way on purpose. Probably to keep from throttling her, Marion imagined.

“Marion, if you needed more money, then why didn’t you just ask for it? You know I would have approved whatever you—”

“The budget is more than generous, Robin,” she said. “And I know that I’m fortunate in that regard. But surely you realize that if I can raise the money to buy the equipment and medicines to treat more people, then I’m going to do it. I didn’t expect a budget increase and I didn’t start doing this in order to angle for one—that’s precisely why I didn’t tell you—but I would be remiss if I didn’t pursue all avenues of funding available to us. It’s part of my job to solicit donations.” She grimaced and heaved a sigh. “Granted, there are some people who are more difficult to deal with than others—like Jason, for instance—but for the most part, people around here are glad to be a part of what we’re doing.” She paused. “I’m proud of that … and I think you should be, too.”

“Of course, I am,” he said, his gaze still annoyingly inscrutable. “I just wish you’d mentioned it to me sooner. I would have been more than happy to help. Get donations,” he added quickly. “Or amend your budget. Whatever would have made you happy.”

It had been so long since someone had considered her happiness that the comment took her aback and left her feeling shaken and out of sorts. Thankfully, Robin looked as startled by the comment as she felt. For one heart-stoppingly agonizing instant, she couldn’t rip her gaze away from his, couldn’t unsee the turmoil roiling in those amazing hazel eyes.

“I knew you’d understand,” she murmured, for lack of anything better.

Abruptly, he stood. “I’d like a list, please.”

Marion blinked and found her feet as well, then followed him to the door. “A list? A list of what?”

“Of the people who currently have outstanding pledges.”

She winced. “That’s a long list.”

He flashed an unconcerned smile. “In the meantime, I’ll start with Jason.”

Her stupid heart did a giddy somersault and she chuckled at the low growl she heard in his voice. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know. But I want to.” His gaze softened, traced every facet of her face and lingered hungrily on her mouth. He bent forward and brushed a kiss against her cheek. His lips were warm and soft and his scent curled around her, something dark and woodsy. Sinful. “Good night, Marion. See you in the morning.”

She smothered a whimper, willing her trembling, traitorous body to still, and let go a small, resigned breath. Like it or not, for better or for worse, Robin Sherwood was back in her life again. It was only a matter of time before he was back in her heart—assuming that he’d ever left, which was doubtful—and back in her bed, as well.

Heaven help her.

“Good night, Robin.”

THE INTOXICATING SCENT OF HER skin still in his nostrils, Robin descended the front steps and made the short walk to his car, more irritated, exhilarated and turned on than he’d ever been in his life.

The rational part of his brain understood that Marion was right—soliciting donations was perfectly within the scope of her duties as managing director at the clinic. Unfortunately, the other side of his brain—the one that felt like she’d lopped his balls off—was having difficulty understanding why she hadn’t come to him for help. Had he ever refused her anything for the clinic? Had he ever given her any indication that her work there wasn’t important to him?

No, dammit, he hadn’t.

He would have given her further funding, would have bought the equipment, medicines, hired additional staff, if needed. As he’d so gallingly admitted, he would have done whatever was necessary to make her happy.

Meaning her happiness was much more important to him than he’d realized or, better still, understood.

He didn’t know quite what to make of that and was disinclined to do the necessary internal excavation to uncover the rationale behind the observation. He grimly suspected one revelation would lead to another and he’d wind up more damned enlightened than he was prepared to deal with at the moment.

His mood blackened.

What he could deal with, however, was Jason and all the other lying bastards who’d broken their pledges to her. And to the clinic. And to all the people who depended on the clinic for their medical care. Marion was smart. She wouldn’t have wasted her time asking for donations from individuals or companies she knew couldn’t afford it.

People like Jason, whose newfound wealth hadn’t been able to buy him any class.

Robin slid into the driver’s seat, pulled out his cell phone and called John. “You still with Jason?”

“I am,” John said around what was obviously a mouthful of food. “We’re at Carnival Cuisine where Jason has kindly arranged for me to taste everything on the menu. I’m not even halfway through yet.”

“Good. Take your time then,” he told him. “I’m coming over there. I need to have a little chat with Jason.” John knew him well enough to know that, from the tone of his voice, “little chat” was synonymous with an ass-kicking.

His friend’s silence stretched briefly across the line. “Is that right? And why is that?”

Robin filled him in. “She’s been going out with him, trying to get him to pony up the donation he’d promised. She’s doing it for the clinic, John. And according to Marion, there are many, many more.”

“I see,” John said. “Would I be correct in assuming that you’re going to have a little chat with everyone who has failed to make good on their promises, as well?”

“That would be a fair assumption, yes.”

“Excellent. Count me in.”

Robin grinned. “I already had.”

“You know the Red Ball is tomorrow night, right? I imagine that a good number of the people who’ve ended up on Marion’s list will be there. Perhaps instead of using the sledgehammer approach—not that it isn’t effective, mind you—you should employ a more … considered method. You’ve got Ranger Security resources at your fingertips, after all. Who knows what sort of leverage might emerge from a little reconnaissance.”

The Red Ball was an annual event hosted by Partners for Progress, a coalition of wealthy businessmen who believed in the old I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine approach to industry. It took place at the Turtledove, one of the oldest and grandest hotels in the downtown area and was one of the premiere formal events of the year for the city’s elite. It was a black-tie occasion and, true to its namesake, the women all wore red. It made a striking impression.

“The Red Ball?” Robin heard Jason say. “I’m going to the Red Ball. I’m told it’s quite exclusive.”

Robin snorted. Not exclusive enough if that jackass got an invitation.

“It is,” John told him. “You’ve got your red tuxedo already, don’t you? Those damned things are rare. I had to have mine special made. Double breasted with big brass buttons.”

Robin guffawed, thankful that Jason couldn’t hear him. “Don’t forget the gold cord.”

John dutifully added the cord and then told Jason that if he really wanted to make the right impression, he should consider a matching hat, as well. “Women love hats. It’s the mark of a gentleman.”

“You are evil, my friend,” Robin said, chuckling. “Brilliant, but evil.”

“Likewise. See you in a bit.”

Robin disconnected and, on a whim, sent a quick text to Ranger’s resident hacker, Charlene “Charlie” Weatherford. He liked everyone he worked with, but he was especially fond of Charlie and her husband, Jay. They were new parents and sickeningly in love.

Rather than text back, she called him. “I wasn’t busy at all. Just bored. What do you need?”

“Bored? How can you be bored with a toddler underfoot?”

“Both the toddler and my husband have gone to bed, there’s nothing worth watching on television and Juan-Carlos’s emails have taken a turn toward the mundane.”

Juan-Carlos was the superefficient office manager who had perfected the art of looking simultaneously martyred and put-upon. While everyone else seemed to understand that Charlie didn’t understand the word private, the little Latino man didn’t, and would flip a bitch if he knew Charlie had been hacking into his email account.

“Please tell me you need me to do something,” she implored, sounding a bit like an addict jonesing for a fix.

Robin grinned. “I do, actually.” He outlined what he needed. “Is that going to present a problem?”

She feigned insult. “Please,” she said. “It’s child’s play. Are you sure that’s all you need?”

“For the moment, though I’ll probably need additional assistance tomorrow. Will you be around?”

“I will,” she said.

“Excellent.”

He disconnected, then started the car and, with one last lingering look at Marion’s pink fortress, he backed out of the driveway.

It was time to deal with Jason.

He’d take care of Marion in the morning. Whatever she intended with that house, she’d made a tactical error.

He wasn’t afraid of pink.

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