Читать книгу Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 9

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.