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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?”
