Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX: The Equalizer

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.

5

JUSTINE SKIDDED TO A STOP just inside Marion’s door and beamed strangely at her. It was the same manic, starstruck smile her right-hand-woman only wore for one person.

Robin.

“He’s here,” she said, her voice stuck between breathless and squeaky. “I just saw him pull up.” Her eyes rounded in surprise. “Did you know that he got a new truck? It’s one of those four-door jobs with a big tow hitch and running boards. And it’s dirty,” she said, as though this was especially of note.

Actually, she did know about the truck because that was what he’d driven her home in last night, though she hadn’t noticed it being dirty or having a tow hitch. Of course, she’d been too keenly aware of him to pay much attention to anything else. She just remembered that it smelled like him—warm and fragrant, like patchouli and sandalwood. His scent had lingered long after he’d left and she’d found herself reluctant to wash her face, irrationally not wanting to rinse away his kiss. Her skin tingled anew just thinking about it, and an arc of heat blossomed deep in her belly.

From a seemingly harmless kiss on the cheek, and yet … And yet nothing could have made her want him more. Wasn’t this why she’d avoided him? Why she’d been careful to never be alone with him? Because she couldn’t trust herself. Because everything about Robin Sherwood drew her in. The mischievous, intelligent eyes, the lazy grin, that wicked sense of humor.

And then there was more—the substantial things. Character, for example. That antiquated notion that a man should honor his word—or a bet, she thought wryly, remembering his outfit from last night. One who would let his “yes” be “yes” and his “no” a “no.” One who could afford a mansion, but lived in an idyllic farmhouse instead. One who was here this morning to make others keep their word, honor their promises. That’s the kind of man Robin Sherwood was, the kind that, regrettably, made every other guy pale in comparison.

She was doomed, Marion thought. Doomed to care too much about a man whose grandfather was ultimately responsible for the death of her brother and the ruination of her family. Rationally, she knew that Robin wasn’t to blame—he’d been just a kid himself—but she’d be lying if she said the association wasn’t always going to be a stumbling block.

And even if she could get past it, she knew her mother couldn’t.

Her mother had never set foot in the clinic, simply because it was funded with Sherwood money. Her logic didn’t exactly make sense considering everything about her existence—including the retirement she currently enjoyed and which Marion supplemented—was funded with Sherwood money. Her mother had badgered Marion for years about quitting the clinic and doing something different, something that would permanently sever ties with the Sherwood family, but Marion had never been able to do that. She was happy here, and she did good work. Work that honored her brother … and kept her as close as she was able to be to Robin.

She wasn’t sure which motivation was more powerful and feared too much introspection on the subject would reveal a truth she didn’t particularly want to face.

Justine bustled over, pulled open one of Marion’s desk drawers and removed a forgotten tube of lip gloss. “Hold still,” she said, determinedly aiming the application wand at Marion’s lips.

Startled, Marion shrugged back and scowled at her. “I can do that myself, thanks,” she said. “If I thought I needed it,” she added. “Which I don’t.” Honestly, Marion thought. This wasn’t a date, for pity’s sake. He was simply coming by to pick up a list. Nothing more. So why was her heart threatening to beat out of her chest, and why was her previously calm stomach staging a coup?

“Yes, you do,” Justine told her. “Trust me, bloodless lips aren’t attractive. You need some color.”

Ordinarily Marion would have dismissed Justine’s remark out of hand because Justine, a fit fifty who subscribed to the “more is more” philosophy of makeup, was forever trying to offer beauty tips. Marion loved color as much as anyone, but when it came to applying it to her face, she preferred a more natural look. She hesitated, torn. But if her lips were indeed “bloodless,” then admittedly that was not attractive and she was just vain enough to want to remedy the problem.

“Fine,” she said, taking the gloss. “But I’ll do it myself.”

Justine beamed at her, evidently thrilled to be making some progress. “Excellent.” She pulled a compact of blush from her pocket. “While you’re at it, you might as well add a little—”

“No.”

The woman’s face fell. “Just a little to accentuate—”

A knock at the door frame prevented further argument and possible bodily injury to her assistant. “Morning, ladies. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Robin asked, looking delicious as always.

He wore a sage-green pullover that brought out the matching color in his hazel eyes, a pair of worn jeans that would no doubt showcase his prize-winning ass and a pair of leather boots that put her in mind of the old phrase “size matters.” What little moisture remained in her mouth fled to parts south of her navel with alarming rapidity. Good Lord …

He’d obviously shaved this morning, but had missed a teensy spot just to the left of the cleft on his chin and, for whatever reason—insanity, most likely—she found that unbelievably endearing.

“Not at all,” Justine replied, a too-bright smile pasted on her lips. She shoved the blush back into her pocket with all the subtlety of a teenager hiding a forbidden pack of cigarettes, then awkwardly patted Marion on the shoulder and shot her a conspiratorial glance. “Just finishing up a chat.”

Marion ought to know better than to be mortified, but a blush betrayed her all the same.

Looking a bit bemused, Robin watched her assistant sail out of the room and then found her gaze once more. “Justine’s … the same,” he finished, evidently unable to come up with a better description.

Marion sympathized.

“That she is,” she agreed, resisting the urge to massage her temples. She looked up and smiled. “Good morning.”