Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX: The Equalizer. Rhonda Nelson
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.