Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX. Rhonda Nelson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ