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

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СКАЧАТЬ gave an indelicate snort. “Jason labors under a lot of incorrect assumptions. Or hadn’t you noticed?” she asked, sending him a pointed glance.

      Even in the darkened interior, he could see the knowing humor glinting in her ice-blue eyes. They were remarkable, those eyes. The purest, brightest blue, very round with an exotic lift in the far corners that gave her an almost catlike appearance. Paired with that milky fair skin and gleaming black hair, she put him in mind of John William Waterhouse’s painting of Pandora opening the box. The metaphor wasn’t lost on him, but it hadn’t kept him from buying the print or hanging it in his living room, either.

      Marion had the same grace, an innate regality that would put some of the world’s modern-day royalty to shame. She was strikingly lovely, beautiful to watch and, refreshingly, not the least bit aware of it.

      “He certainly has a lot of opinions,” Robin conceded. “And is more than willing to share them.”

      “Or change them, when properly led,” she remarked drolly. “You and John were in fine form tonight.”

      Yes, they were, he thought, inwardly smiling. But when presented with such an easy target, how were they to resist? “It’s the costume,” Robin confided. “It brings out the worst in me.”

      He felt her gaze skim over him, an infinitesimal pause along his thigh. A gratifying flush of color bloomed beneath her skin and she swallowed, drawing his attention to the fine muscles of her throat. She released a shaky breath. “I don’t think it’s fair to blame the costume for that.”

      “You’re right,” he said. “It’s John, but we’ve been friends too long now to change the status quo.”

      She chuckled, the sound low and smoky between them. “I don’t think it’s fair to blame John, either.”

      He negotiated a turn. “Well, we have to blame someone, otherwise I’d have to assume that you thought it was some sort of character flaw on my part, and—” he sighed deeply and gave his head a lamentable shake “—that just wouldn’t do.”

      Another soft laugh. “Oh, because you care what I think?”

      He flashed a grin at her. “Of course.”

      She hummed under her breath, studying him for a moment. It was unnerving, that measured stare. It made him feel exposed, laid bare and open. Vulnerable. “You’ve gotten better at it,” she said.

      Shaken, Robin attempted to shrug the odd sensation off. “I’m always trying to improve, so that’s not surprising, but what exactly have I gotten better at?”

      “Bullshit,” she told him. “You’re a black belt.”

      A bark of laughter erupted from his throat. “A black belt in bullshit? Really? And here I thought I was being charming,” he drawled.

      “That, too,” she admitted, seemingly reluctantly. “But it doesn’t make you any less a pain in the ass.” She sat a little straighter and shot him an accusing glare. “You insisted that we sit with you simply for the sport of it—just so Jason could double as the entertainment. And you’ve no doubt cost me another evening I’ll never get back with Mr. I-Love-Myself-Enough-For-Both-of-Us. Awesome,” she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm. “That’s just what I wanted.”

      “I’m … sorry,” Robin said, because an apology seemed like an appropriate response to that interesting but thoroughly nonsensical diatribe. Another evening that she’ll never get back? What the hell was she talking about? Hadn’t she been on a date?

      She grunted. “Ha. No, you’re not.”

      He wasn’t, really, but there was no way she could be certain of that. He’d forgotten what a know-it-all she could be. How odd that he hated the quality in others, but found it endearing when it came to her.

      “You’re smiling,” she said, as though she’d read his mind. “Interestingly enough, it makes one doubt your sincerity.”

      His grin widened. “Sorry.”

      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 СКАЧАТЬ