Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX. Rhonda Nelson

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СКАЧАТЬ only served to prove how little perspective she had when it came to Robin Sherwood. And the hell of it? Right now, she didn’t care.

      3

      ROBIN WAITED UNTIL the automatic door locks had clicked into place before sending Marion a sidelong glance. “Your boyfriend is charming,” he remarked as he aimed the truck toward her address. “Eager. Hungry.” Self-important. Small-minded. A prick, Robin thought silently. In what sort of world did a girl like Marion go out with a guy like him? Honestly, when he’d watched Jason’s arm go around her shoulders, Robin’s irritation level had needled dangerously toward Kick His Ass.

      Marion sighed, a weary smile playing over her lips. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

      Irrational relief wilted through him. “Has anyone told him that? Because he seems to be laboring under the assumption that the two of you are an item.”

      She 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 СКАЧАТЬ