Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX: The Equalizer. Rhonda Nelson
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and each time, no matter how fleeting, was more powerful than the last. It wasn’t enough to talk to her—he needed to see her. It wasn’t enough to see her—he had to touch her. Even if it was the merest brush of his shoulder against hers, it electrified him. Though he’d been with countless women over the past ten years—and had been with others prior to her—that single ill-conceived night with Marion a decade ago was still somehow the most significant experience he’d ever had, and had become the measuring stick by which any other coupling was evaluated.
Ridiculous, he knew, but there it was.
He’d been back in town for nearly three months now and, while he’d done on-site visits to the other charities and businesses he supported, he’d avoided going to the clinic.
Why? Because he knew what would happen when he saw her—what he’d feel—and he had enough self-preservation instincts to delay it as long as possible.
Though there’d always been an easy camaraderie between them before, the tension now was palpable. She deliberately kept her distance and made sure they were never alone. It was obvious that she regretted their night together—and to some degree, he did, too, because he’d never been able to forget it—and wanted to keep their relationship on a strictly professional level.
His consolation? He knew she still wanted him, as well. He could practically feel the desire humming off her, caught glimpses of it when she thought he wasn’t looking. He never left that clinic without feeling emotionally drained and wound tighter than a three-day clock.
“I’m not avoiding her,” Robin lied, annoyed that John had noticed. “I’ve been busy. She has everything in hand at the clinic. There’s no reason for me to check up on her.” There. That sounded perfectly logical. Even John should appreciate that.
“How about just checking in on her then?” John pressed, the dart penetrating. “She’s a friend, isn’t she? You’ve known her most of your life.”
Robin scowled, growing increasingly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation. “I know how long I’ve known her, dammit,” he snapped, reaching again for his glass. “I don’t need you to tell me.”
John shrugged, seemingly unconcerned, then leaned forward and smiled with all of his teeth. “Maybe so, but do you know what you do need me to tell you?”
John’s gaze shifted past his shoulder once more and a prickling of uneasiness slid up Robin’s spine as a grin that wasn’t directed at him broke impossibly wider over his friend’s face.
“What?” he asked ominously.
John beamed at him. “Marion’s here and headed this way. Put the hat back on.”
2
MARION CROSS HAD BEEN LOCKED in a state of dreadful anticipation since the moment she learned several months ago that Robin Sherwood was back in Atlanta. As her boss, she’d imagined their first meeting would take place at the clinic—rumor had it he’d been making the rounds, doing on-site inspections of his various interests around town, though irritatingly, he hadn’t made it to hers yet. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted and, if she was honest, she’d admit to being a little hurt, as well. She hadn’t expected to be the first on his list—too much history—but she’d expected him to at least make it.
Although, had anyone told her that she’d run into him at one of the city’s finest, most exclusive restaurants dressed in an extravagant Robin Hood costume, she would have never believed it. Her lips quirked.
Of course, knowing Robin, she probably should have.
No doubt this was the result of one of his and John’s equally notorious and ridiculous bets. They’d been doing it as long as she could remember. The daring and daunting, goading and gloating, the cork-brained testosterone-induced idiocy that, for reasons that would always escape her, she found reluctantly endearing. There was something so natural about their friendship, the mutual understanding of what made the other one tick. It was a beautiful thing to watch.
John immediately smiled and got to his feet when he saw her. His bright blue eyes twinkled with mischievous pleasure. “Marion,” he said warmly, wrapping his massive arms around her. The only thing little about John was his last name. More blond Adonis than ogre, he’d left a string of broken hearts around Atlanta.
Unaccountably nervous, she returned the embrace. “Hi, John. It’s good to see you.”
He drew back. “You, too, sprite. You’re looking lovely as always.”
She murmured her thanks, her heartbeat suddenly thundering in her ears. She didn’t have to see him to know that Robin was looming right behind her—she could feel him. The weight of his presence rolled over her, prickling her skin. Her stomach gave an involuntarily little jump and her pulse quickened right along with her mounting anxiety. She felt the weight of his gaze bore into the back of her head, then trail ever-so-slowly down her frame—lingering on her ass, of course—leaving a rash of gooseflesh in its wake.
She gulped and mentally braced herself.
It took every iota of willpower she possessed to turn around and face him.
Naturally, she still wasn’t prepared. Her breath caught in her throat, her insides vibrated like a tuning fork and longing, stark and potent, rose so quickly she nearly wobbled on her feet.
That’s what he did to her. What he’d always done to her, damn him.
In a just world, he would have looked utterly ridiculous in the costume. His powerful shoulders wouldn’t have been displayed to mouthwatering advantage beneath the loose linen material, his chest emphasized by the leather vest, his narrow waist accentuated with the belt. The knee-high boots wouldn’t have drawn attention to his muscled thighs and the distinct bulge that formed between them beneath the obscenely thin pants. Even the hat, curse him, perched at a jaunty angle on his head, looked good with his tawny curls and seemed to highlight the elegantly masculine lines of his face. Heavily lashed hazel eyes peered down at her with a mixture of rueful humor, a hint of trepidation and something else, something not readily identifiable.
It was that something else, naturally, that would haunt her.
He doffed his hat and offered her an extravagant, theatrical bow. “My lady,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
She nodded primly, playing along, and arched a brow. “Going to a costume party later, or is this a new trend I’m unaware of?”
“Oh, it’s definitely a new trend in men’s fashion,” he assured her, as though he were an expert on the subject. “It’s all the rage in Paris, trust me. You can’t go anywhere without seeing one of the Three Musketeers, Napoleon, Henry the Eighth or even Davy Crockett.”
She chuckled. “Davy Crockett? Really?”
Humor lit his gaze. “It’s the coonskin cap,” he confided conspiratorially, leaning close enough to make her pulse clamor. “They can’t get enough of it.”
“It’s getting a little deep in here, Robin, and you’re the only one wearing boots,” John interjected. He glanced at Marion. “The truth is Robin thought he could put an arrow through a tire swing from a hundred yards.”
She didn’t see why that should have posed any problem. He’d always been a keen archer. He’d been competing for as long as she could remember. Truth be told, she’d always enjoyed watching him shoot. The careful way his fingers nocked the arrow, the wide-legged stance, the way his muscles rippled in his long arms as he drew back the string, then sighted his target. Every motion was deliberate, but strangely natural, a beautiful combination of skill and strength. Just the thought of it made her belly flutter and grow warm.
With effort, she ignored the sensation and frowned. “That shouldn’t have—”
John grinned. “He was knee-walking drunk and the tire swing was in motion.”
Her gaze darted