Robin nodded and smiled his way across the ballroom, making a beeline for John. “From your files.”
“My files? The clinic’s files?” She blinked. “But how did you—”
“I used a source at Ranger Security to help me out last night. I didn’t want to wait to start my research.”
Her head was spinning. Ranger Security? Start his research? Realization dawned and she gasped and dug in her heels. So that was why he didn’t seem concerned with the list this morning—because he already had it. “You hacked me?” she hissed. “You hacked into my system?”
Swallowing what appeared to be several oaths, he took a deep breath and looked down at her. “The clinic’s system, yes. And not me, precisely, but another agent from the firm. We’re going to need to update your security,” he added as an aside. “According to Charlie, you’re firewall is a joke.”
She wasn’t sure what was more alarming—that he’d hacked her or that he’d been able to. “Really, Robin, that wasn’t—”
He leveled a look at her. “Is there anything at all in there that I wouldn’t be allowed to see?”
That took a bit of the self-righteous wind out of her sails. She wavered. “Of course not. I just don’t appreciate your methods.”
To her surprise, he dropped a quick kiss on the tip of her nose and grinned at her. “Not yet, maybe,” he said. “But I bet you will.”
Her nose still tingling, her stomach in knots, she tsked shakily under her breath. “You and those bets. Who’s the slow learner now?”
He took her hand once more—warm, callused palm, strong fingers—and resumed their trek across the ballroom. “I’m not a slow learner,” he said. “I’m merely stubborn.”
“There’s a difference?”
“It’s subtle.”
She snorted softly. “There are many things about you, Robin Sherwood, but subtle is definitely not a word I’d use to describe your character.”
He stopped suddenly and looked down at her, a question in his heavily lashed hazel eyes. His lashes were gold-tipped, Marion realized now, her breath caught in her throat. Like they’d been dipped in paint. Funny how she’d never noticed that before.
“Oh? Then how would you describe me, Marion?” he asked, his voice low and slightly roughened, an odd undercurrent just below the surface.
She faltered beneath that concentrated intensity, as though her answer really mattered, carried more weight than it should. She blinked, suddenly terrified. Of what, she couldn’t begin to fathom. She only knew this moment was too…much. And that her future happiness might possibly hinge on her answer.
How would she describe him? Wonderful, honorable, trustworthy, wicked, mischievous, hot, honest, loyal, decent, gorgeous, fun, clever, brilliant, brave, generous, unique…perfect. But she didn’t have the courage to say any of those things.
“At the moment…heavy,” she said, wincing in pain.
His gaze clouded in perplexity. “What? Heavy?”
“Yes, heavy,” she repeated, giving him a little push. “You’re on my foot.”
His eyes widened, then he jumped back and grinned sheepishly, the moment gone. Charming, irreverent Robin had returned as though the other guy, the one who’d been oddly…vulnerable just a moment ago had never existed. “Sorry,” he said. “Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?”
“I bet he won’t do it,” John announced in carrying tones. When the hell had he arrived on the scene? “A thousand dollars.” He glanced around, his face split in a big grin. “Any takers?”
She could cheerfully throttle him, Marion thought. Bets between the two friends was one thing—making her a party to it was another. And it was her damned foot! Would she like for Robin to kiss her feet? Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. A bit of groveling wouldn’t be remiss, either, if she was perfectly honest. But given her choice, that particular area wouldn’t be the first place she’d want him to start, that was for damned sure.
Marion felt her smile freeze. “That won’t be necessary, John. You can keep your money. I’m fine.”
John’s eyes twinkled with unrepentant humor. “You don’t have to be tough, Marion. The oaf just planted his two-hundred-and-ten-pound, size-twelve foot on your dainty little toes. A kiss would surely make them feel better.”
Truth be told, she was more in danger of hurting her foot by planting it up John’s ass. She glared at him, her voice hard. “I’m fine, really.”
“Two thousand,” John said, his gaze and smile equally steady.
Robin turned to Marion and arched a playful brow. She recognized that look and knew exactly what it meant. “I’ll split the money with you,” he offered.
John had little to no regard for her foot or whether or not she was genuinely hurt—he merely wanted to make mischief. And, much like Justine, she imagined, matchmake.
Marion swung a speculative gaze at John, taking his measure, then lifted her chin and deliberately extended her foot. “Get your wallet out, big man. I could use an extra grand.”
To Marion’s surprise, a whoop of ooo-la-la laughter met her bold statement. Naturally, much to her chagrin, they’d attracted quite an audience. But when did Robin and John not attract attention? Not make a scene or create some sort of spectacle? Wasn’t that what she secretly loved about them? That they were fun and outrageous? That they didn’t take themselves too seriously? That they were somehow bigger and burned more brightly than everyone else around them?
What would it hurt, really, to bask in their reflected glow?
Robin shot John a smug look, then turned that twinkling gaze on her. Admiration clung to his wicked smile, making her irrational heart skip a beat and, with all of the ceremony of Prince Charming attending to Cinderella’s glass slipper, he flipped his coat tail back and sank to one knee. She was keenly aware of his mouth in proximity to another part of her anatomy and that part clenched and slickened as awareness blossomed through her. Her pulse hammered through her veins, her mouth parched.
Too late she realized her mistake, the flaw in her thinking.
Even in Robin’s reflected glow, she could get burned.
He reached for the back of her leg, just her calf and the feel of his warm, strong hand against her skin—any skin, evidently—made her entire body tingle with pinpricks of pleasant sensation. She inhaled inaudibly, determined to keep the unconcerned I-just-want-my-grand smile on her face, but internally every cell was energized and hyper-sensitive.
Internally, she was crumbling.
Though he appeared every bit as cool and calm as she did, gratifyingly Marion perceived the slightest tremor in his fingers, a tiny but significant betrayal of his own desire. A crack in the armor, thank God, because she didn’t want to be the only one falling apart. She wanted him to crumble as well, to burn as she did. He slid his hand almost reverently along the back of her leg, lifting it up so that he could remove her shoe and the sensation was unbelievably erotic, bone-shatteringly carnal.
He glanced up at her, his gaze hot and desperate, an unspoken invitation to sin, then bent his tawny head and placed a lingering kiss on the top of her foot. She dimly noted the catcalls and applause, the raucous laughter and whoops of admiration. The rest of the room faded away, shrunk into nothingness, and all that was left was the man kneeling before her, his talented lips against her naked flesh. And not even on one of the better parts, like her mouth or her neck or her breasts or her belly. Just his lips on her foot. She was relatively certain that a slip of his tongue along her ankle would facilitate an immaculate orgasm.
Right here. At the Red Ball. In front of witnesses.
Marion released a shaky breath as he carefully slipped her shoe back on, then released another when he lowered her foot back to the floor. So she wasn’t floating then? Right. Good to know.
And she’d been worried about letting him drive her home? Clearly Robin Sherwood was dangerous no matter where they were. And it wasn’t fear pushing her heart rate into overdrive—it was excitement.
&nb
sp; 7
OVER THE YEARS ROBIN HAD DONE his share of disrobing a partner. He’d learned how to covertly snap open a bra at fourteen, how to soundlessly lower a zipper at fifteen. He’d mastered the art of removing pesky clothing inch by inch until nothing remained but a pair of panties and, typically, by the time they’d reached that stage in the seduction, she was taking those off herself.
In a nutshell, he was experienced.
But no amount of experience could have prepared him for the utter meltdown of sensation he’d undergone from simply lifting Marion’s leg, removing her shoe and placing a kiss on the top of her foot. It didn’t matter that they were surrounded by a room full of people—most notably, John, with his keen eyes. When he’d touched her—when his palm had rested against her creamy bare skin—his entire body, from the inside out, had felt it. He’d shook from the power of it, had practically rattled the damned fillings in his teeth.
And he’d only touched her leg, only kissed her cheek and her nose and her elegant foot. When he finally kissed her on the mouth—which he fully intended to do tonight—he’d undoubtedly self-combust. But he was too far gone now to care.
Because this was Marion—his Marion—and God help him, he wanted her.
His gaze tangled with hers, those ice-blue eyes dilated with desire, her mouth open in silent invitation, and it took every bit of restraint he possessed to merely smile at her and carry on. He darted a look at John. “Cash, my friend. No checks.”
Looking entirely too pleased with himself, John merely chuckled. “You know I’m good for it.”
“And I know where you live.”
John arched a meaningful brow and gestured to a person across the room. “What do you say? Shall we get started?”
Robin followed his gaze and felt his own narrow. Ah, yes. Lester Holland, the number-one offender on Marion’s list. Pledged one hundred thousand dollars in support of the clinic a year and a half ago and had yet to relinquish one red cent. A quick peek into Lester’s financial data revealed that his business was booming. Lester’s company manufactured many things, but most significantly roofing shingles.
After the particularly harsh tornado season, most notably in Alabama, Lester’s product had been in high demand. So high, in fact, that Lester’s company had been accused of price gouging. The accusation had gone away—money had a way of solving those kind of problems—but given the evidence Robin had seen, Lester would have had a hard time proving his innocence. Robin smiled grimly.
The man was about to part with some of his ill-gotten gains.
Marion touched his arm and leaned in. “Why are you glaring at Lester Holland?” she asked suspiciously.
He turned to look at her and arched a meaningful brow. “You’ll see. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Leaving an anxious Marion, Robin wound his way through the ballroom, while a covert look at John revealed he’d gotten into position with their prop. Robin had been aware that Ranger Security’s research capabilities were top-notch, but he hadn’t realized just how good they were until he’d started his own project. With Charlie’s help, Robin had been able to uncover a particularly peculiar fetish that Lester and several more on the list here tonight shared.
They liked to drink breast milk. Directly from the breast, preferably while wearing a diaper.
Lester had his very own adult-sized nursery—Robin wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen the video feed Charlie had found—complete with a playpen and baby bed. And he kept a rotation of lactating donors, for lack of a better description, who came around once a week and…fed the men.
Some of America’s wealthiest, most successful men…and they liked to wear diapers, nurse and get spanked.
It boggled the mind.
But it made for damned good blackmail.
Though it took a few minutes of idle chitchat, he was able to maneuver the group into a private circle, then with a few veiled comments, which left them all slack-jawed and terrified, he directed their attention to John, who beamingly held up a bottle of milk and a pacifier. “Listen, gentlemen, to each his own I say,” Robin told them in his best good-old-Georgia-boy voice. “People like what they like and there’s no accounting for taste. But do you know what leaves a bad taste in my mouth?” His voice hardened and he leveled a lethal stare at each one of them. “Liars,” he said. “People who break promises. Specifically, to one charity organization which is close to my heart.” His gaze moved significantly to Marion and he waited until each one of them looked at her and made the connection. “Double your pledge amounts and courier payment over by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. The price of my silence triples for every minute that it’s late.” He slapped Lester on the back and grinned at him, though the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “Am I making myself clear?”
Robin didn’t wait for their answer, merely moved on to the next target, a local professional baseball player who enjoyed the drag queen scene in the off-season. Not here, of course—there was too much potential for recognition—but he was familiar with all the lovely ladies in New Orleans. His stage name was Roxanne Rococco, but everyone called him Rocki for short. John glanced significantly at Rocki, then pretended to apply a bit of lipstick.
Rocki paled and assured his cooperation.
Next was the city councilman who was having an affair with his secretary, which wouldn’t have been remarkable if said council member wasn’t married to a high-profile female pastor and said council member’s secretary had been a woman.
Robin had just convinced the last person on his list—for tonight anyway—to cooperate when the band struck up Chris De Burgh’s “The Lady In Red.” His gaze instantly sought out his own lady in red and a bizarre sensation winged through his suddenly tight chest as his gaze connected with hers.
Twinkling ice-blue eyes, the carnal curve of shockingly red mouth, the elegant slope of her cheek. Creamy skin, jet-black hair spilling over her pale shoulders. All wrapped up in a sexy package of red satin and velvet.
She was beautiful. Heart-stoppingly, breathtakingly stunning.
And so damned hot, he ached for her, burned for her.
His feet seemed to move of their own volition, casually eating up the distance between the two of them. Smiling, he drew her to him, her hand in his, tucked against his chest, the other firmly around her slim waist. She smelled delicious—warm and flowery, like a hot summer night from so long ago—and he breathed her in. He went instantly hard, which she couldn’t help but notice.
She stilled for a fraction of a second and he felt the muscles tighten in her lower back. A beat slid to three before she relaxed. She wrapped a hand around his neck, her fingers playing with the hair of his nape and a little mewling sound of contentment slipped past her lips.
Another wall brought down, Robin thought, breathing a silent sigh of relief.
“You seem quite pleased with yourself,” she remarked as they swayed to the music.
“You’ll be pleased with me tomorrow morning,” he said, purposely, whispering in her ear.
She shivered and her eyes fluttered shut. “Oh?”
He held her closer. “Just wait. It’s a surprise.”
“Is it a surprise that’s going to get me secretly black-listed with every potential contributor in the greater Atlanta area?”
“Please,” he said. “Give me a little credit, would you? I’d never put your reputation—or that of the clinic’s—in jeopardy. If anyone is stupid enough to so much as scowl at you, they’ll answer to me. And they’ll regret it,” he added darkly.
She was quiet for a few seconds, so long that he wished that he had some sort of telepathic ability so that he could read her mind, to know what was going on in that fascinating little head of hers. “I really don’t think I have to worry about it,” she said, a smile in her voice. “Lester Holland looked terrified when I spoke to him earlier, and Martin Jones literally turned and walked in the other direction when he saw me coming his way.” She shook her head, evidently baffled. “I was
only going to the refreshment table. I wasn’t even looking for him. Fool,” she muttered, mildly outraged.
A smile tugged at his lips. “They’re only allowed to communicate with you through their checkbooks,” Robin told her, finding her indignation adorable. “Which is what’s important, right?”
She nodded against him, her hair tickling his chin. “Right. So I worked out the significance of most everything in the duffel bag, but I have to admit that the baby bottle and pacifier threw me. Can you elaborate?”
He hesitated. “Er…are you sure you want me to?” he asked, a skeptical warning in his voice.
She drew back and looked up at him, intrigue lighting her crystalline gaze. “Well, now I have to know, though I’m guessing I’ll probably regret it.”
“You will,” he assured her. “But if you really want to know.” He filled her in, watched as her expression went from purely icked out to utterly revolted. He sympathized.
“Wow,” she said, evidently trying to blink away the mental picture. “Just…wow.”
“I warned you,” he said.
She continued to blink, her countenance oddly blank. “You did.”
The song ended and he reluctantly released her, but held on to her hand. It was small and graceful, but capable and strong and it felt inexplicably…right in his. He gestured toward the veranda. “Why don’t we get some air?”
Air was wonderful, but admittedly he had an ulterior motive. One that involved him and her and the moonlight. He couldn’t wait to see what she’d look like in it. Alabaster skin, ruby lips, dark hair and that sinful red dress. A flawless combination of sexy and elegant. A Waterhouse pinup, he thought again, the description odd but fitting.
At her nod, he led her through a set of French doors. Huge potted urns, decorative fountains and statuary adorned the outdoor space, which was dotted with linen-draped tables and candlelight. Vintage gas lanterns flickered from old posts, casting wavering shadows on the smooth cement floor. Evergreen vegetation gave the appearance of an old country garden, though they were in the heart of downtown Atlanta.
Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX: The EqualizerGod's Gift to Women Page 6