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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA® Award nominee, RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice nominee and National Readers’ Choice Award winner, RHONDA NELSON writes hot romantic comedy for the Mills & Boon® Blaze® line. With more than thirty-five published books to her credit, she’s thrilled with her career and enjoys dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure and check her out at www.readRhondaNelson.com, follow her on Twitter @ RhondaRNelson and like her on Facebook.
KAREN FOLEY is an incurable romantic. When she’s not working for the Department of Defense, she’s writing sexy romances with strong heroes and happy endings. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and two daughters, an overgrown puppy and two very spoiled cats. Karen enjoys hearing from her readers. You can find out more about her by visiting www.karenefoley.com.
Blazing Bedtime
Stories,
Volume IX
The Equalizer
Rhonda Nelson
God’s Gift to Women
Karen Foley
MILLS & BOON
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The Equalizer
Rhonda Nelson
For Cara Summers, a wonderful storyteller, intrepid white-water kayaker—
I’m sure you remember Reno :-)—and all around sweetheart. You’re an inspiration, truly.
1
WITH A NAME SIMILAR TO A fabled outlaw, a passion for archery and a best friend named John Little, former Ranger Robin Sherwood had been the butt of many jokes, the bulk of which he’d accepted good-naturedly.
This, however, was different, because the situation he presently found himself in was a hell of his own making.
The maître d’s eyes rounded in alarm, presumably because Robin was in every possible violation of the dress code and, while it was October, it wasn’t yet quite Halloween. The conundrum had clearly flummoxed him.
“My usual table, please, Branson,” Robin instructed briskly, sparing the man their usual chit-chat.
“Certainly, sir.” His gaze slid over him once again—further confirmation that his eyes hadn’t deceived him, Robin imagined—and, with a small gulp, Branson turned and led the way. “If you’ll follow me.”
“It’s like Christmas has come early,” John crowed behind him through fits of smothered, wheezing laughter. “And this is the best present ever.”
Determined to see this humiliation through to the end, Robin released a long suffering sigh and soldiered on.
A series of gasps, snickers and the clatter of fumbled cutlery followed him through the five-star restaurant. Though he was generally shameless and couldn’t be bothered to care what people thought, he came as close to blushing as he ever hoped to and knew a small measure of relief when they finally arrived at their table.
“Paybacks are hell,” Robin told him, his tone mild. He casually placed his napkin over his lap. “Just remember that.”
John, irritatingly, continued to beam. He was in custom Armani, naturally—nothing off the rack would fit his Hercules-like frame—and every blond hair had been gelled meticulously into place. “You shouldn’t have accepted the bet if you weren’t certain of the outcome. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me? A glass of Cristal,” he happily told the waiter. “I’m celebrating.”
Robin ordered a nice red wine and pretended not to notice that almost every eye in the exclusive restaurant was trained on him. He glanced out the window and admired the view instead. Downtown Atlanta lay spread out in a sea of night, punctuated with glittering lights and the occasional flash of neon. Though many of the storefronts were decorated with pretty mums, hay bales and gourds, fall seemed reluctant to make an official appearance thus far. It was unseasonably warm in Hotlanta for this time of year, which made his current outfit all the more uncomfortable. He grimaced.
That would teach him to bet when drunk.
“You look positively miserable,” John said, smiling.
Robin smothered a curse and glared at his friend. “I’m hot.”
“I imagine so.” John’s gaze darted to the top of Robin’s head and he heaved a grudging sigh. “You can take off the hat, I suppose, but be careful not the crush that feather,” he warned with a scowl. “It’s rented, not bought.”
Thank God for small favors, Robin thought. Better that the damned thing was returned than put away for future use. Particularly his. And given how much fun his friend was currently enjoying at his expense, he could easily see John pulling this little number out again and again.
Robin’s phone suddenly vibrated in the leather pouch attached to his waist and, though it was bad form to answer it in the restaurant, he couldn’t dismiss the call. It was an old friend from boarding school, Brian Payne, and more recently—more importantly—his new boss at Ranger Security. After the hit to his leg in Mosul had shredded his thigh muscle and thus ended his career in the military—as he’d envisioned it, anyway—Robin was eternally thankful for the job. Though there were many who would argue that he didn’t need gainful employment, he’d never felt that way. Trust fund or not, he’d always needed a purpose. Needed to be useful. What was that old saying? Idle hands were the devil’s playground?
He didn’t know if he completely agreed with that—a battlefield seemed more apt—but he understood the sentiment. Busy people didn’t have time to get into trouble. The only reason he’d been horsing around with John and had lost this damned bet was because he was between jobs at Ranger Security.
“Sherwood,” he answered, turning away from the din.
“My Facebook feed just blew up with pictures of you, taken at Dolce Maria’s, in what appears to be some sort of costume,” Payne said, the humor barely registering in his cool voice. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve been in polite society, Robin, but surely you haven’t forgotten all the rules.”
Robin swore hotly under his breath and Payne’s chuckle echoed over the line.
“‘The boy who wouldn’t grow up,’ one caption reads,” Payne continued. He laughed appreciatively. “Clever.”
Robin felt his eyes widen and he shot a dark look at John. “I’m not freakin’ Peter Pan,” he told him, outraged. “I’m Robin Hood, dammit.” He glared accusingly across the table and lowered his voice. “I told you I needed the bow and arrows, but would you listen? No.”
John blinked innocently. “I was afraid they’d call security if you came in with a weapon.”
The staff would make them leave, more likely, thus ruining John’s prank, Robin thought. Bastard.
“Ah, I see it now,” Payne remarked, as though he’d just noticed something in the photo he’d missed before. He paused. “Fine. I’ll ask the obvious question. Why are you dressed up like Robin Hood?”
Robin chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before responding. “Because I lost a bet.”
Payne grunted knowingly, as if this explanation made perfect sense. Which it did, Robin knew, because like him, Payne was a man who believed reneging on a bet—no matter how ill-conceived or asinine—was the same as lying.
He’d agreed to the terms and given his word. Balking was out of the question.
“And what if you hadn’t lost?”
Robin grinned and glanced across the table at his completely unrepentant friend. “Then John would be dressed up like a vampire, acting out the Twilight saga via interpretative dance outside the High Museum. For tips.”
Payne laughed softly again. “Oh, I would have liked to see that,” he said. “Too bad you lost.”
“There’s always tomorrow,” Robin told him, firmly in the glass-half-full camp. He took another sip of his wine. “Did you need anything else? Any new assignments come in?”
“No, that was all. Everything’s covered for the moment. Enjoy the downtime. I’m sure it won’t last.”
Robin certainly hoped not. Though he had plenty to do to oversee his own business—look at financial reports, review his various charitable endeavors—he’d hired good people to attend to those things in his absence while in the military and, though he’d had a career change, he didn’t mean to impose one on them, as well. That was not how one repaid good service.
In fact, everything he’d learned about being a good boss had come from following his father’s short-lived example and by not taking any advice from his grandfather—railroad mogul, Henry Sherwood—who was a notoriously hard man. Robin inwardly snorted.
Hard hell. He was greedy and mean, a textbook narcissist whose first love was himself, his second, money. The old adage “only the good die young” had certainly proved true in Robin’s experience. He imagined his grandfather would outlive Methuselah.
Currently, the old bastard was confined to his bed, a rotation of nurses on staff to see to his every need. His master suite had been outfitted to look like something that would no doubt rival NASA’s Mission Command center, with banks of televisions streaming information from all over the globe—and the house and grounds, of course—attached to the walls and portable computers a mere roller table away at all times. He was just as formidable at eighty as he’d been at forty-eight and kept an eagle eye on his vast business and estate domains.
Though he’d always accused Robin of “being weak just like his father” and had never shown any interest in his grandson, evidently the significance of his own mortality had finally surfaced. Now the old man was acting as if he’d like nothing better than to groom Robin to take over the reins. Robin’s response? Not no, but hell, no. He didn’t have to own a crystal ball or possess any supernatural powers to know that they’d never see eye to eye, particularly when it came to how to treat employees. How the old man had managed to sire Robin’s unbelievably kind father was an unsolvable mystery, one that had always baffled him.
Having lost his mother to an aneurysm while just a toddler, Robin had no memories of her, but he cherished the ones he had of his dad. And those were too few. Robin had been officially orphaned at fifteen, when his dad had died in a car accident. Gavin Sherwood had been buried less than a week before Robin’s grandfather had shipped his grandson off to an exclusive boarding school—one notorious for corporal punishment, of course—in Maryland. That’s where he’d met Payn, and a lifelong friendship was formed. Robin inwardly grinned. Nothing like a good thrashing to forge a bond.
As for John—his gaze darted to his friend across the table—that bond had been formed from the cradle. John Little was the son of Robin’s father’s best friend and as such, they’d grown up more like brothers than friends. Laughing one minute, pummeling the hell out of each other the next. Robin inwardly grinned. Good times.
John’s father, Vince, had stepped in to fill the gap after his father had passed away and for that, Robin would always be thankful. Despite the distance once he’d been sent away to school, Vince and John had kept in constant contact, always writing and calling, occasionally visiting. And it was Vince who came to his graduation—both high school and college—and Vince who’d clapped him on the shoulder, tears in his eyes, and told him how proud his father would have been when he’d been accepted into Ranger school. It was Vince who shared memories of his dad, who’d painted a picture of him that he’d been able to hero-worship as a boy, and later appreciate as a man. A priceless gift, indeed.
Still thoroughly enjoying himself, John waved at a table of friends across the room and continued to savor his victory champagne. He sighed deeply. “Other than sex, there is absolutely nothing I like better than winning.”
“And since you do both so infrequently, I’m sure this is a novel experience for you,” Robin drawled.
John merely laughed and his gaze drifted fleetingly past Robin’s shoulder before finding his again. “Smart-assed bastard,” he groused good-naturedly. “I’m entitled to gloat. That’s what happens when you win.” He snorted. “You should know, you’ve done it often enough. By the way, have you been by the clinic to see Marion or are you still avoiding her?” he asked suddenly, his tone light.
Tone aside, the question itself carried enough weight to flatten an anvil and John bloody well knew it.
The clinic in question was the Michael Cross Clinic, one that Robin had founded as soon as he’d inherited at twenty-two in memory of a dear childhood friend who’d died officially of sepsis, but more truthfully of being poor and not having health insurance. Michael’s family had lived on the estate grounds and worked for his grandfather. His mother was the cook, his father the head gardener. By all rights, as a capable employer, Robin’s grandfather should have offered them coverage, but he’d been too tight-fisted to provide it.
Michael’s younger sister, Marion—the mere thought of her made something in Robin’s chest shift and ache—ran the clinic. She was a former friend, a onetime lover and the only woman Robin could honestly say ever terrified him.
Though his grandfather hadn’t approved of the Cross children as proper playmates for him, that hadn’t kept the four of them—Robin, Michael, John and later, Marion, who couldn’t bear to be left behind—from spending as much time together as possible. They’d built a tree house and forts in the forest around the estate, swum in the creek that cut through the woods. They’d invented their own type of Morse code with flashlights and had communicated late into the night. They’d caught lightning bugs, played hide-and-seek and I Spy. Though five years younger than the rest of them, Marion had been determined to keep up and though she occasionally got on her older brother’s nerves, Robin never minded when she came along.
She’d been special, even then.
And the adult version of Marion was even more potent. She made him feel things he couldn’t recognize much less name, stirred a longing, an ache, a need beyond the basest level of attraction.
Because he’d needed to do something to show her that first, he wasn’t like his grandfather and second that he had genuinely cared for her brother, Robin had founded the clinic and then handed her the reins to run as she saw fit once she’d graduated from college. He’d run into her half a dozen times in the ten years since she’d officially opened the door to the clinic 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 to Robin’s and she smothered a laugh. “And you’re surprised you lost?”
He sighed deeply. “Chagrined, I think, is the word you’re looking for,” he said, hanging his head in mock shame. “And for the record, I still hit the swing.”
“All things considered, that was damned impressive,” John admitted with a reflective nod. He looked at Marion, his expression hopeful. “Can you join us? We’d—”
She inwardly gasped and shook her head. “Sorry. I’m with a—”
“Ah, there you are,” her almost forgotten companion Jason said, sidling up next to her. He glanced at John and Robin—doing an understandable double take—and then slung an arm over her shoulder, which immediately set her teeth on edge. “I was beginning to wonder if I needed to send out a search party.”
Strictly speaking, this wasn’t a date, though she was sure Jason Reeves would beg to differ. Jason’s goal was to get her into bed—Marion’s goal was to collect the substantial pledge he’d made to the clinic two months ago. A recent newcomer to wealth through an innovative fast food chain, she knew that he had the money, but he didn’t seem to understand the definition of a pledge, that it truly was a commitment. When the repeated but polite reminders hadn’t worked, she’d made a phone call—sometimes that’s what it took, after all—and he’d taken the opportunity to invite her to dinner, promising to bring along his checkbook. This was their third dinner and she still hadn’t seen the check he’d promised.
She’d learned an awful lot about him, though. Lots and lots and lots. Ad nauseum. In fact, she could safely say that he was his favorite topic of conversation. It was extremely unpleasant … but, unfortunately, necessary.
Though Robin’s yearly donation for operations was substantial, there was always new equipment to be bought, newer, better medicines she needed to have on hand and more patients to be seen. It was the sad reality of the current economy and health care situation, one that never seemed to change from generation to generation. Her heart pricked.
She knew that all too well.
Marion had always prided herself on staying under budget, but by soliciting donations she’d managed to put enough in savings to float them for a while should they need it, as well as add additional staff, equipment, medicines and, ultimately, care for more patients. She had developed a good working relationship with the doctors and nurses who volunteered their time and she ran an extremely tight ship. Though her secretary, Justine, often accused her of having no life outside the clinic—one she couldn’t confidently deny—Marion didn’t care. The clinic and the people who came through it were her life, one that Robin had handed her when she’d graduated from college. It was one with purpose, one that met a true need in the community and one that honored her late brother.
Michael had only been sixteen when he’d died—she’d been eleven at the time—and there wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think of him, when she didn’t miss his smile, when she didn’t mourn the loss of the life he should have had.
Because they hadn’t had health insurance, her parents had always been careful about what sort of illness or accident had warranted a trip to the doctor’s office. Had Michael seen a doctor when his symptoms first started to show, there was no doubt in her mind that her brother would be alive today.
But he hadn’t.
And by the time her parents had realized that Michael was in serious danger, it was too late. He’d died within hours of getting to an emergency room.
Though she’d always adored Robin and his father, Marion had never liked Henry Sherwood. After Michael died, she’d positively hated him. The father she’d loved and respected turned to drink and, within months of her brother’s death, he’d abandoned the family. She hadn’t heard from him in years. Her mother, left with little choice, had stayed on and continued to work for Mr. Sherwood, though she’d ultimately blamed his stinginess for the death of her son. She’d become bitter and distant, a mere shadow of the lively, hardworking woman Marion remembered.
Odd how a single occurrence could change the landscape of one’s life. Michael’s death had marked one period for Marion, taking over the clinic, the next. Her gaze swung to Robin and her heart gave a pathetic little jump. Intuition told her if she wasn’t careful, Robin Sherwood’s return to Atlanta could herald another era, one that would spell absolute disaster for her heart.
Though he’d never orbited around her universe very often or for very long, he’d never failed to make a substantial impact.
Most significantly, the night before she’d left for college and he’d left for the military. It was a new beginning for both of them, with all the excitement and anxiety that came along with them. Marion had thought a lot about that night over the years—he’d been her first, after all—and though she could easily chalk up what happened between them to too much alcohol, recklessness, hormones and nostalgia, ultimately she knew better. It had felt magical, fated even. She’d had the occasional partner since then, of course, but nothing ever came close to how Robin had made her feel. The desperation, the desire, the unadulterated need. She was drawn to him in a way that she’d never been to another person. She always had been.
When she’d first learned that he’d been wounded in Iraq, the panic and dread that had rocketed through her had sent her into the nearest chair, her head between her knees to keep from hyperventilating. The mere thought of him being hurt—or worse, a world that he was no longer in—had literally terrified her. It was even more proof, as if she needed it, that he was still, after all these years, the most significant man in her life.
Was it because he’d set the bar so high? Marion wondered now. Or was it something else? Were the feelings she had for him genuinely that special, not just a romanticized memory of what was?
No matter. Michael’s death was always going to haunt them—the association with his grandfather and the part he’d played in her brother’s death was a shadow they’d never be able to shake. And, though she knew enough dinner etiquette to get her through a nice meal, she’d just as soon eat a slice of pizza over a paper plate. Because rubbing elbows with the Atlanta’s wealthy set was necessary to get additional funding for the clinic, she’d learned to speak a bit of the language and had acquired a decent second-hand wardrobe for formal events, but she never failed to feel like an imposter, an outsider in a world she didn’t even want to be a part of.
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