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

“It’s common practice with non-profit organizations.”

      He set his glass aside and she felt the full force of his regard. “I realize that, but when did we start doing it?”

      “Two years ago.” She took another nibble of cookie. “We had a big kick-off. It was a huge success. I was able to purchase a new X-ray machine with the proceeds.”

      He made a noise low in his throat, but she couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He was unnaturally still, as though he were holding himself that way on purpose. Probably to keep from throttling her, Marion imagined.

      “Marion, if you needed more money, then why didn’t you just ask for it? You know I would have approved whatever you—”

      “The budget is more than generous, Robin,” she said. “And I know that I’m fortunate in that regard. But surely you realize that if I can raise the money to buy the equipment and medicines to treat more people, then I’m going to do it. I didn’t expect a budget increase and I didn’t start doing this in order to angle for one—that’s precisely why I didn’t tell you—but I would be remiss if I didn’t pursue all avenues of funding available to us. It’s part of my job to solicit donations.” She grimaced and heaved a sigh. “Granted, there are some people who are more difficult to deal with than others—like Jason, for instance—but for the most part, people around here are glad to be a part of what we’re doing.” She paused. “I’m proud of that … and I think you should be, too.”

      “Of course, I am,” he said, his gaze still annoyingly inscrutable. “I just wish you’d mentioned it to me sooner. I would have been more than happy to help. Get donations,” he added quickly. “Or amend your budget. Whatever would have made you happy.”

      It had been so long since someone had considered her happiness that the comment took her aback and left her feeling shaken and out of sorts. Thankfully, Robin looked as startled by the comment as she felt. For one heart-stoppingly agonizing instant, she couldn’t rip her gaze away from his, couldn’t unsee the turmoil roiling in those amazing hazel eyes.

      “I knew you’d understand,” she murmured, for lack of anything better.

      Abruptly, he stood. “I’d like a list, please.”

      Marion blinked and found her feet as well, then followed him to the door. “A list? A list of what?”

      “Of the people who currently have outstanding pledges.”

      She winced. “That’s a long list.”

      He flashed an unconcerned smile. “In the meantime, I’ll start with Jason.”

      Her stupid heart did a giddy somersault and she chuckled at the low growl she heard in his voice. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

      “I know. But I want to.” His gaze softened, traced every facet of her face and lingered hungrily on her mouth. He bent forward and brushed a kiss against her cheek. His lips were warm and soft and his scent curled around her, something dark and woodsy. Sinful. “Good night, Marion. See you in the morning.”

      She smothered a whimper, willing her trembling, traitorous body to still, and let go a small, resigned breath. Like it or not, for better or for worse, Robin Sherwood was back in her life again. It was only a matter of time before he was back in her heart—assuming that he’d ever left, which was doubtful—and back in her bed, as well.

      Heaven help her.

      “Good night, Robin.”

      THE INTOXICATING SCENT OF HER skin still in his nostrils, Robin descended the front steps and made the short walk to his car, more irritated, exhilarated and turned on than he’d ever been in his life.

      The rational part of his brain understood that Marion was right—soliciting donations was perfectly within the scope of her duties as managing director at the clinic. Unfortunately, the other side of his brain—the one that felt like she’d lopped his balls off—was having difficulty understanding why she hadn’t come to him for help. Had he ever refused her anything for the clinic? Had he ever given her any indication that her work there wasn’t important to him?

      No, dammit, he hadn’t.

      He would have given her further funding, would have bought the equipment, medicines, hired additional staff, if needed. As he’d so gallingly admitted, he would have done whatever was necessary to make her happy.

      Meaning her happiness was much more important to him than he’d realized or, better still, understood.

      He didn’t know quite what to make of that and was disinclined to do the necessary internal excavation to uncover the rationale behind the observation. He grimly suspected one revelation would lead to another and he’d wind up more damned enlightened than he was prepared to deal with at the moment.

      His mood blackened.

      What he could deal with, however, was Jason and all the other lying bastards who’d broken their pledges to her. And to the clinic. And to all the people who depended on the clinic for their medical care. Marion was smart. She wouldn’t have wasted her time asking for donations from individuals or companies she knew couldn’t afford it.

      People like Jason, whose newfound wealth hadn’t been able to buy him any class.

      Robin slid into the driver’s seat, pulled out his cell phone and called John. “You still with Jason?”

      “I am,” John said around what was obviously a mouthful of food. “We’re at Carnival Cuisine where Jason has kindly arranged for me to taste everything on the menu. I’m not even halfway through yet.”

      “Good. Take your time then,” he told him. “I’m coming over there. I need to have a little chat with Jason.” John knew him well enough to know that, from the tone of his voice, “little chat” was synonymous with an ass-kicking.

      His friend’s silence stretched briefly across the line. “Is that right? And why is that?”

      Robin filled him in. “She’s been going out with him, trying to get him to pony up the donation he’d promised. She’s doing it for the clinic, John. And according to Marion, there are many, many more.”

      “I see,” John said. “Would I be correct in assuming that you’re going to have a little chat with everyone who has failed to make good on their promises, as well?”

      “That would be a fair assumption, yes.”

      “Excellent. Count me in.”

      Robin grinned. “I already had.”

      “You know the Red Ball is tomorrow night, right? I imagine that a good number of the people who’ve ended up on Marion’s list will be there. Perhaps instead of using the sledgehammer approach—not that it isn’t effective, mind you—you should employ a more … considered method. You’ve got Ranger Security resources at your fingertips, after all. Who knows what sort of leverage might emerge from a little reconnaissance.”

      The Red Ball was an annual event hosted by Partners for Progress, a coalition of wealthy businessmen who believed in the old I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine approach to industry. It took place at the Turtledove, one of the oldest and grandest hotels in the downtown area and was one of the premiere formal events of the year for the city’s elite. It was a black-tie occasion and, true to its namesake, the women all wore red. It made a striking impression.

      “The Red Ball?” Robin heard Jason say. “I’m going to the Red Ball. I’m told it’s quite exclusive.”

      Robin snorted. Not exclusive enough if that jackass got an invitation.

      “It is,” John told him. “You’ve got your red tuxedo already, don’t you? Those damned things are rare. I had to have mine special made. Double breasted with big brass buttons.”

      Robin guffawed, thankful that Jason couldn’t hear him. “Don’t forget the gold cord.”