Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX. Rhonda Nelson

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 wasn’t used to seeing it directed at him. “Thanks so much for—”

      “Hold that thought,” Robin told her before she could give him the official brush-off. He jumped out of the truck, bustled around the front and then opened her door for her.

      “—bringing me home,” she finished, looking mildly startled. She swallowed, the long, creamy column of her throat moving with the effort. “You don’t have to walk me in. I don’t want to put you to any more trouble.”

      Wrong. He unnerved her every bit as much as she unnerved him, but he was too damned curious about her—what had made her the person she was today, specifically—to allow her to send him packing now. A pink house? Really? Had it been pink when she’d bought it or had she painted it this anti-man color on purpose? And why was she going to have to go out with Jason again? What was she doing out with him in the first place? Especially if she didn’t consider him—thank God—dating material?

      The answers to these questions were tucked away in that intriguing little mind of hers and, if he could spend a bit of time with her, he hoped to coax them right out of that beautiful, kissable mouth.

      This was why he’d avoided her. He was never curious enough to care about any other woman. Only her.

      “It’s no trouble at all,” he said, offering her his hand to help her out the passenger side, another mistake, but one he couldn’t seem to help. She hesitated only the merest fraction of a second, but his gut clenched all the same. Then her small palm connected with his—soft silky skin, delicate feminine bones—and a jolt of sensation rocketed through him, an odd mixture of relief, longing, anticipation and desire. His dick instantly stirred beneath the thin fabric of his breeches, as though his skin somehow recognized hers.

      Her chest rose in an inaudible gasp and she glanced up, her gaze meeting his. Silent confirmation that she’d felt it, too. “Th-thank you,” she murmured. She stood and quickly released his hand.

      Robin closed the door and followed her up the walkway. A slight breeze lifted the ends of her hair and molded the garnet-colored dress she wore even more closely to her frame. The dress was long with bell-like sleeves, and a small, jeweled sash encircled her slim waist, then tied and dangled over her hip. He mentally added a halo of flowers on her head. She might as well have stepped out of one of those Waterhouse paintings.

      Which was fitting, he supposed, because she certainly had the renaissance frame to pull off the look. She was tall and slender, but generously curved and lush in all the right places. No doubt the hips she probably thought were too wide were the very ones he’d like to hold on to while he plunged in and out of her warm, soft body. A natural cradle made for carnal things. A vision of her arching up beneath him temporarily blinded him, making him stumble on the path, and he uttered a low curse, painfully aroused and mortified.

      Especially since there was no room for error in these damned pants.

      Marion paused at the door, then turned to face him. The send-him-packing look was firmly back in place and it galled him to no end. He wasn’t some random guy she’d just met—she’d known him nearly all her life. Manners alone should dictate a cup of coffee, at the very least. A slice of cake, if it was on hand. Granted, he’d been in the military a long time, but he still knew enough about Southern hospitality to know that.

      “Thanks again for the ride,” she said, her skin especially creamy beneath the glow of her porch light. If she wore any lipstick at all, it had long ago worn off, leaving her mouth a lovely rose color. “Can I expect you at the clinic anytime soon?” she asked lightly. Too lightly.

      “First thing in the morning,” he said, just to unnerve her. “Things are slow at Ranger Security at the moment. Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I leave?” he asked. “It’s a bit of a drive to Hawthorne Lake.”

      Her eyes rounded in surprise, from his request or the Hawthorne Lake comment, he couldn’t be sure. “Er, yes, of course.” Her shoulders sagged minimally—a sign of defeat?—and she inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. A loud meow immediately issued from the depths of the house and then a very large gray cat with misshapen ears streaked straight at Marion and curled around her legs.

      Meow, meow,