“Commercial eateries?” Robin asked, his tone thoughtful. “It sounds fascinating.”
She couldn’t believe he said that with a straight face. John turned and coughed into his arm.
“Oh, it is,” Jason told him, utterly delighted. “It’s—”
“Carnival Cuisine,” Marion interjected quickly, hoping to shut down the long and involved story that led to his family’s business. “Funnel cakes, corn dogs, candied apples, deep-fried Snickers, cotton candy,” she said, the words practically running together, she said them so fast. “Anything you can get at a traditional carnival. Genius, right?”
To her horror, John’s face lit up with genuine interest. “It is. I went through the drive-thru recently for an ear of roasted corn and a turkey leg. Good stuff.” He jabbed Robin in the side. “Remember, I told you about it?
“I do remember,” Robin said, watching her closely. Those hazel eyes were rife with knowing humor, his beautifully sculpted lips curled into an almost-smile. He was enjoying this entirely too much, the wretch.
“Another satisfied customer,” Jason remarked with a smug chuckle. “I knew it would be a success. I just knew it. I had faith in the idea—it was mine, after all,” he bragged proudly, “and was certain that it would resonate with the masses.”
Oh, good Lord, Marion thought with a massive internal eye-roll. What masses? They were in the South, for heaven’s sake. Butter, lard and sugar were practically their own food groups. Good ones, too, in moderation she’d admit. Still …
Robin gestured widely to the table. “Have a seat and tell us all about it. I’d love to hear where you two met, as well. I’m sure that’s equally interesting.”
“It’s not, really,” Jason told him, plopping his rude ass into a chair without a thought for her. “It was at one of those tedious charity events. I’m sure you know the kind.”
“I typically like those,” the Prince of Mischief, as she’d renamed Robin, said. “It gives me a good feeling when I know my money is doing something important.”
With another veiled glance at her, Robin chewed the inside of his cheek, then, ever the gentleman, pulled out a chair for her and quirked a brow. Seething, she accepted it grudgingly and mentally braced herself for further humiliation.
“Right, right. Me, too,” Jason immediately back-pedaled. “That’s what I meant.”
And that’s how the rest of the meal went. Robin and John let Jason liberally share his opinions, then purposely voiced a different view—no matter how ludicrous—and watched him recant and agree with them.
It was a game. They kept score. Occasionally, she’d referee.
By the end of the evening, Jason had renounced real butter in favor of margarine, switched political parties, promised to cancel his country club membership and nam his firstborn son Sue because Johnny Cash had a point. (Yes, he did, but that wasn’t it!) To her disbelief, Jason had whipped out his cell phone and downloaded the Man in Black’s “A Boy Named Sue,” and set it as his new ring-tone. At John’s urging, he’d purchased the accompanying screen saver.
It was at that point that Marion started to drink.
And despite the fact that she’d arrived with Jason—who still hadn’t given her the damned check for the clinic—it was Robin, naturally, who ended up driving her home. A smarter woman would have protested, but her foolish heart had lifted at the thought and a secret thrill of anticipation had whipped through her. She inwardly sighed.
Which only served to prove how little perspective she had when it came to Robin Sherwood. And the hell of it? Right now, she didn’t care.
3
ROBIN WAITED UNTIL the automatic door locks had clicked into place before sending Marion a sidelong glance. “Your boyfriend is charming,” he remarked as he aimed the truck toward her address. “Eager. Hungry.” Self-important. Small-minded. A prick, Robin thought silently. In what sort of world did a girl like Marion go out with a guy like him? Honestly, when he’d watched Jason’s arm go around her shoulders, Robin’s irritation level had needled dangerously toward Kick His Ass.
Marion sighed, a weary smile playing over her lips. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Irrational relief wilted through him. “Has anyone told him that? Because he seems to be laboring under the assumption that the two of you are an item.”
She gave an indelicate snort. “Jason labors under a lot of incorrect assumptions. Or hadn’t you noticed?” she asked, sending him a pointed glance.
Even in the darkened interior, he could see the knowing humor glinting in her ice-blue eyes. They were remarkable, those eyes. The purest, brightest blue, very round with an exotic lift in the far corners that gave her an almost catlike appearance. Paired with that milky fair skin and gleaming black hair, she put him in mind of John William Waterhouse’s painting of Pandora opening the box. The metaphor wasn’t lost on him, but it hadn’t kept him from buying the print or hanging it in his living room, either.
Marion had the same grace, an innate regality that would put some of the world’s modern-day royalty to shame. She was strikingly lovely, beautiful to watch and, refreshingly, not the least bit aware of it.
“He certainly has a lot of opinions,” Robin conceded. “And is more than willing to share them.”
“Or change them, when properly led,” she remarked drolly. “You and John were in fine form tonight.”
Yes, they were, he thought, inwardly smiling. But when presented with such an easy target, how were they to resist? “It’s the costume,” Robin confided. “It brings out the worst in me.”
He felt her gaze skim over him, an infinitesimal pause along his thigh. A gratifying flush of color bloomed beneath her skin and she swallowed, drawing his attention to the fine muscles of her throat. She released a shaky breath. “I don’t think it’s fair to blame the costume for that.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s John, but we’ve been friends too long now to change the status quo.”
She chuckled, the sound low and smoky between them. “I don’t think it’s fair to blame John, either.”
He negotiated a turn. “Well, we have to blame someone, otherwise I’d have to assume that you thought it was some sort of character flaw on my part, and—” he sighed deeply and gave his head a lamentable shake “—that just wouldn’t do.”
Another soft laugh. “Oh, because you care what I think?”
He flashed a grin at her. “Of course.”
She hummed under her breath, studying him for a moment. It was unnerving, that measured stare. It made him feel exposed, laid bare and open. Vulnerable. “You’ve gotten better at it,” she said.
Shaken, Robin attempted to shrug the odd sensation off. “I’m always 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.