Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) (25 page)

I sighed. “Just trust me. The whole art of how my dad passed us off in society comes down to the details. And that means the right designer labels.” I brushed my hand against several suits. “Here, this one feels better.”

I pulled it out, trying to read the tag from the glow of a street lamp that filtered through the window. It said Calvin Klein. But the cleaning receipt didn’t have my dad’s name on it. And I felt a bit spooked about wearing someone else’s clothes. What if it belonged to my stepmom’s pricey gigolo that she tried to pass off as her “cousin” at a few galas last winter? Single-handedly, that woman had set all of Cincinnati’s rumor mills on fire.

“Creek,” I blurted, “move on down to the M section for McArthur. Over there.”

We stepped towards a plastic M that sat atop a rack, and I yanked out another tux.

“This is it—McArthur! My dad’s been pretty skinny the last few years, ever since hitting the coke, so it ought to fit. Take off your clothes.”

Creek laughed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me—strip!”

In the spare light of the street lamp, I could see Creek pulling his t-shirt over his head, revealing that hard chest that was so beautiful, even in shadows—maybe
e
s
p
e
c
i
a
l
l
y
in shadows. It was all I could do to stop myself from running my hands against his tight, muscled skin. But we had an engagement to get to, fast. When Creek turned a little, I caught a glimpse of his bicep and let out a gasp.

There it was—that ugly bullet wound on his arm where the bandage had fallen off, swollen and completely disfiguring the spot where his heart tattoo had once been. It was now a red, upraised patch of skin with dark bruises, matching the nasty wound on his shoulder.

“Clean slate,” Creek remarked with a quick glance at where the heart tattoo used to be, as if it were merely an erased chalkboard now. “Guess the past is gone for good.”

“Will you ever—um, I mean, you know . . . consider another tattoo?”

My cheeks swiftly prickled. Could I be more transparent? God, how I wanted to scrawl my name in hot pink across his toned chest with permanent ink, branding him to keep the other chicks at bay.

To my embarrassment, Creek smirked as if my thoughts had been broadcast across my forehead. Whatever happened to my icy Geisha routine? And before I knew it, his hands had embraced my cheeks. They were rough at the edges but warm against my skin—solid. Then his lips pressed to mine for a long, absorbing kiss. So tender yet all consuming, as though he intended to tuck my very soul inside his most secret, treasured place.

“Robin,” he whispered, breaking free for a second. He ran a finger delicately down my nose, then dropped to my lips and hesitated before tracing my chin and neck to my chest. “When a girl like
y
o
u
comes along,” he swiped another kiss like a thief, “and she’s got the beauty and brass to write her name all over a guy’s heart—well, there ain’t much point in tattoos anymore.”

Sparks flew wildly in my stomach. And I’m quite sure if his hand hadn’t been pressed to my chest, I would have levitated right then and there.

But Creek just stared into my eyes. The raw yearning I saw there left me breathless. “Time to take off your clothes, sweetheart,” he said. “We have a ball to get to.”

Every cell in my body trembled at his words. I felt his warm hands clutch at my waist and slowly glide up my ribcage, pausing at the swell of my breasts. He lifted my shirt up over my head, so there was only my dorky Pinnacle bra between us now. But with a swift unclasp, even that fell to the floor, my breasts spilling to the open air.

“You said it’s all about the details,” Creek whispered in my ear. “You can’t possibly wear that crummy old bra beneath a designer gown.”

His voice was soft and smoky, pure poetry to me, and I could feel his warm breath upon my neck in the dark. Slowly, his breath descended to my collar bone, where he gave me a light kiss, soft as a whisper of air that made me shiver. Then his lips traced down to my cleavage, where my heart was pounding madly.

“You’re so beautiful, Robin,” he said with a depth that left me reeling. And then he whispered something more, something I ached with every fiber of my being to hear, but it was impossible! Because a loud, ringing noise shattered our darkness, as though the world had caved in on us.

Creek instinctively wrapped his arms around me like a protective shield. “Bells,” he called out over the chaos of sound. “They’re chiming from the church next door. We gotta count the rings—”

Holy crap, their clang was so loud I thought they’d wake up the dead. But I listened to them chime nine whole times.

“Fuck, we gotta go! The ball’s already been going for two hours.”

He was right, Goddamn him.

And in that moment, Creek couldn’t even see the nearly naked girl in front of him—he was totally back to business
again. He threw on his tux in record time and swiftly buttoned up his starched, white shirt while I helped him adjust his bow tie.

I crossed my arms to cover my chest and took a step back, utterly dazzled by what I saw.

So much for crashing the party unnoticed.

Because Creek was—without a doubt—the most
handsome creature I had ever witnessed. So good looking, in fact, that I’d wager no one was going to notice the muddy shoes that peeked out from beneath his black trousers.

But what really blew me away was that he was no longer some trailer park teenager any more.

He was a
m
a
n
.

And a drop-dead gorgeous one at that.

His blonde hair and tan skin were downright God-like, set off by the crisp tailoring of the black tux. Yet that air of wildness made him irresistible.

“C’mon!” he pushed “Let’s find you a dress so we can get to that ball.”

But when we turned to sort through my stepmother’s gowns, we discovered that they were . . . gone.

Not a single shred of women’s clothing was left on the McArthur section of the rack.

“Pawn shop,” Creek nodded. “Wedding rings, silverware, gold candlesticks—your stepmom probably hawked everything she could carry the very minute she ditched your dad.”

“That bitch!” I howled while Creek stuffed a random gown into my hands from further down the rack. The stiff fabric billowed over my arms, and I had to lift my chin high to peek over the mound of material to meet his gaze.

“What the hell is this—a taffeta tent?” I cried.

“We don’t have time to waste, Robin. It’s just a dumb dress, no big deal—”

“Yes it is a big deal!” I shouted far louder and more desperately than I’d intended. And despite my truly belated effort at any Geisha girl composure at this point, hot tears welled in my eyes.

“Don’t you get it, Creek?” I said, shutting my eyes for second and willing the tears to stop. “This is my one and only chance for . . . you know . . . a prom.”

Creek gave me a blank stare as if I’d just spoken a foreign language.

“High school’s over for me, for kids like us. We always have to be the adults for everybody at Turtle Shores. And that means no kisses stolen from the boys at Breton behind bleachers. No daydreaming about making all the guys swoon, because for once in my life I actually feel like I’m the prettiest girl in the room—even if it’s not true. And certainly no becoming giddy over the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen. All I ever wanted was one night, Creek—just one, beautiful, hopelessly enchanted evening to turn out right for me, that couldn’t be ruined by all my family’s bullshit.”

Creek stood in total silence.

I quickly glanced down so he wouldn’t see the pain in my eyes, but it was useless. I was shaking all over.

And only then did I notice how filthy my shoes really were from tracking through the mud earlier in the woods. Cinderella from the freaking boondocks! Only there was no magic wand to be found that could cure all my stupid problems.

Just then, a blistering white light seared my vision—

Creek had turned on the shop lights. The fiercely fluorescent bulbs hummed as I squinted to try and focus again. I saw Creek walk over to a tall glass case at the side of the room that held an exquisite, vintage couture gown that was silver and dripping with what looked like little diamonds everywhere. He turned around to look at me, and then he punched his fist straight into the glass—

His hand was thoroughly bloody now, but he didn’t care.

“Here,” Creek said, yanking the dress with his clean hand from the hanger. He stepped towards me, holding out the most sensational gown I’d ever seen—fit for a princess. And for an instant, I saw Creek’s eyes sparkle.

“C’mon, Mademoiselle,” his cheek scar crinkled into that wicked dagger smile again. “Let’s go knock ’em dead.”

My heart was in my throat as I stood at the front door of my old house.

Already it looked strangely unfamiliar to me. The new people had ripped out all the landscaping and created tiered, formal gardens lit up by floodlights so it appeared as bright as day. And the Old World-style Tudor accents to the home had been removed. The house was now painted a gleaming white with gold trim, and the walkway was lined with marble statues. Even the stoop was inlaid with gem-colored mosaic tiles that sparkled from the crystal lamp by the door.

Drawing in a deep breath, I was about to ring the doorbell when I noticed a spot of blood on my dress.

Luckily, Creek’s scratches from the glass case turned out to be superficial, but still—

In a panic, I licked my fingers to try and rub it out, only to feel Creek grasp my hand.

“Believe me,” he smiled as wide as Bender Lake, “ain’t a soul in this whole damn world gonna notice that little stain, sweetheart.” His gaze took me in as though I were a vision. “You look . . . unbelievable.”

I didn’t want to blush, but I couldn’t stop. The admiration in Creek’s eyes told me I was dazzling.

Me!

That throw-away, curly-haired chick whose parents and nannies never gave her a second thought.

“How does it feel,” Creek leaned in to whisper, sneaking a kiss on my neck while he was at it, “to blossom into a swan?”

At that moment, his smile told me I was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. A part of me felt as if I’d sprouted wings and transformed into something elegant and ethereal. But another part of me saw the concern surface in Creek’s eyes. After all, we were here to do a job—a full-blown robbery—so we could never be as carefree and giddy as the teens I used to spot each spring in poofy dresses and rented tuxedos heading to their proms in white limos. This was business, and I saw Creek steal a glance back at where he’d parked Sadie. She was nestled on a side street at the edge of the lawn because there were so many limos jammed in the driveway. I could tell he was measuring the steps from the house to our vehicle, gauging with precision our potential escape route. Then he gave my hand a squeeze.

“Okay Robin,” he whispered. “Let’s get to it.”

I nodded and pressed the doorbell.

A melodic chime reminiscent of Bach rang in our ears. Even the sound of the bell had changed. The door slowly swung open.

A graying man with a stiff expression appeared, wearing a crisp suit that wasn’t a tux—a butler for certain.

I raised my chin and gave him my haughtiest stare. If I’ve learned anything from growing up in Indian Hill, it’s how to seize the Alpha role quickly with the staff in order to get my way.

And the first step to derailing them is always to start with a complaint.

“Must you wait for important guests to ring the doorbell like strangers off the street before you open it?” I barked in an entitled tone, yanking on Creek’s hand to follow me into the foyer. “We were standing there for five whole minutes! Chloe Tweedle will
n
o
t
be pleased.”

“M-My apologies!” The butler fumbled, ushering us in. “Who-Who shall I say has arrived?”

Without turning around, I waved my hand in the air to dismiss him.

“The lady of the house knows,” I sniffed. “It’s hardly my job to educate her staff.”

I dug my heels into the plush ivory carpet beyond the marble entry way, lugging at Creek to match my marching gate as I swung a left and hastened to the ball room. Of course, I wanted to stop and ogle at all of the renovations the Tweedles had made to my house. The décor had gone from a genteel, British manor look to a gilded spectacle worthy of Versailles. But I knew even a brief pause might give us away. The best tactic for blending in is to act blasé, I thought, the way I did on my first day at high school to keep the bitches off my back. Simply behave like you’ve seen all of this a million times before.

“You!” I pointed to a middle-aged woman who was milling in the hall and wearing a suit that matched the butler’s. “Two glasses of Dom Perignon. Now.”

I gave the chick a snap to show her I meant business.

“Geez, Robin,” Creek whispered. “You sure got the royal bitch act down flat.”

“Hush,” I replied. “You didn’t exactly flinch in front of Bob and his bloodhounds. These folks are just as nasty, and they can smell fear. If you act superior, it keeps ’em guessing.”

Then I stopped in my tracks in the hallway. All air evaporated from my chest—

I stared into the small room on the right that was now barely recognizable.

It used to be
m
y
nook.

A cozy little space that was meant to be a downstairs study at one time. My parents had finally given in and let me claim it for myself. So I’d filled it with electronics, posters, a floor-to-ceiling TV screen and an over-stuffed armchair, just like the kind you see at Starbucks. But most of all, it was my “Panic Room” as the staff had jokingly called it. A Teen Cave where I could walk in and slam the door on all of my stepmom’s lovers who brazenly traipsed through the house, sometimes half-naked. Or shut out the local media who camped on our porch every time my dad’s law firm won a controversial case through dubious tactics. I’d never realized it before, but it was the only spot in the whole house where I could hide my soul to try and survive my parents—the one place where not even the cleaning lady or the foo-foo interior decorators were allowed to enter.