Perfect for the Beach (21 page)

“Cry me a river, old man.”

“This bag,” John announced, “is empty.”

“Yeah, that’s right, it’s
—what?”

“Of course”—Uncle Rich coughed—“I know a few tricks myself.”

For a minute Robin thought she’d popped a blood vessel—everything was red—but then realized the only thing that had broken was her ponytail holder, and her hair was in her face. Then she leaped for Rich and actually managed to get her hands around his neck before Studboy pulled her off.

“You miserable, crooked, lying, shifty—”

“Darling niece!” He brushed himself off. “You nearly mussed my shirt. This thing was over two hundred bucks at Harrod’s.”

“—two-faced, lying, slippery, tricky, sneaky—”

“And,” he added smugly, “you’re a sore loser.”

“—lying … lying …” She was winding down; there wasn’t another thing to say! She was sure there were several more odious adjectives to describe her father’s older brother, but damned if she could think of any. “You’ll pay, old man. Through the nose.”

Uncle Rich rested his index finger along said elegantly pointed nose. “No doubt. But not this minute.” His eyebrows arched. “Dinner?”

“I’d rather eat my own puke.”

“Rain check, then.”

“I think it’s time you bid a fond
adieu,”
John said. “You’ve upset my guest.”

“Damn right! But it’s no good, he won’t leave until he’s ready—whoa.”

Studboy—rats, she was really going to have to stop calling him that—had somehow gotten Rich into a viselike grip and was propelling him across the room. They were the same height, but Rich’s toes were practically skimming the ground.

“The suit, watch the
suit,”
Rich yelped.

John yanked the door open and paused in the midst of tossing her uncle out like a drunk in a bar. “I suppose searching him’s no good.”

“Don’t you dare! I’m extremely ticklish.”

Robin shook her head. “It’s long gone from here. But thanks for the offer.”

“You have a nice day now,” John said, and gave her uncle a firm shove into the hallway. “Good-bye.”

He shut the door, then shot the deadbolt for good measure.

“That was impressive,” she commented.

“You should see me during an internal audit.”

“I’m sure. Dammit!” Robin threw herself facedown on the king-sized bed. “Now I have to steal it back. How,
how
could he have gotten it back so
fast?
It took me six days to figure out a plan, and he got it back in six minutes. How?” Then she rolled over and glared at John. “Unless you’re in on it?”

“Don’t go all annoying and paranoid on me now. More so, I mean,” he amended. “I never laid eyes on your uncle before twenty minutes ago. And we both know exactly when I laid eyes, so to speak, on
you.”

She glared at him for another long moment, then stopped. He was right; it was too absurd. Uncle Rich was slippery, that was all. She ought to know. He’d practically raised her. Or she’d raised him—sometimes it was hard to remember.

“Well, now I’ve got to get it back. I’ve got to!”

“The family honor is at stake?” he guessed.

“No,
mine.”
She slapped her fist into her palm. “He’s not getting away with this. Again, I mean. I’ll get him back. I’ll get
it
back. Then we’ll see who has the last laugh and the bird in the hand! Ho ho! Vengeance will be mine,
mine!
D’you mind if I stay here for a day or two?”

He blinked at the abrupt tone change. “Consider this your base of operations. But only if you stop mixing metaphors. I’m begging you.”

She rolled over and looked up at him. The robe came to his knees, revealing splendidly muscled calves sprinkled with dark hair. Loosely belted, it gave tantalizing glimpses of his broad, lightly furred chest and masculine throat. He was staring down at her with eyes the color of Godiva milk chocolate. His dark brown hair stood up in thick spikes, well mussed from all that had already transpired, and stubble bloomed along his jaw. Yum. And again, yum. Snuggling between the sheets had definitely been the high point of her month—even more fun than snatching from Uncle Rich! And
that
was saying something.

“—plan of action?”

“What? Sorry. Man, you are
sooo
good-looking. How come you’re not married?”

“All my girlfriends have been strictly law-abiding. Tiresome, don’t you know. And thank you. You’re something of a knockout yourself. Not to mention direct. It’s disconcerting, yet refreshing. If you don’t mind a personal question—”

“Fire away. We’re a little beyond secret-keeping, I think.”

“—what happened to your folks?”

“My mom left right after I was born. Uncle Rich always said having a red-haired baby freaked her out. He was only kidding, though,” she added at the appalled look on John’s face. “And Dad was in and out of jail most of my childhood. He died when I was in high school. Uncle Rich raised me. I love that slimy, slippery, crooked son of a bitch,” she sighed. “He’s my only family, the rat bastard.”

“There, there,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed and patting her knee. Then, “That’s it. There, there. That’s all I’ve got.”

She sniffed and gave him a friendly shove, but he held on and they both toppled back on the bed. She stroked the stubbly skin on his jaw and said, without looking at him, “Thanks for helping me.”

“Thanks for being … different.”

“That’s, like, the lamest compliment ever.”

“Thanks for not stealing my wallet? Yet?”

“A little better,” she said grudgingly.

Chapter Six

“Have you ever thought about opening safes and, uh, what’s the word you use …?” “Cracking.”

“Right. Ever thought about doing that for the police? They need those services all the time. Did you ever see
The Italian Job?
You could do stuff like that.”

She was lying on top of him, her elbows propped up on his chest, her chin resting on her fists. Her knees were on his thighs, her feet in the air, waving gently back and forth. She peered down at him with those blue, blue eyes and said, “I can’t say the idea ever crossed my mind. Also, I saw the original. The remake sucked.”

“It did not. Mark Wahlburg is the finest actor of his generation. And anyway, what do you do when you’re not chasing your uncle across the country to steal what he just stole from you?”

“Nothing. This is what I do. Well, sometimes I enter marathons.”

“How, uh, completely unfulfilling. Not the marathon part. How do you live?”

“My dad left me a trust.”

“Out of ill-gotten gains, I’ll bet.”

“That, and his Army pension.”

“Your dad was in the—never mind, one stunner at a time. So this is it? You’re like a female Leonardo di Caprio in
Catch Me if You Can?”

“Sometimes Uncle Rich is Leo,” she pointed out.

“And this is what you do, and this is what Rich does.”

“Yes.”

“College?”

“Why? I could crack the school’s computer and award myself a BA anytime I want.”

He put a forearm across his eyes. “So, were you born without a conscience, or did it drain away slowly and gradually?”

She poked him in the ribs. “Let’s just say I had an eventful adolescence and leave it at that.”

“Followed by an eventful adulthood. The mind reels.”

“Norman Rockwell, we weren’t,” she said cheerfully. “That’s all right. I’ve got the most interesting life of anyone I know. That’s always been good enough for me.”

“‘Interesting’ being your euphemism for ‘larcenous.’”

She smiled. “Well, yeah.”

“So, what’s your plan? How are you going to get it—whatever it is—back from Rich?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’ll tell you what helps me think. A good wrestle in the sheets.”

“What a coincidence,” he said, cupping the curve of her skull in his hands. “That helps me think, too.” Then he pulled her down for a long kiss.

“Mmmm,” she said when he broke the kiss to nibble on her chin. “I’ve been thinking about
that
since I jumped into your bed a few hours ago.”

“What a coincidence,” he said again.

“Besides, we owe it to ourselves to get it out of the way.” While she talked, she was tugging at the belt of his robe. “The sex part, I mean. Then we’ll be able to think.”

“I totally agree.”

“Okay, then.”

He pulled at her shirt, tugged at her jeans, and in a few minutes they were rolling around in his bed, tickling and wrestling. Her limbs were sleekly muscled, and there was that charming belly again, gently curving above the fiery thatch between her legs. It was a true relief to be with a woman who wasn’t skin and bones—Robin had substance. In more ways than one.

He felt her fingers close around his throbbing length and nearly groaned aloud. He should have known she’d have a nimble grip, given what she did for a living, but this went beyond nimble—it was more like heaven on earth. Her thumb stroked his now slippery tip, and her other hand cuddled his balls, gently testing their weight.

He buried his face in her cleavage, trailed kisses across her breasts, and sucked on her impudent pink nipples. He felt her gasp beneath him, felt her small tongue dart into the cup of his ear, heard her whisper, “Harder.”

He bit, very lightly, and sucked harder, and gloried in the feast her body was providing—she was all candy-studded cream, all roses and pale skin. And her hair—once again it was the brightest thing in the room, and he could see strands of copper mixed with all the auburn.

He felt her heels press into his back, drawing him closer, felt her mouth open beneath his like a flower, and oh, he was an instant away from burying himself inside her, an instant from the exquisite—

“Wait,” he managed.

“It’s all right,” she said, almost gasped. “I’m on the Pill. And I’m going to assume you’re not riddled with disease.”

He nearly snorted. “Hardly. I—is it—it’s not too soon, is it? I don’t want to hurt—”

She was pressing him closer and wriggling beneath him to good effect; he grabbed the corner of the pillow in an effort to hang on to the bare shreds of his control. Had he thought she was like a force of nature? He hadn’t known the half of it.

“You’re sweet,” she said, “but I’ve been ready for ages. Since the minute you walked in the room, frankly.”

“Thank God.” He parted her with his fingers, relishing the feel of her slick folds, then entered her with one thrust.

She threw her head back and groaned at the ceiling. “Oh, jeez, that’s
really
good. Don’t stop.”

“As if I could,” he panted. Her arms were around his neck in a stranglehold and he didn’t mind at all. Being inside her was like being inside a dream—the best dream of his life. “Oh, that’s nice. That’s …”

She pumped back at him, levering her hips to meet his thrusts, and he buried his face in the soft fire of her hair and tried to think about baseball. Unix. Zero-based budgetry. Anything but how close he was.

“Harder,” she husked, and he obliged, and the headboard slammed against the wall, keeping their beat. “Oh, jeez, that’s—that’s going to do it…”

He felt her tighten around him, actually felt her get warmer for a moment, and then she was writhing beneath him, her eyes looking straight through him as she found what she needed. That was enough for him, as well; he felt himself tip dizzily over the edge, and came so hard the room went dark around the edges for a moment.

“Wow.”

“That’s it, huh?”

“Well, that’s one for the diary, anyway.”

He laughed, and brushed her sweaty curls out of her face. “Terrific. I can see the entry now. ‘Dear diary, today I broke into a room that wasn’t mine—after committing grand theft—and seduced a stranger.’”