Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) (15 page)

“Jealous yet?”

“Huh?” I managed to reply, keeping my lips glued to his. I peeked behind us, but the red-haired guy was busy wiping the counter. He coughed and turned to straighten postcards on a rack.

“Nope—not at all. I don’t think he’s even bothered to notice.”

“Then slap me,” Creek ordered, barely loud enough to hear.

“Are you serious?” I whispered, breaking off my lips this time.

“Go for it!”

I stepped back from Creek’s embrace, hardly able to believe his imploring eyes. He nodded at me, so I hauled off and gave him a thwack—

“You asshole!” I cried, my Geisha skills revving up to full force now. I stole another glance at counter guy, whose eyes were riveted to Creek now like a hopeless puppy-dog crush. “You know better than to kiss me after hitting on my brother and openly admitting that you’re . . . you’re GAY!”

For the first time since I’d met him, I saw Creek’s eyes become as wide as the Moon Pies that hung from the peg board beside him.

Ha! I thought. So Creek doesn’t figure out everything after all.

I winked at Creek and moved in for the kill, tearing off his jean jacket and running my hands up his impossibly toned chest, then lifting up his black t-shirt over his head, leaving his ripped abs completely exposed.

“Well I’m not going to share you with every freewheeling cowboy in this county, mister! And it’s high time you gave me back my favorite t-shirt,” I hissed, shoving Creek into the beef jerky turnstile until he toppled over with a clatter. “Take that, you traitor!”

In a fury, I marched up to the front with the black t-shirt wadded in my hand and glared at the counter guy. “No donut or milk money for you today,” I fumed, pointing back at Creek. “You want payment? Then send two-timing Sir Lancelot over there the bill!”

Just as I suspected, the guy couldn’t wait to dash over to Creek, suddenly becoming Mother Teresa in his shit-kicker boots and Wrangler jeans.

“You okay?” they guy gasped, tenderly petting Creek’s black spiky wig. “Here, let me help you up—”

And frankly, at this point I didn’t hang around to hear the rest, because I was too busy marching out the front door with an awkward bag of money stuffed up my camisole and padded by Creek’s t-shirt, making me look like I’d suddenly bloomed into a teen mother-to-be.

And although it was a total drag to try and jog across the gravel parking lot with a few thousand dollars bumping against my belly, the adrenaline pumping in my veins helped me reach our motorcycle tucked in the brush in seconds flat.

Luckily, my heart was charging so fast I barely noticed the deafening roar of the engine after I’d managed to kickstart the Indian all by myself.

And with one last glance at Bob’s, I cringed and blew a kiss in Creek’s direction. “Please take care of him!” I prayed to God earnestly, hoping that angels or maybe even mothers on high would help him find a way to get out of there. Then I tore across the cornfield, sending loose dirt and those pretty, green shoots flying.

All the while, I could feel my smile begin to stretch as wide as the open road.

Last time you call
m
e
green, Creek, I thought as the stiff strands of my wig lashed against my cheeks.

“Take off your clothes,” a voice whispered at the edge of the lake like a ghost.

It was still a bit misty out, and I thought I felt a warm breath against the back of my neck—

I whipped around. There he was!

Creek, stripped to his torn jeans with his blonde hair dangling against his shoulders again, as if the powers that be had somehow beamed him right in front of me.

And he was grinning from ear to ear.

“You were a
v
e
r
y
bad girl today,” he remarked.

Unable to control myself, I hugged him with all my might, elated that he’d made it out of Bob’s place okay through God knows what kind of messy miracle. And Lord, how I wanted to kiss him again! But I felt like a fool with a bag of money and a t-shirt still bulging over my belly, because I’d been too preoccupied to remove them till I’d succeeded in hiding the motorcycle.

Creek broke away from me and gazed at my tummy with a laugh.

“You rocked it!” he said, patting my stomach.

“B-But how’d you get here so fast?" I gasped.

Creek’s lips slinked into a smile. He shook his head. “Sweetheart, it ain’t hard to get a lift in these parts when you’re not wearing a t-shirt. Now we gotta move—”

He slipped both his hands under my camisole, removing the money bag and t-shirt and letting them fall with a thump to the sand. To my surprise, he threw off my blonde wig and traced his fingers beneath my camisole straps, tenderly lifting them over my head.

My heart ricocheted inside my chest. Oh my God, I thought, is this the part where we have post-heist sex?

Creek’s eyes arrested mine. They were still that hard blue, broken by shards of glass in the middle like a guy totally focused on his mission. But there was a softness at the edges as well, as if maybe he wanted to . . .

Protect me?

And
k
i
s
s
me at the same time—

Both urges warring inside him.

Well, I decided, no time like the present to test that theory!

I rushed my hands up his firm chest and clutched his face, pulling his lips to mine for as much Heaven as I’d ever been allowed on this silly, spinning planet.

And spin I did! Inside, I felt as if I my whole being had gotten lost in a dreamy whirl. All traces of thought evaporated, only the smell and feel of his hard skin and soft hair overwhelming my senses. I was tumbling end over end, because no one had ever informed me that . . .

When you touch someone this beautiful—

It’s like falling into a pool of light.

And all of a sudden,

Y
o
u
’
r
e
that beautiful, too . . .

Creek’s hands surged up my bare back, and I couldn’t stop from pressing my breasts against his chest—my scratchy, Pinnacle-issue bra be damned—as my fingers nimbly undid the button and zipper on his jeans. I pulled them down his legs like they were as easy to rip from his body as saran wrap, and then I kicked off my shoes to do the same with my jeans.

Who was this girl??

I’d become a mighty blur—all animal on instinct and overdrive—who was determined to make both our bodies sing in the sunshine and sand that seemed to cry out for us to become one creature.

But then I felt Creek hoist my nearly naked body in his arms, hugging me tightly to his chest.

He kissed me uncontrollably for a few seconds, when all at once his lips broke free, and he rested his forehead against mine.

And he began to walk into the lake, gently carrying me, as though we were heading for some strange, a spur-of-the-moment . . . baptism?

“Bloodhounds,” he said breathlessly, his gaze full of alarm. “Bob’s got bloodhounds—”

From out of nowhere, I heard the echo of a chorus of dogs, their deep resounding barks growing closer by the second.

With one last kiss, Creek released me to the water, sailing me forward. The cold shock rushed to my neck, constricting my lungs and leaving me heaving for air.

“Swim, Robin!” He ordered, pointing to an inlet of the lake covered in shadows. “Swim with everything you’ve got!!”

“But what about you?” I cried, astonished and dog-paddling like crazy.

I saw Creek rush to the shore to grab the money bag. Then he pulled out a black trash sack from his jeans pocket on the sand and filled it with our clothes, my wig, and several heavy rocks. Tying a knot, he hoisted it with the money bag and dashed into the water after me.

“Go!!” he cried, doing a furious breast stroke, lugging the two bags with him.

I focused on the dark inlet and tore ahead, my arms slicing into the cold water until I thought my heart might rupture. A bam-bam! rang out over our heads, scaring me so badly I accidentally swallowed gulps of lake water and turned to peek back, my stomach lurching. On the shore stood a barrel-chested man pointing at us with a shotgun, surrounded by a chaos of gangly brown dogs racing back and forth on the sand, sniffing and howling in frustration.

“Keep going!” Creek yelled. He appeared to drop the trash bag with the rocks midway in the lake, because all of a sudden his strokes were so fast he was nearly next to me—

And he grabbed me by the hand and pulled me toward the inlet with a force that left me reeling.

There we were, in the dark shade of the inlet like a blanket had been thrown over us, making us disappear. Creek pulled me closer to him and grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Take a deep breath, the very biggest you can!” he commanded.

And without another word, I was under water—we both were—and Creek was towing me along with the money bag, his strong legs kicking forcefully through total darkness.

I couldn’t even see him anymore. It was as though we’d fallen into a black hole. I could only feel the pull of his hand through what must be some cave or tunnel under water. I kicked and kicked, when I saw the liquid ahead of us begin to appear gray, with a little shafts of light filtering through. My lungs burned, but I kept kicking, until I felt Creek pull me up—

Air!!

I gasped and gasped, my lungs feeling as if they’d nearly collapsed.

“We did it!” Creek burst, his eyes sparkling now. “Jesus Christ, we really did it! No one’s ever gotten away from Bob’s bloodhounds before!”

He wrapped his arms tightly around me for a victory hug, and I slumped against his hard chest, still craving more air.

“What?” I finally gasped. “You never told me about Bob’s bloodhounds!”

Creek threw his head back and laughed. “Sweetheart, why do you think nobody dares to rip off his piece of shit store? There’s a reason he can leave that much cash lying around.”

To my astonishment, Creek gazed at me with a look I’d never seen from him before. No longer a single trace of coldness, as though his eyes had been bathed in sunlight. They were so warm and radiant now that I wanted to fall into them, like the shimmer of a heavenly spring sky. He lifted me up and swirled me in his arms, our two bodies entwined and swooshing through the water as we both began to laugh. When we stopped, he stared into my eyes and brushed a wet strand of hair from my forehead.

“Oh my God, Robin,” he said, somewhere between admiration and total awe. “We’re legends now.”

“Total self control is always the key,” instructed the visiting speaker in a bright purple kimono for our 3rd period Asian culture class. Her pasty, white makeup and blood red lips made her face look like a mask, and her black hair was piled high onto her head in an elaborate chignon, held together by chopsticks. “You must understand that Geishas embody perfection: beautiful, poised, mysterious. And as you go out into the world to lead multinational corporations, be aware that in Japan, and to some extent China and Singapore as well, businessmen will expect certain, shall we say, attributes
—
even from top female managers. Learning such skills will serve you well in Cincinnati, too.” She winked provocatively, running her hand down the suffocatingly tight sash that cinched her waist. “But don’t for a second think that means you have no
p
o
w
e
r
.”

Sister Beatrice giggled with a shy smile, covering her mouth. I noticed that between her formal nun’s habit and the guest speaker’s kimono, the two of them looked eerily alike.

“And that power comes from your inner treasure box of emotions that is
n
e
v
e
r
revealed, and keeps your coworkers guessing. This is the art of getting ahead in the global marketplace! Let them
t
h
i
n
k
you’re giving something, while you’re actually taking what you need. Each stop is merely a way station on your rise to the top. So take your cue from the time-honored wisdom of the Geisha. Though they may serve tea, dance, and engage in casual but always leading conversation with their best clients, they never betray their real feelings.”

All of a sudden, the guest speaker broke away from the front of the classroom and walked straight up to my desk, her wooden sandals clacking. She began to remove the chopsticks that held up her chignon until her hair spilled down to her shoulders, becoming wavier and oddly more brown. Then she grasped the edges of her cheeks and yanked at the white skin, peeling it from her face like puddy to reveal . . .

An utterly breathtaking woman.

So beautiful she appeared to be sculpted from a dream, just like that lovely one I had of floating down a canal in Venice. Her hair was tousled by a warm, soft breeze, and her kind, chestnut eyes held a sadness that broke my heart.

She reached down to pick up my pencil from my desk and wrote something in my school notebook. Swiveling it around, she tapped the paper for me to read:

N
e
v
e
r
b
e
t
r
a
y
y
o
u
r
r
e
a
l
f
e
e
l
i
n
g
s
.

E
x
c
e
p
t
w
h
e
n
y
o
u
t
r
u
l
y
f
a
l
l
i
n
l
o
v
e
.

I glanced up at her in shock, and the woman’s eyes met mine.

Only now, she was wearing a formal nun’s habit, like Sister Beatrice. Her face was cocooned by the heavy black and white material that seemed to constrict more than just her cheeks. The look in her eyes made it appear as if her habit had also hemmed in her soul.