Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
For Ethan Ellenberg, who fearlessly bats for me,
and for MT, who fearlessly reads rough drafts.
John strode out of the elevator, shifting his suit bag from one shoulder to the other to dig out his key card. He related to Richard Gere's character in Pretty Woman … he missed keys. Not that he ever watched girly movies like that. Well, hardly ever.
He stopped outside this week's home-away-from-home, Room 666… hmm, not too disturbing. Not that he ever watched cheesy horror movies like The Omen. Well, hardly ever.
As he slipped his key card into the slot, the door was thrown open and an arm snaked out and dragged him inside.
He dropped his suit bag, ready to rumble, then realized the arm was attached to a woman. A stunning, redheaded, blue-eyed woman with prodigious freckles.
"Strip," she ordered.
He thought that over. Naw. He must have misunderstood. She'd probably said something like, "You're in the wrong room, dicklick," and in his shock he'd misheard her, which was perfectly understandable because—
"Dude! My lips are moving, can't you see 'em? I said strip."
"What?"
"Strip. Undress. Take. Off. Your. Clothes." He noticed with surprise bordering on alarm that her own clothes were flying off her as she spoke. "Do I have to write it on my forehead?"
As more and more creamy skin was exposed, alarm changed to something else. And speaking of something else, she certainly was. Her hair was shoulder-length and curly, bouncing around with a life of its own. The shades were drawn and the lights were out, and her glorious hair was the brightest thing in the room. It looked like coals banked for the night. Her limbs were long and slender, and she had the cutest little belly, which rounded out slightly above the darker red thatch between her—
"Jeez, all right, I'll help you," she said, clearly annoyed at his slothfulness. "Don't take this the wrong way, but did you take a special bus to high school? A short bus?"
"What?"
"Never mind." Then her hands were on him, pulling his jacket off, loosening his tie with nimble fingers, tugging his shirt.
"All right, all right," he said mildly, but he didn't feel mild. She was stunning. It wasn't so much her looks, which were very fine. He had never met a woman who possessed more natural charisma in his entire life. She fairly vibrated with life. And impatience.
Clearly pleased to see he was finally getting with the program, she bounded over to the bed, yanked the covers back—he was treated to a flash of a creamy white bottom—and then was as snug in his bed as a redheaded bug.
Nude, he followed her, sliding between the sheets and wondering exactly what the hell to do now. "They really take this hospitality suite thing seriously," he said.
Then he said, "Mmmff!" because she had grabbed him by the ears and was kissing his socks off. If he had still been wearing any. Which he certainly wasn't.
His arms slipped around her, drawing her closer, relishing the silky skin of her back. Her breasts flattened against his chest and his hands slid lower, caressing the fine globes of her butt. Her tongue snaked inside his mouth and he nearly groaned.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
"Oh, here we go," she mumbled into his mouth.
"That's the spirit," he mumbled back.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
"Go away!" they shouted in unison.
"Hotel security! Open up in there!"
She pulled back from his embrace and peered into his eyes. John waited for a breathless declaration of love. "Hmmm, that's not quite right," she said, then reached out and mussed his hair.
"Stop that," he protested. "It took me hours to get it just right. Also, why is hotel security after you?"
She didn't answer. Just stood up, bent over, mussed her own hair, flung her head back, grinned at his gasp of appreciation, then grabbed the comforter and slung it over her shoulders.
She marched to the door and opened it. "Whaaat?" she whined. "Can't you see we're busy?"
Two men peered past her, and John at once realized what they thought they were seeing: a barely clad redhead, an unclad John, lights out, shades drawn, and an air of musk and impatience pervading the room.
The smaller man, dressed in a blue suit, shirt, and tie that made him look embalmed, rubbed his hands together. John could hear the rasping sound all the way across the room. "Sorry—so sorry—there's been—that is to say—"
The taller man shouldered him aside. "I'm Ron Wilde, hotel detective. This is the hotel manager, Ken."
"Pleased—very pleased—"
"Someone cracked one of the safety deposit boxes downstairs. You haven't seen anything unusual, have you?"
"She's a natural redhead," John volunteered. "I'm not quite sure if that's what one would consider unusual, but—"
"You hush," the redhead said, but she was smirking. "Gentlemen, if you don't mind…"
"Terribly sorry—never meant to disturb—" The rasping was coming faster. If Kenny boy didn't get some lotion on those hands, he was going up in flames from pure friction.
" 'Bye," Red said pointedly, starting to swing the door shut. The detective stuck his foot out, and the door stopped.
He fished around in his jacket—dark brown, which almost exactly matched his hair and eyes—and finally extracted a card. He handed it to Red with a leer. "If you need anything else, just give me a buzz."
John bristled. The punk was coming on to his would-be fake girlfriend! He thought about grabbing the suit by the lapels and tossing him into the tub, or possibly out the window, but then Red slammed the door and they were alone again.
She flung off the comforter like a titian-haired Wonder Woman and, he noticed with total dismay, began dressing as rapidly as she had undressed.
She slid into her jeans, shrugged into her T-shirt ("Come Along Quietly"), then stepped into her sandals. She dug into her pocket, pulled out a rubber band, and efficiently tamed her vibrant hair into a ponytail. As an afterthought, she kicked the comforter in the general direction of the bed.
"Thanks tons, doll," she said, sketching a salute. "It's been great working with you."
Three steps to the door, and she was gone.
Gone?
Not fucking likely.
John bounded out of the bed and caught up with her just as she was stepping into the stairwell. "Wait!" he said, and she turned around in surprise. Then her gaze dropped to his groin and she grinned. "I don't even know your name."
"So?"
"Where are you going?"
"MYOB, pal."
"I don't know that club."
"Very funny. Seriously, thanks for helping me out and all, but I have to run. And dude… you need to get dressed. Not that I mind. But still. Public hotel and all that."
"It's too bad," he said regretfully. He leaned casually against the doorframe. Then jerked upright—the metal frame was cold. "You could have stayed in my room as long as you liked. Now, of course, I'll have to call the house detective and let him know you're on your way down."
She glared at him, her eyes slits of laser blue. "Blackmailer."
"Actually, I'm an accountant."
"Yech! Even worse."
"Oh, come on," he coaxed. "Whatever's going on, it's obviously too hot for you to leave right now. Why not come back to the room for a while? Frankly, I'm dying to hear all about it."
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"Because I'm an accountant in town for a convention. What else am I going to do?"
"Good point." She nibbled on her lower lip, which instantly made him want to do the same thing. "Well… I s'pose you're right. I mean, it'll be tough getting out of here for a while. And you did help me out… and kept your mouth shut when Frick and Frack came knocking."
He snorted at Frick and Frack, then shrugged modestly.
"All right," she decided. He was so relieved he nearly toppled down the stairwell. "I'll come back. For a while. But you really have to put some clothes on."
"Why?" he asked, escorting her back to lucky Room 666. "You've seen it before."
"Yeah, but… do you, like, work out every day or what? I've seen bodybuilders in worse shape. Seriously. Clothes. First thing."
They stopped outside his room and he smacked himself on the forehead. "Dammit! I was in such a rush to get you, I forgot the keycard."
She smirked at him and ran his card through the slot. "Grabbed it from your pants on the way out," she said.
"You keep your hands out of my pants."
"Oh, like you really minded five minutes ago."
"Irrelevant."
"Besides, I didn't know if it'd come in handy later."
"You are an unregenerate pickpocket."
"Whatever you say, pal. But your wing-wang isn't wagging out in the hallway anymore, thanks to me."
He'd have liked to strike up a strenuous argument to refute this point, save for the annoying fact that she was right. "That's not going to be your pet name for it, is it? Wing-wang?"
"We'll see," she said mysteriously, and practically shoved him inside.
"Mmm nnn'd eeel eeeeg," she said with her mouth full.
"What?"
She chewed and swallowed. "I said, I didn't steal anything."
"That's nice. Back up."
She was still dressed, and gorging herself on room-service chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes, broccoli, and chocolate milk. Sadly, she had not instantly disrobed after room service had come and gone.
He was wearing the standard-issue lux-hotel white terry-cloth robe, sitting on the bed and watching her. He was hungry, but not for food. "What is your name?"
"Oh. Didn't I tell you? Sorry." She stuck out a hand, shiny with chicken grease. He shook it gingerly. "Robin Filkins."
"And the girl named 'Robin' didn't steal anything."
"Har-har. And nope. How can you steal your own property?"
"Lots of ways. Why don't you start at the beginning?"
"How about, not?"
"Why don't you want to tell me? An unburdened conscience is a light one."
"Who talks like that? And to answer your question, because it's none of your business?" she guessed.
"You involved me," he explained patiently. "You made me your alibi. At the least, you owe me an explanation." He eyed the gorgeous mounds under her T-shirt. "Or, barring that—"
"Simmer down, El Horno. I'll cough up the scoop."
"Only if you promise to stop mixing your metaphors. And to never call me that again."
"Hey, a bird in the hand is worth a pig in a poke." She laughed and a few red curls escaped her ponytail and bounced around her face. "Besides, don't get uppity with me. You never told me your name, either."
"It's not like you gave me time for civilized conversation."
"I didn't hear any complaints, pal." She smirked.
She was really quite something—shameless, funny, blunt. He itched to touch the curls framing her face, to see if they felt as silky soft as they looked. "Point taken. It's John Crusher."
"Seriously?"
"Sounds like a professional wrestler, doesn't it?"
She gnawed on a chicken leg. "I bet all the other accounting weenies are terrified of you."
"Actually, I'm a freelancer with my own business, and rarely run into other accounting weenies. So, you were going to explain your curious yet refreshing actions of the last hour… ?"
"I was? Oh, right. I was. In a nutshell: cracked my uncle's safety deposit box. Got my property back. Took off. Cracked the first door I found on the highest floor. Jumped your bones—temporarily. The end."
"Why my room?"
"Cracked the hotel reservation system first—you weren't supposed to check in until tonight, Early Boy."
"You're quite right," he said, surprised. "I caught an earlier flight."
"Yeah, and thanks for nothing. I go to all that trouble to lift a universal housekeeping card, and you show up early. I just about dropped my panties when I heard your key card rattling in the slot!"
"If memory serves, you did drop your—"
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, figured I'd hang out here for a couple hours until the heat was off, then slip out the back. This was, of course, totally foiled when you showed up. Although I must give you snaps for your cooperation."
"Cooperation," he said dryly, "is my middle name. And you're welcome to stay here as long as you like. We can be—"
"Mr. and Mrs. Crusher?" she teased.
"Something like that. But I do insist on knowing exactly what you st—uh, got back."
"Why?"
"Overreaching curiosity. I'm taking a survey. Pick a reason." He frowned. "It wasn't a gun or something, was it? Because if that's the case, I'll toss you right out on your pretty behind."
"Hey, I do have some scruples, pal. And no, it wasn't a gun. It was—"
"Open up in there!"
They both jerked around at the sound. "Never a dull moment around here," he said, starting to recover from his heart attack. "What now?"
Robin grabbed Studboy's arm just as he reached for the doorknob. And nearly dropped his arm in surprise—solid as a rock. It was like grabbing a two-by-four. The guy probably bench-pressed small automobiles to stay in shape. "You know, just because they tell you to open up, doesn't actually mean you have to open the door. Ever watch any movies?"
"I'm a slave to direct commands." But he took a moment and peeked through the peephole, at least. "Hmm. The manager's back, but the detective isn't with him. I don't recognize the gentleman who is."
She started to get a nasty suspicion. "Move over. Let me see." She peeked. As if he knew he was being watched, the taller man waggled his fingers at the door in a cheerful wave.
Dammit! It was that crook, that conniver, that blight on society, Uncle Rich.
Enraged, she jerked the door open. "Cheat!" she hollered as the manager cowered away from her. "This is a total cheat! Game over!"
"Fine, thanks, and how've you been?" Uncle Rich shot his cuffs—he was impeccably dressed, as usual—and smiled at her. "Besides, I'm here to concede. This round's yours."
"Oh." That was an entirely different story. "Ha! I mean, thanks for coming up."
"I don't understand," the manager said. "You're saying she has your property—"
"It's my property," Robin interrupted.
"—but it's no longer a problem?"
"Oh, it is, but for now, we're calling a truce. It's a long, dull story and I'm sure you have many duties to attend to." Rich shook the guy's hand and Robin saw the fifty-dollar bill disappear. Masterful! Every time she tried that, the bill either stuck to her sleeve or fluttered to the floor. "Thanks for your help."
With that, he stepped into John's room and shut the door in the manager's bewildered face.
"Nice robe," he said politely to Studboy.
"Nice scam," Studboy said back, just as politely.
When Rich poked her, Robin remembered herself. "Oh, right. Uncle Rich, this is St—uh, John Crusher. John, this is my uncle, Rich Caique."
"Robin and Rich. Hmm. Well, it's nice to meet you."
"How did you get past all the employees to crack the right safe deposit box?" Rich burst out. She nearly chortled as he continued. "And how'd you know which one was the right one? And how'd you avoid—" He eyed John in his robe. "Never mind, I figured that one out on my own."
"Uncle Rich, you know I can't divulge gory details. That'd be cheating."
"And I'm sure you two paragons of morality have a horror of cheating," John said dryly.
"You hush up. Uncle Rich, you know the rules: we get it however we can, whenever we can. Drawn out confessions aren't part of the game."
"Listen here, young lady, I taught you everything you know—"
"And my dad taught me the rest. And one of the things he drummed into me was that thieves are like magicians…"
"… you never tell them how you did it," Rich finished. "She's quoting my own brother at me! Niece, who do you think taught him?"
"I'm confused," John said. "But then, I've been that way since I checked in."
Rich wandered over to the chair in the corner, glanced over his pleats, and sat down. Robin knew he meant to look vague and well-to-do. That was about half right. "Oh, it's this silly little game my niece and I have been playing for… uh…"
"Ten years."
"Right. She steals from me, I steal from her. It's the only way we could agree on who got to keep it."
"Keep wheat."
"This," Robin said, handing the small blue velvet bag to John.
"Really, Robin, you're getting too good at this," Rich complained while John gingerly felt the bag. Robin almost laughed; John looked like he was expecting anything—a mousetrap, a rattlesnake. "I'd barely moved the thing to this hotel and you snatched it away."
"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 5000 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.
"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 budgetary. 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.' "
"Uh-uh, pal. You seduced me."
"What?"
"Well, you did! It's your own fault, being so cute and all."
"Well," he said modestly, "that's true."
She bopped him lightly in the ribs. "Conceited creep."
"That's also true."
She yawned against his neck, and he cuddled her closer for a moment. Then he asked, "Well, now that we have, as you so quaintly put it, the sex thing out of the way—"
"Um, I dunno, there might be some remnants…"
"—do you have any ideas?"
"Actually," she admitted, "I was thinking it'd be nice to do the sex thing again. That's about as far as I got."
He snorted. "I'm thirty-eight, sunshine. I'll need a few minutes at least."
"Ancient! God, you're practically decrepit."
"Oh, that's nice. How old are you?"
"Twenty-six."
"Great. On top of everything else today—including missing my conference—I've robbed the cradle."
"Good. Serves you right. I should be stealing something right this minute, but instead I'm obsessing over your dick."
"Progress."
"Sure," she said, and laughed.
John left, at Robin's insistence. She wanted a nap, and to regroup. He should use the opportunity to "catch a seminar, or whatever it is you were going to do this weekend." Funny how being kicked out of his own room didn't bother him. If she wanted to rest, it was completely fine with him. She'd earned it.
But what did "regroup" mean, and how many laws would be fractured while she did it?
He strolled through the lobby, wondering exactly how a citizen's arrest was performed, and if the participants had to be naked, when he spotted a small placard propped outside a conference room, the CHICAGO MARRIOTT WELCOMES THE NSA!
Ah, the NSA… the National Society of Accountants. His herd. Was that right? What did one call a group of accountants? A herd? A calculus? An audit?
He sidled closer; they hadn't shut the doors to the conference room yet and he could hear the keynote speaker. There were at least a hundred suits in the room—literal suits; from where he was standing, they were a sea of black and gray shoulders.
It was funny—he should be one of the suits. He certainly had the wardrobe for it. There was plenty of time; he hadn't missed much. And he'd paid over six hundred dollars of his own money to attend. It was one of the disads of owning his own company—stuff like this came right out of his pocket. The six hundred big ones didn't even count the hotel room he was sharing with Robin.
Ah… Robin. It was all her fault. It was tough to get excited about ASO management roundtables and earning sixteen hours of CPE credit when he'd just rolled around in the sheets with a charming, larcenous redhead. A woman utterly unlike anyone he'd ever met. A woman he'd known less than a day, and yet, couldn't get out of his head. Always before, he'd bedded them and been done with them, but Robin was different. He was beginning to appreciate just how different—
"Mr. Crusher."
He nearly walked into a pillar. There was the dreaded Uncle Rich, looking like a benign southern gentleman. Tan suit, closely trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, dark hair shot with skeins of pure white. Blue eyes—Robin's eyes.
"You look like you're waiting for someone," John observed.
"Not at all." Rich shoved a chair out with his foot. "Why don't you sit down in this handy chair, talk a bit with an old man?"
"You're almost as terrifying," he said, taking the proffered seat, "as your niece."
"Oh, stop it," Rich said modestly. "She's much scarier than I am. You're missing your conference."
John looked over Rich's head to the conference room doors, which were now swinging shut. Odd, to be on this side of the doors. Odder, he didn't mind. "Yes, I—I was just thinking that."
"Well, they'll have another one next year."
"Yup."
"A charming young lady, my niece."
"I'll go along with that."
"But lonely."
"It's not fatal. You don't die from it."
Rich's eyes actually twinkled—twinkled! The man was able to do something with his face, with his laughing blue eyes, which made him look lovable and roguish. It was uncanny. Suddenly John had to fight the urge to hand over his wallet. "Ah, you know a bit about that condition yourself. It's no wonder you found each other."
"Uh… she sort of found me. And by 'found,' I mean—"
"I'm familiar with her modus operendi."
"How do you do that thing with your eyes?" he asked, unable to resist. "You must have zero trouble bilking people out of millions."
"John, I'm hurt!" The hell of it was, the guy sounded hurt. Looked hurt. "I've been waiting down here for some time hoping to have a nice chat with you."
"Spinning your web like a spider waiting for a big fat bug…" he prompted.
"Oh, now you've been listening to my niece's side of things," Rich said reproachfully.
"How did you get it back so quickly? And what is it?"
Rich waved the questions away. "Something that belonged to my brother. He died without a will, and there were some… problems… with property disbursement. So I decided to keep the item in question until Robin came of age. She disagreed, and stole it. I stole it back. And so on. And so on. And now I look around, and ten years have gone by."
"That's some screwed-up family you've got there," John said, not unkindly.
"You're right, and wishing things were different doesn't help. But sometimes… sometimes new players come to the game. And things can change."
"I'm not a player," John said, astonished. "I'm an accountant."
"And thus, the crookedest of us all."
"I'd like to be able to kick your ass for that," he admitted, "except a glance at the headlines will prove your point, and so I'm just going to sit here and sulk for a few minutes and pretend things like Enron didn't wreck my industry's credibility."
"As you wish. Would you like a drink while you sulk?"
The question was so solicitous, John laughed in spite of himself. "Yeah. Let's see, what's ridiculously expensive… ? I'll have a shot of Dewar's over ice."
"Ice in your glass… barbarian." Rich grumbled, but waved the concierge over, and in another couple of minutes, John was sipping Dewar's. Neat.
"Control freak SOB," he mumbled into his glass.
"But isn't it much nicer without ice water diluting the taste?"
"It's like drinking room-temperature piss," John said politely. "But thank you anyway."
"Arrogant pup." Rich coughed into his fist.
"I heard that. You're about as subtle as a brick to the temporal lobe."
"Getting back to Robin—"
"Oh, were we?"
"—do you have any idea how often she's hooked up with a gentleman during our country-wide jaunts?"
"We haven't had much time for get-acquainted chitchat."
Rich put his thumb and index finger together, forming an 0. "Zero times. Cracking has been her life—to my sorrow."
"What? According to her, you raised her after her father—"
"Yes, and I did a damned poor job of it," Rich snapped. "Brought her up to be a no-good thief like me, like her old man—what the hell was I thinking? That I didn't know how else to do it," he said to his lap, answering his own question. Then he looked back up at John. There was no friendly twinkle in those blue eyes now. "So here we are, an old man and a woman in her prime, and she thinks this is normal. And so it is, for her. But she also stole you, and that's interesting, isn't it?"
"Stole me?" He had to grin; the mental image was just too delicious. Still, it wasn't an entirely inappropriate observation. "Is that what she did?"
"The question is, what next?"
"Uh… she's going to steal it back. Whatever it is. And then…"
Rich waved that away impatiently. "And then, and then… too right, and then another ten years have gone by. No, it's enough. I've made too many mistakes. But there might be enough time. It's the one thing you can't steal, you know."
"No, I didn't know, and this is the oddest conversation I've ever had. And that's saying something, because I've also chatted with your niece. Which is why I'm not in there," he said, jerking his head toward the closed conference room doors. "It's quite a bit more interesting out here."
"That's telling, you know."
"So you're—what? Putting an end to it? This life? Why now? Why this time?"
Rich gave him a look. "Well, now there's you, isn't there?"
"What does that have to—"
Rich stood, and John rose, as well. "It's been enlightening," he said, and to John's surprise, the older man stepped forward and hugged him.
"Uh…" John extricated himself. "I guess we're going to have the 'personal space' discussion now…"
"No need," Rich said cheerfully, and walked away.
With my drink in his hand, John noticed about six seconds too late.
Damn! How did he do that?
Robin sat up as soon as he walked into the room, and bounced excitedly on the bed when she saw him. He couldn't help it; just seeing her made him smile.
"Finally!"
"I've been gone less than half an hour," he pointed out.
"Tell me about it. It's soooooo boring in here without you."
"You kicked me out, remember?" He grinned. "Now stop it, I'm getting misty. Even more alarming, I ran into your uncle downstairs."
"Check your wallet," she said immediately. "Do you have all your credit cards? Missing any cash? Limbs? Organs?"
"No, it wasn't like that. And I checked in the elevator—nothing's missing. We had—actually, we had a very weird talk, but it was nice. Interesting, anyway. He seems fond of you."
She shrugged and toyed with the sash of her robe.
"And he seems like he has regrets. With, ah, with regard to your childhood."
Her eyebrows arched, reddish gold feelers against her pale skin. "Yeah, he gets like that once in awhile."
" 'Like that'?"
"You know, the whole 'woe is me, shouldn't have raised her to be a crook, bad, bad' thing. But he's never told a stranger about it." She stared at him thoughtfully. "That's kind of weird."
"It's a weekend for change, it seems," he said cheerfully. "Also, he walked off with my drink."
"A true bastard," she said, then ruined her scowl by giggling.
"Well, he is. So, in an awkward yet endearing attempt to change the subject, are you wearing anything under my robe?"
"There's only one way to find out," she said primly, then rolled over, lithe as a cat, and crawled toward him. "Let's get that suit coat off—jeez, how many layers are you wearing? Are you aware that it's ninety degrees outside? Are these wool pants?"
"It's fifty in the hotel lobby," he retorted. "Don't pull—I have no intention of spending the evening sewing buttons back on." He shrugged out of the jacket and tossed it carelessly over a nearby chair. "Now where—"
They both heard the tiny clink at the same time, and looked. The chair was in the kitchenette part of the suite, resting on tile, and the clink had been the sound of a small gold ring hitting the floor.
"What the hell… ?" Robin bounded off the bed and crossed the floor in half a second. "That's it! And you've got it!"
"What, it it? As in, the it you've been stealing? That's it?" He stared. "But… it's so small. It's just a gold band. You probably couldn't get fifty dollars for it in a pawnshop. And you've been stealing it back and forth for a decade?"
She scooped the ring off the floor and locked it in her small fist. Her eyes were narrowed, furious. She was pale with rage. "It's my father's wedding band. And you …"
John remembered the hug, remembered thinking it was an odd move for a man like Rich to make. Not so odd if you wanted to plant something… "Wait, Robin, it's not what you—"
The ring, within her fist, looped toward his face. There was a bright flash, and then there wasn't anything.
"You crooked, slippery, sneaky, willful, stubborn bastard!"
"And my niece will be joining me," Rich told the waiter without missing a beat. "Could you bring her a strawberry daiquiri, please? Nice robe," he added as she sat down across from him.
"You think you're so smart," she said bitterly. "Pulling a new guy into this. Getting him to trick me. Giving him my father's ring."
Rich rubbed his temples. "Please don't shout. I was up rather late last night entertaining in my suite, and the bourbon flowed like wine. And what are you talking about, getting him to trick you?"
"Don't play games, Richard. Not now. I… I really liked him and you had to go ahead and ruin it."
"Oh, Robin. What did you do?"
"Left cross," she admitted.
He slapped his forehead. Then he leaned across the table and slapped her forehead.
"Ow!"
"Serves you right, and if I were younger, you'd get worse. Where's your brain, Niece? Of course John Crusher isn't involved. What use is a goody-goody accountant to me? I've got all the crooked ones I need on the payroll."
"Well, then how—"
"Use your head. I slipped him your dad's ring when he was still trying to decide if I was making a pass at him."
"But that means—"
"You just made a humongous ass of yourself."
She sniffed, and when the waiter brought her drink, took a gulp. "I think humongous is a bit harsh," she muttered, then chomped on her strawberry garnish.
"Robin, Robin… you're screwing up all my perfectly laid plans. As usual. Do you know how long I had to sit in that freezing lobby until your boytoy wandered by? And then you go and leap to the wrong conclusion and coldcock him—in his own hotel room!"
"I thought he was on your side," she whined. "I thought he'd used me. And you, you rotten old puppet master, the last thing I need is for you to be interfering in my life, pulling strings—"
"Well, someone's got to pull your head out of your ass," he snapped back. "This all started because you didn't want to leave your father's ring in my keeping. In other words, ten years of silliness because you couldn't trust the one man in your life. Now there's a new one, and you don't trust him, either."
"Wllalleavenyway," she muttered.
"What was that?"
"I said, well, you all leave anyway." She glared at him defiantly, then dropped her eyes.
He sat back in his chair and studied her, with that keen regard she both loved and hated because it missed nothing. "Ah," he said after a long moment. "So that's how it is."
"That's how it is."
"Your father didn't leave, darling."
"Well, he's not here having drinks, is he?" she bitched.
"He went out kicking and screaming, and you damned well know it. He was still walking around when doctors were sure the cancer would have him in the ground by your tenth birthday."
She rubbed her forehead, forcing the thoughts—
Ah, there's my Robin-bird, how's my best girl? I have to see my P.O. and then we can go to the playground, won't that be nice? And see, look what I found! Isn't it pretty? Just right for my Robin-bird's neck.
—away.
"All this time," Rich was muttering. "I had no idea. I thought it was your nature, you're so like your father, I thought you didn't want to settle down, I never dreamed—"
"It doesn't matter now," she said dully.
"Everything can be fixed," her uncle corrected firmly. "There's still time. You can make amends. You can… start a whole new life. One where you're not chasing me all over the country, and vice versa."
That was ridiculous. That was too good to be true. Start a new life? Live like a normal person? Like Mrs. John Crusher? What had her uncle been smoking?
"Is that… is that why you gave John the ring?"
"No, I thought he should accessorize more. Of course that's why I gave him the ring."
"Don't bite my head off, old man, I'm in no mood," she snarled back. "We were doing just fine before you stuck your fingers in and started to interfere."
"Ha. And again I say, ha."
"So I'm supposed to believe that you gave the ring to John, that you're not going to try to steal it back?"
He yawned.
"Seriously?"
"Ten years, Robin, for the love of God! I'm tired, do you understand tired? John can have it. Or you can take it from him. Or you can take it from him and then give it to him. Or you can flush it down the toilet. I'm tired, and this has gone on far too long. Here's your escape hatch, Robin. Take it, if you love me. And even if you don't."
"Of course I love you," she said absently. "I just fantasize about strangling you sometimes. Also, I'm having a little trouble keeping up. You have to admit, this is a big—sudden!—one-eighty."
"Worry about it later. For now, get some ice, get a washcloth, and minister to your man. Assuming he'll still talk to you."
"Too late."
She turned; John was staggering toward her, and right on his heels was Ken, the embalmed-looking hotel manager.
"Hi, honey," she said weakly as he staggered up to the table.
"You—you—"
"Care for a drink?" Rich asked. "You look like you could use one. Or five."
"Mr. Crusher, are you sure you don't require an ambulance? I didn't mean to intrude, but you practically fell out of the elevator. Pardon me for saying so," Ken-the-manager stammered, "but you don't look well." Rasp-rasp, as he rubbed his hands together.
Robin tried not to shudder. Gripes, hasn't the guy heard of hand lotion? He sounds like a snake getting ready to molt. Or whatever snakes do.
John grasped the back of her chair to steady himself. "I'm fine. Go away. Robin, you—you—"
"Treacherous idiot?" Rich supplied helpfully.
"You stay out of this. And don't hug me ever again. Come on, Robin. Back to our room. Gotta figure this out."
Her eyes widened. "Really? You want me to come up?"
"Errr… Mr. Crusher… I thought you were in a single for the week," the manager ventured.
"I, uh…"
"Better check your reservations computer," Robin said sweetly. "Mr. and Mrs. Crusher, big as life."
"Oh. Beg pardon. Well, if you don't want an ambulance… and everything's under control…"
"You could talk to the chef," Rich suggested politely. "The endive's a bit wilted."
Looking relieved to have a task at last, Ken immediately departed.
"Mr. and Mrs. Crusher? When," John muttered as the manager scuttled away, "did you do that?"
"Some things will never be told. Come on, let's get you back upstairs. I think you better lie down."
"I think you'd better sling an arm across my shoulders. Unless you've noticed the room is spinning, too—it's not just me?"
"Uh… sorry. It's just you." She stood and stepped to his side, and put her arm around his waist. "Come on, poor thing. We'll have you prone in five minutes."
"Spare me the sordid details," Rich said. "And bring me a waiter. My Perrier is flat."
"I bet you say that to all the girls." Startling them both, she bent and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Now buzz off. Leave us alone. No more puppet mastering."
"I do have a life outside of you, Robin," he said dryly. "Not much of one, granted…"
"I can't believe you did that."
"I'm so, so sorry. I thought you were working for Uncle Rich. I thought… I thought what we did—what we had—was a put-on. That you were putting me on. And… I lost my temper."
"Lost your temper? You unleashed the hounds of hell—on my face!" He touched the knot rising on his forehead and winced. "Christ, I've been in bar fights that weren't this bad."
"Oh, come on. It's not that big a deal. Okay, the whole felony assault thing, that's not so great, but does it really still hurt?"
"Have you noticed this third eye growing on my forehead?" he growled. "Yes, it still hurts!"
"Oh, come here." She had him lie down beside her, and cuddled him in her arms. He sulked in her embrace for a long moment, then fished around in his pocket.
"I noticed it, that time. You're not quite as good as your uncle. Now there's a guy who knows how to hug while slipping stolen merchandise onto a fella. Here's your ring back."
"No, it's for you," she said quietly. "You keep it."
He reared up and stared at her. "Are you shitting me? And am I actually yelling when my head hurts this bad?"
"John—"
"You and your uncle have been stealing this back and forth forever, then you punched me when he gave it to me, and now you're giving it to me?"
He's right, it sounds ridiculous. "I'm—I guess we're both tired of the game," she said slowly. "It was fun at first—fun for years—but there's got to be more to it than… than all this. And I… I want you to have it."
He softened. She could tell he didn't want to, that he was trying hard to hold on to his righteous anger, but it just wasn't in him. Oh, jeez, I'm crazy about this guy, I really am.
"I can't, Robin. It was your father's. It's all you've got left of him, I bet."
She refused to close her fingers over it, and the ring dropped to the bedspread.
"Now you're just being stubborn."
"It runs in my family," she agreed.
"Well. I suppose I could keep it. You know, hang on to it for you and Rich. For a while."
"Along while."
"That's kind of what I was thinking. A long while. Because if it took you guys ten years to decide what to do with it, I should be prepared to hang on to it for at least that long, don't you think?"
"Possibly longer," she said seriously.
"Right. Uh. Do you know what this means?"
"Uh-huh. I stole you. And I'm keeping you."
"Oh. Okay. That's what I thought it meant," he said, sounding supremely satisfied. He slipped the ring onto his third finger and pulled her down for a long kiss. She could feel the gold against her cheek as he cupped her face, cool at first, then quickly warmed by their skin.
When he broke the kiss they were both breathing hard, and she had trouble looking away from the gleam on his hand. "Explaining you to my family is going to be fun," he said cheerfully.
That got her attention. "Oh, God… you have parents?"
"And siblings. And aunts and uncles. All of whom are strictly law-abiding. Yep, no two ways about it, it's going to be a hell of a Thanksgiving."
She groaned and buried her face in the pillows while he laughed and laughed.