Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) (13 page)

Creek’s gaze fastened to his boots, and I saw the snake tattoo on his arm tighten and then ripple. Even the bruise I’d left on his skin from biting him in the lake shimmied a little, making me proud.

“No,” he replied.

His jaw stiffened. He appeared to be selecting his words very, very carefully.

“I mean, I doubt it . . .”

He paused and glanced up to search my face. His gaze felt as intense as a spyglass, as though he was doing more than just checking for my reaction. He was scrutinizing my
s
o
u
l
.

“I can tell by your dad’s eyes,” he finally said. “They still have . . . hope. Rare quality in these parts.”

“Then where
i
s
she?” I sunk my fingers into his tattooed arm before I could stop myself, digging into his bruise. “Why would she leave me or my dad?” I asked a little too desperately.

Creek studied my eyes as if carefully testing my mettle.

And his silence felt downright endless . . .

But I waited for what seemed like forever without a word, eager for some honesty—the kind I knew I’d never get from my dad.

Then I saw the ragged scar on his cheek shift just a little, as if he was measuring his response.

“She left because she loves you too much,” he finally said. “Both of you—enough to want to protect you. Believe me, I know something about how that feels.”

He turned to face the morning sun, as if the rays strengthened him a little, and all of a sudden his features lit up with gold.

He was utterly breathtaking. But that didn't prevent me from wanting to slap him right then and there.

“What do you mean?” I cried out, trying to make my tone sound more menacing than desperate this time.

“It was over fifteen years ago,” Creek replied. “Folks around Bender Lake say your mom was rich and beautiful, from Italy. She fell in love with your dad, a stockboy at her family’s pasta sauce plant in Cinci, and she got pregnant. Her father wanted to kill him.”

“Kill my dad?” I smirked. “Get in line! Who doesn’t want to murder my father—he has that effect on people.”

I might’ve been wisecracking, but inside I was trying to hide the fact that a deeper part of me was sucking air.

My mother—Italian?

And my dad a mere stockboy?

How is it that everyone in my life had a way of playing musical chairs with their identity lately? Including
m
e
?

This was too much. My whole body betrayed me by trembling right in front of him.

“Here,” Creek said in that soft, smoky way he had that could reduce a girl’s heart to warm liquid, “you look cold. Put on my jacket.”

He took off his frayed jean jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders, and I eagerly slipped my arms inside. It was still warm from the heat of his body, like an embrace. My breath hitched—it even had his
s
m
e
l
l
. Traces of spring leaves and campfire smoke and something sharp and invigorating, like maybe tree sap. I’d never been allowed to be this close to a guy my age before, let alone one who was so . . . intoxicating. Swiftly, I glanced aside, hoping he couldn't read my thoughts.

But Creek clutched my shoulders and swiveled me to face him. His blue eyes burned into mine.

“Alessia’s dad forced her to put you up for adoption before they left the U.S., like you never existed at all. But Doyle—he tracked you down and broke in one night and stole you back. With Granny and Lorraine’s help, of course. They say she could see back then.”

My hands clamped over my mouth in total shock.

“We don’t never abandon nobody at Turtle Shores.”

Creek’s eyes narrowed.

“Say what you will about your dad, but he risked his
l
i
f
e
to get you. And Granny says he’s been beatin’ himself up ever since, trying to become rich enough someday to win back your mom. He still loves her.”

“D-D—” I stammered, trying to compose myself, “Does he know where she is?”

“Probably Europe somewhere. Rumor has it that her father had her locked away in a convent so she couldn’t stain the family reputation any more.”

“With a name like McCracken?” I added, still stumbling over the sound of that word.

Creek shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. I could tell he was getting cold, but toughing it out. He cast a glance at the lake, which we could see now through the trees, its ripples sparkling in the morning light. He nodded.

“When we cross that lake, Robin, you ain’t
y
o
u
anymore. Understand that? You won’t be just out for a joy ride. You’ll be considered a criminal, like me. And there’s no way to go back to your old world—they’ll smell you in a heartbeat. You’ll have the stink of Turtle Shores.”

I leaned back on my heels to ramp up my courage, then flashed my most brazen smile.

Oh, how you underestimate me, Creek! I thought
.
I’m still a Geisha girl to the core, just like my dad who passed us off at Indian Hill for the last fifteen years. And I am so gonna enjoy proving it to you.

“Sure,” I replied, lifting my chin. I winked just to keep him guessing. “I'll try to keep that in mind.”

But Creek surprised me by grabbing my hand—and a shiver sped through my body, which I refused to reveal. His large fingers felt warm but calloused, and he began to lead me carefully through the woods. The whole time his grip remained firm, as solid as a clamp, as if he thought I might bolt. And I have to say, I
l
o
v
e
d
the feeling of his skin against mine, the way he slowly picked his way through the brush and made certain to guide each step so I wouldn’t trip or fall, as if he knew every inch of the forest blindfolded. No one had ever paid such attention to my welfare before, but I wasn’t about to yield my heart too easily.

As soon as we reached the edge of Bender Lake and stopped, I yanked back my hand just to remind him that I was a free agent—and my soul remained tethered to no one. For a minute, I scanned the dark blue lake with a cottony layer of mist still clinging to its shores. The sight was so lovely that I felt completely absorbed in its hushed beauty, hardly registering when Creek pulled up a small wooden boat on the sand. He stood beside it, waiting.

Then I felt his eyes travel slowly over my body and linger, his gaze settling on my cheeks now warmed by the sun, as if—

Just maybe . . .

He thought
I
was breathtaking in the morning light, too!

Quickly, I bit the inside of my cheeks to hide my smile.

After all, the first thing a girl learns at Pinnacle is how to perfect the fine air of indifference.

Cold.

Calculating.

All the while falling
m
a
d
l
y
in love.

Yep, my heart was thrumming faster than a race car engine at full throttle.

Until I caught the sight of something bright flickering out of the corner of my eye.

It was a white pillar candle, cemented in a pool of wax and surrounded by a loose ring of feathers, nestled in the bottom of Creek’s boat. I swear, it looked almost like . . .

An altar.

The gold flame danced in the breeze. When I looked closer, I realized that Creek had assembled small tokens around it—a copper bracelet, a lock of brown hair in a turquoise barrette, dangly silver earrings—that might have once belonged to his . . . mother?

And then Creek’s gaze met mine.

Raw.

Brutally honest.

And fiercely challenging—

Without even the slightest hint of upper crust pretense.

And in that moment, I could see all of his built-up pain, simmering rage, even all of the fragile hope he still had left in him—right there in his piercing blue eyes that didn’t know how to hold a single thing back, or maybe never wanted to.

So very opposite of everyone I’d known at Pinnacle.

And I understood, in that instant, that if I got into Creek’s row boat, I was going to be stripped bare of every shred of soul camouflage that I’d ever counted on—at least when I was with him. Because somehow, in Creek’s presence, it seemed utterly impossible to remain phony for long.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t have a few tricks left up my sleeve.

Bluntness being one of them.

“Creek, did you
p
r
a
y
me here?” I blurted, hoping I’d cut to the bone.

I saw the flame on the pillar candle leap at my words.

But Creek didn’t flinch.

In fact, his stare was so unwavering that I felt like he’d swallowed me whole, and was still game for dessert.

“What I prayed for,” he replied defiantly, “was help to take care of Brandi.”

He steadied one foot in the small boat and boldly stretched out his hand to invite me in. A wisp of a smile passed over his mouth, just enough to make his cheek scar crinkle into that scary dagger again.

“Guess God’s got a sense of humor,” he added.

“B-But why do we need to get into a boat to rob a bank?” I asked him, reluctant to take his hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve found one that floats.”

Creek’s cool gaze scanned the sandy beach beside us. He shook his head and waited for me to get a clue.

Footprints . . .

The sand was completely covered in our footprints, I realized. Each one a tell-tale sign of exactly where we’d been and where we were headed next. I watched as the lake water gently surged onto the shore, erasing the last of our tracks like we’d up and disappeared.

And with a jolt, Creek yanked me into the boat—no more waffling on the beach and spewing out my lines of bravado any more.

As I stumbled to regain my balance and plopped down on a wooden slat in front of his candle, for a brief second I closed my eyes.

D
e
a
r
G
o
d
, I prayed earnestly,
I
h
a
v
e
n
o
i
d
e
a
w
h
a
t
t
h
e
h
e
l
l
w
e
’
r
e
d
o
i
n
g
.
I
’
m
j
u
s
t
t
r
y
i
n
g
t
o
h
e
l
p
m
y
d
a
d
a
n
d
s
o
m
e
f
o
l
k
s
a
t
T
u
r
t
l
e
S
h
o
r
e
s
.
S
o
i
f
y
o
u
d
o
n
’
t
m
i
n
d
,
p
l
e
a
s
e
d
o
n
’
t
l
e
t
u
s
g
e
t
s
h
o
t
t
o
d
a
y
.

I trailed my finger in the cool lake, watching the slim line I’d made disappear back into the water while I listened to the lapping sounds Creek made as he rowed us to the other side. Oddly enough, it reminded me of the dream I’d had yesterday of riding through a canal in Venice. But my “gondolier” this time turned out to be even
b
e
t
t
e
r
looking—except he had a whole lot more on his mind than flirting and champagne.

In fact, Creek hadn’t said a word at all.

He simply stared at the candle that had burnt halfway down to the wooden slat between us, his eyes studying the pooled wax, preoccupied over our next moves.

Every time a bird glided past us in the morning mist and let out a hoarse cry, it made me jump a little and jostle the boat.

But Creek just kept on rowing.

When we reached the opposite shore, he closed his eyes briefly and blew out the candle, setting down his oar. Then he pulled out a plastic bag from behind his feet. Opening it up, he took out two wigs, presumably Brandi’s. One was long and blonde, like a hippie-boho chick, and another was short, black and spiky.

“Dibs on the Goth wig!” I insisted, grabbing the black one before he could stop me.

Creek shook his head.