Material Girl (23 page)

Impossibly pleased, Robin's smile grew very wide. "Re-

ally? Man. I can't remember the last time anyone said something so nice to me. T hank you."

“You're welcome. And if you weren't so damn bossy, I'd say you were just about perfect.”

Robin laughed. “Well, if you weren't so damn pigheaded, I'd say you were just about perfect.”

“You can't seriously think I'm pigheaded.”

“Oh, please. Impossibly so.”

“Why?” he exclaimed. “Give me an example.”

“Like someone tries to give a you a tip or two on batting—”

“Ah hell, you have to be joking! What could you possibly know about batting?”

“Hey, I've batted before! Just because you're a man doesn't mean you have a lock on batting, and frankly, the way you were swinging away today, I'd say you could use a lesson.”

He laughed. “Robin, I think you're missing the big picture here.”

She almost choked on her beer. “At least I'm not missing a gene like some people, who will remain nameless. But okay, Einstein, just what do you think I am missing?”

“What you are missing,” he said, putting his beer aside, “is that you and I keep dancing around the obvious.”

A funny, warmly delicious little shiver shot right through her. “What obvious?”

Without warning, Jake lifted his hand and stroked her cheek with his knuckle. “It's obvious,” he said, leaning forward, “that you want me. Bad.” And before she could protest, he caught her by the hand, jerked her forward, and covered her mouth with his own.

At the unexpected touch of his lips, a sweet wave of hysteria roiled through Robin; her heart was suddenly slamming against her chest. His hand was on her nape, pulling her closer, caressing her neck while the other hand found her shoulder, drifted lower, skimming torturously over her breast to her waist. His lips moved languidly on hers, savoring the taste of them, softly shaping them to his own.

The sensation rocked her; Robin heard herself whimper,

and his tongue flicked across her bottom lip, sweeping inside, entwining with her own.

Her beer slipped through her fingers; her hand went around his waist, and she stepped more closely into the circle of his arms, wedging her leg between his. He cupped her face; his rough thumb stroked her cheek while he pressed her harder into him, anchoring her to his solid body.

A delicate pressure began to build in her, filling the space around her pounding heart. Jake delved deeper, caressing her, drinking her in, and Robin slipped unconsciously into a pool of shimmering desire, a throbbing that spilled into her breasts and her groin. She grabbed Jake's wrist, clung to it so that she would not melt right there, into the wild-flowers, was numbly aware that he effortlessly held her up and buoyed her.

At the very moment she thought she would disappear in his kiss, he lifted his head, gazed into her eyes, and traced her swollen bottom lip with his thumb.

Robin blinked, dragged a shaky hand across her mouth. “Do not,” she muttered breathlessly.

“Liar,” he murmured and kissed her again, kissed her so hard that Robin's blood began to boil. Kissed her so thoroughly that she was suddenly flat on her back on an old, rotting picnic table, amid beer bottles, beneath a live oak tree and the most virile, absolutely-wrong-for-her guy she had ever met with a tattoo of barbed wire sneaking around his bicep.

And it felt glorious.

How long they lay there, Jake had no idea. He had slipped into a dreamy, sensual world where his imagination and his hands ran wild, until at last he decided she might be uncomfortable on that hard wooden table. Reluctantly, he pulled her up and handed her another beer. Robin smiled a little deliriously toward the sky. “Isn't it a glorious day?”

It was glorious, all right.

They sat side by side, their fingers entwined, talking about everything and nothing, listening to the rustle of the spring breeze in the trees around them and watching the sun dapple the river.

They talked about baseball, Robin continuing to insist, for reasons that seemed insane to Jake, the merits of the pitcher Moz, who had not delivered a game since opening day. They talked about peanuts, the edible kind, with Robin helpfully reporting the fat content in an average serving for him.

“Why do you do that?” he asked as she cracked a goober and studied the contents. “Life can't be too much fun if you worry about every bite you put in your mouth.”

“Because,” she said, popping two peanuts in her mouth, “there is a fat girl in me dying to get out. And the world does not like fat girls. Especially men. Admit it.”

“Men like women with some meat on their bones. They like someone they can grab hold of and not be afraid of breaking in the heat of the moment.”

Robin looked at him from the corner of her eye, a dubious smile on her lips. “So… the chunkier the better?”

“Yeah. Sort of,” he said and imagined having hold of her, driving into her warmth while she gripped him with all the strength she had, begging him to fill her completely.

Jake had to look away.

Robin cracked open another goober, oblivious.

They talked about music.

“I guess my all-time favorite has to be The Rolling Stones. What's the name of that song?” Robin asked through a mouthful of peanuts, her concern about the fat grams apparently forgotten. “You know… I saw her today in my reflection, a timeglass in the sa-aa-and,” she warbled in the most godawful, tone-deaf voice Jake had ever heard.

He burst out laughing. “You're butchering the lyrics!”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are. It goes, I saw her today at the reception, a wineglass in her ha-and.. . .”

She frowned; tossed another goober shell into the little pile she had created, and tried to pretend she was mad when he pondered aloud how someone could get such simple lyrics so terribly wrong.

They talked about his school, how he had come to study architecture, how he hoped to expand his business. “I admire you for it,” Robin said. “It must be hard with work, and Cole, and you know, everything else.”

He wondered briefly what everything else meant, but the talk turned to her work, why her father had demoted her the way he had. “I used to travel all over the world as an ambassador for LTI. Now I am sitting in my house trying to get Eldagirt Wirt on the phone. Damn.”

"Yeah, well, I bet the Eldagirts of the world have more

impact on what LTI does than a bunch of VIPs looking for a party."

They talked about Zaney, with Robin looking genuinely distressed for the injury that Zaney had suffered in the oil fields many years ago, which left him with a mind about as deep as a birdbath. “He's a good man. No sense at all, but a good, well-meaning man,” Jake said.

“It's so… I don't know… laudable the way you take these people under your wing, like Zaney and Cole.”

Jake laughed. “I didn't take on Zaney and Cole, they just happened to be in my life. You'd do the same.”

When the beer began to run low, they walked over to the old house, through the empty rooms with old pine plank floors and big windows, and imagined who might have lived there. When they entered the main living area, Jake could not tear his gaze away from Robin's; he was mesmerized by the color and the depth of expression in her eyes. She held his gaze, then took his hand, turned it palm up, and traced the crevices and calluses that had formed from a lifetime of hard work. He tried to pull away, embarrassed that no matter what he did or where he went, his hands revealed the truth about him—he was a laborer, always had been, always would be. Yet she wouldn't let him pull away. “I love your hands,” she murmured. “I love the way they feel—so real.”

When the beer was gone and the sun had started to slide off to the west, it was time to end one of the most pleasant afternoons Jake had ever spent in his life. He gathered up the empty beer bottles, looked at Robin, and smiled. “I really enjoyed the afternoon.”

“Me, too,” Robin said. “You know what? In spite of all appearances to the contrary, I kind of liked the look of you when you showed up on my drive.”

Jake put his arm around her shoulders and inhaled the scent of her hair. “Ah. Well, I'll admit I thought you were one fine-looking ex-con.” She laughed; he kissed the top of her head and slipped her hand into his as they started up the grassy slope to his bike.

But for Jake, the end of a perfect spring afternoon was

beginning to cloud over with mild confusion. What had started out as a lark had moved into something more intense and the opposite of what he intended, leaving him feeling uncharacteristically perplexed. “Robin,” he said as he stuffed their trash inside his saddlebag, “I'm not sure where we are.”

“You don't remember how we got here?” she asked, laughing.

“What I mean is, I'm not sure about all this,” he said, gesturing toward the river and picnic table. “It sort of changes things, doesn't it?” He shifted his gaze to the old house. “I don't imagine Mr. GQ would like it much.”

“Mr. GQ? Who, you mean Evan?” Robin exclaimed with a snort. “I don't care what he thinks. We are not… you know, together.”

Jake didn't believe that. If he hadn't seen Evan in his boxers that morning—

“All right, we used to date,” she said, blushing furiously. “And I… I… okay, I'm not the only one with ghosts here—what about Ms. Kentucky Fried Chicken?”

Jake couldn't really say anything. Lindy was a ghost, all right, and he just couldn't seem to rid himself of the thought that he was making some huge mistake.

“It's complicated, isn't it?” Robin finally asked on a soft sigh.

“Yeah,” he said, sobering with her.

The ride back was subdued, the mention of their respective lives a damper on the perfect afternoon. It was almost dark by the time they pulled into Robin's drive. She climbed off the Harley, glanced conspicuously at her front door. “T hank you,” she said, shifting her gaze to him again. “This was… perfect. Really perfect.”

Jake grasped her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

“I'd ask you in, but I really have to get up early tomorrow. We're off to Minot .”

He hadn't expected to be asked in, if that is what she thought, and wondered what she did think he was after. “Hey…” He faltered, unsure of what he wanted to say,

feeling awkward, as if he shouldn't be sitting here holding her hand.

“Yes?”

Jake looked at her hand, felt a tug of deep regret in him, and let go of it. “You don't have to worry… I mean, don't think just because of today that I…”

Her smile faded.

Shit. “Today was really nice, Robin, but don't… don't think that I'm going anywhere with this. I got a job to do here. I just enjoyed your company. Nothing more.”

Something flit across Robin's pretty blue eyes that he couldn't quite read. She nodded, shoved her hand in her back pocket. “Oh. Okay. Well… t hank s for the ride.”

“Sure,” he said, debating if he should try and explain that he knew he was out of her league, that she would never settle for someone like him, and that because he knew it, he wasn't going to push it, and he damn sure wasn't going to try and take advantage of her.

But Robin was already walking away. At her door, she shoved the key in the lock, pushed it open, then gave him a quick, pithy wave as she stepped inside and shut the door.

It was a moment before Jake could move, frozen by a blast of cold confusion. He finally decided he should have his freaking head examined for taking her out there in the first place.

His mood turned foul on the way over to Telephone Road , and the Manning family was determined to whip it into a hurricane. When he arrived, Cole was slumped on a sofa in the living room, staring at the TV.

“What's up?” Jake asked.

“Nothing,” Cole responded without looking at him.

“What are you watching?”

“Can't you see? It's baseball.”

“I mean, who's playing?” Jake tried again.

“Two teams,” Cole said, the disdain dripping in his voice.

“Don't be a smart-ass.”

“I'm bored!” he cried. 'This place sucks! There's nothing to do!"

“How about homework?” Jake asked, his patience wear-

ing thin. Cole suddenly moved for the remote, clicked the game off, and stalked upstairs without so much as a glance at Jake. Man, the kid had a lot of animosity.

“Thought you'd be here for supper,” Jake's mom called from the kitchen.

“Sorry, Mom,” he said, walking into the kitchen. “I ended up going out of town today.”

Mom looked up from the magazine she was flipping through and exhaled a cloud of smoke at him. “You had a job?”

“No. Just took a ride.”

With a snort of disapproval, Mom ground out her smoke, stood up, and went to the fridge. “I got some leftover tuna casserole. I'll fix you a plate.”

It was pointless to decline, he knew, so Jake sat down at the old Formica kitchen table, looked around at the yellow painted cabinets and the faded pineapple wallpaper. “Why don't you let me redo this kitchen, Mom?”

“You got your hands full as it is. I knew you wouldn't have enough time for Cole, and I guess I was right.”

“What, I'm not supposed to have time to myself?”

“Not when you got responsibility for a kid. I never had any time to myself.”

“I know, Mom. You never did anything but sacrifice,” he groused, not wanting to hear the broken record tonight.

But Mom gave him a pointed, you-know-better look over her shoulder as she fixed his plate. “That's right. I did nothing but sacrifice for you so you could play baseball. Lord knows your dad wasn't going to give you that.”

True. But then again, Dad was an asshole.

“That girlfriend of yours called here again today looking for you. At first I thought you'd gone off with her,” she said as she put his plate in the microwave. “Don't know why you got any interest in her anyway.”

And now they would move right into a critique of his love life. “She's nice. But it was an accident that she found your number at all.”

“Some accident,” Mom muttered.

“Got any beer?” he sighed, and heaved himself up, went

to the fridge to have a look for himself. He pulled out a can of generic beer, went back to the table and popped it open.