Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) (24 page)

“Buuut . . . Creeeeek . . . hazzzz . . . yerrrr . . . heart.”

A lump cinched my throat. The longing in his eyes—it was just like the sad yearning he’d had all those years for Alessia. And in an unusual move for someone in my family, I found that I just couldn’t bring myself to lie to him.

He’d totally nailed it. My heart
d
i
d
belong to Creek.

I gazed down at my bare feet with the pretty peach nail polish Brandi had applied, then over at the sparkly, high-heeled pumps she was loaning me for the ball.

And I cleared my throat.

“Daddy, what did Creek say to you,” I asked him pointedly, “when you two talked at the hoedown behind Granny’s wagon?

A stone face met mine.

A face that didn’t flinch or show weakness.

A face that had won a thousand court room battles.

And a face that knew he was losing his daughter forever.

“Thaaat . . . izzz . . . betweeeeen . . . men,” he replied.

My sneakers pressed into the soft soil in the dark as I carefully avoided rocks and sticks while clutching Brandi’s pretty shoes to my chest, afraid of getting them dirty. I was supposed to meet Creek this evening at the spot where the forest trail makes a fork. To the right is Bender Lake, and to the left is . . .

Our future?

I
f
we succeed in stealing my dad’s box tonight, with his Swiss bank account numbers inside.

A raspy screech interrupted my progress, making me jump.

Then I heard the flapping of wings.

My heart leapfrogged. After being a city girl for so many years, I still hadn’t gotten used to walking in the woods alone once the sun went down.

“Creek?” I whispered, hoping he was close. “You here?”

The forest was silent.

I stepped further down the trail, pretty sure I hadn’t passed the fork yet. Creek had warned me never to use a flashlight or a candle that could give my location away. There was no telling if Bob was still pissed off, and now there was Cinci Federal to think about, too. “The darkness is our great equalizer,” Creek had insisted back at the tree stand. “Remember, nobody can hurt you if they can’t find you.”

That may be true, I thought, but couldn’t we at least have arranged for a secret whistle?

I pushed aside more brush and bravely kept walking.

Only to run into a wall—

“Ugh!” I yelped, my elbows stinging. I reached out to touch what blocked my path. It felt smooth and metal with a window pane beside it, like the side of a . . . car?

But it was so dark I couldn’t even see.

To my astonishment, a light flipped on in the interior.

It was Creek! And he’d just opened the door of a . . . limousine?

“Need a lift, Mademoiselle?”

“W-Where did you get this thing?” I gasped, marveling at its size. If I didn’t know better, I’d have pegged it as a barge suitable for floating down Bender Lake.

“A guy up the road owed me for saving his ass in a knife fight last summer,” Creek replied. “Works at a limo and shuttle service, so he loaned me this for tonight.”

Creek patted the side of the massive vehicle like it was his pet elephant. “But be careful,” he added, “at midnight she just might turn into a pumpkin.”

“She?”

“Sure, I figure our magic coach deserves a name. So how about . . . Sadie? She’s taking us to the dance, after all.”

Creek’s mouth slipped into a smirk, illuminated by the dome light, and I could tell the dagger scar on his cheek had crinkled into place again.

God, he was the sexiest chauffeur I’d ever seen! All cleaned up after the water tower disaster, he had on a slim-fitting black t-shirt and ripped jeans, perfectly setting off every inch of his hard, muscled physique. And his long blonde hair looked full, skimming his shoulders. Unable to resist, I lifted a finger to stroke a lock.

“You washed your hair,” I exclaimed, relishing its softness.

Creek shook his head.

“Naw, that was Granny. She grabbed me by the ear and shoved my head into a bucket with her homemade soap. She said if we were going to a ball tonight, it was high time I stopped looking like a lake rat.”

I giggled a little, but the way Creek gazed at me in that moment stole my breath away. His eyes roamed slowly over the pretty crystals Brandi had woven through my hair, piled high on my head with tendrils dangling, and he appeared transfixed by what he saw.

“Wow,” he muttered softly, “you look like someone from a . . . fairy tale. The kind my mom used tell me and Dooley before we went to bed at night. Brandi did an awesome job.” He gripped my hand with resolve. “C’mon, let’s see if we can return the favor. And save her life.”

He opened the long side door of the limo. “Ready?”

“No way, Mister,” I shook my head, fists perched to my hips. “I’m riding shotgun next to you. We’ve come this far side by side, and that’s how it’s going to stay.”

“Fair enough,” Creek nodded and let it swing shut. He gallantly opened the front passenger door for me, then walked around the limo to slide behind the wheel. As he started up the engine, which purred like a kitten compared to our growling motorcycle, I racked my brain for the name of the dry cleaner our maid used to go to. My stepmom always insisted that her designer outfits should only be handled by the “best.” And she would know—before she lit out for monastic life in Tibet, her gowns used to run over fifty grand a pop.

“Bell . . . we need to head for a place that has the word bell in it,” I mumbled, glancing over at Creek. “Bella Donna—that’s it!
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their TV ad always used to say. It’s on a corner at the edge of my old neighborhood in Indian Hill.”

Our plan was to bust in and pick out a tuxedo and a gown that my dad had already paid to have cleaned, before his stroke. They were the usual frocks he and his fourth wife wore to society functions. So as Creek guided our limo over the bumpy forest road without headlights, then ambled onto a dark country lane, I tried to recall a few of my stepmom’s swanky dresses that I could choose from. One was emerald green and satin with thin spaghetti straps. Another was ruby with a bazillion sparkles. Yet another was stop-in-your-tracks purple with eye-popping cut-outs in sexy places. After all, my stepmom didn’t snag my dad by being a nun.

“Care for some music?” Creek asked, turning on the radio. I assumed the speakers would spill light classical notes intended to soothe discriminating limo riders. But instead they bleated a wailing country sound:

“Oh moon, oh moon just set me free,

’Cuz she’s as pretty as a girl can be.

My heart done sailed to the stars tonight,

And it ain’t comin’ back till the mornin’ light.”

“Guess Roscoe likes his bluegrass,” Creek laughed. “Most of his riders head for river boat casinos. Not exactly the crowd you’re used to, huh?”

Just then, Creek turned on the headlights and veered onto a lonely highway. That’s when I noticed the limo upholstery was a black and gold leopard pattern, and there were fuzzy pink dice hanging from the rear view mirror. In the glow of the dash, I could see half a dozen stickers with large 3s on them and the words
D
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e
F
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v
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r
scrawled across a bumper sticker stuck to a visor.

“NASCAR,” Creek pointed out, catching my gaze. “Official Religion of the Boondocks. And speaking of faith,” he slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small, white feather. “Just because we ain’t hitting a bank doesn’t mean tonight won’t be . . . dangerous.”

Creek reached over and let the feather fall slowly to my lap.

And shivers scampered down my neck.

Because I knew he was right.

Charles Tweedle was a certified asshole. On steroids.

He’d always looked mean, like a hefty, trapped badger ready to bite—even in slick photos from the society pages of the
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where he always boasted about the law opponents he’d destroyed. Plus, there were persistent, shadowy rumors about witnesses who happened to just “disappear” whenever cases finally came to trial—always in Tweedle’s favor, of course. Did he really have underworld ties? All I knew is that there was no telling what Tweedle would do to protect his money.
H
i
s
being a rather loose interpretation of that word.

I leaned back in my seat, trying to remember the last time Tweedle might have seen me. It had to be at that boring office Christmas party when I was about seven—heaven knows my dad didn’t let family interfere with work very often. But one thing I knew for certain about Tweedle. If he was evil enough to frame my dad for sinking their law firm, and then brazenly seized ownership of our house, then he’s probably the kind of bastard who’d put Bob and his bloodhounds to shame when it came to wiping out his enemies. And Creek and I definitely fell in the latter category.

“C-Creek,” I muttered, my nerves getting the best of me. “What do you think Tweedle would do if he catches us stealing my dad’s box?” I picked up the white feather in my lap and twirled it for a second, then tucked it into my pocket as if it might impart special powers.

“Tweedle’s not going to catch us,” Creek snapped. “We fight our way out tonight, no matter what. Got that? ’Cause Brandi and Turtle Shores depend on us.”

He reached over and sank his fingers into my knee.

“This is a
n
o
f
a
i
l
mission,” he insisted, his voice steel. “Brandi doesn’t have more time. It’s do or die now—we clear?”

If I could have breathed in that moment, or even remembered my name, I might actually have nodded.

But I was too busy trying to recall that whole inhale-exhale thing.

“Robin,” Creek pressed, his voice softening a little, “I’ve got your back. Don’t ever forget that. And anybody who tries to mess with you is gonna deal with a whole world of hurt.”

Goose bumps paraded up and down my skin, and I punched the radio dial to make that infernal wailing go away. What did Creek mean—how far would he go? All my life I’d relied on my Geisha skills and wits to talk my way out of things. But what if they weren’t enough tonight?

“Here,” Creek said, removing his iron grip and softly patting his thigh. “Just lay your head down for a spell. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, and it might be a very long night.”

I nodded and pushed up the arm rest. Then I curled onto his lap, closing my eyes to the boat-like sway of Sadie the Limo. I wanted to think up strategies for quick escapes routes from my old house, just in case Tweedle got vicious, but my ideas kept getting hazy. Instead, I clung to Brandi’s sparkly heels while my mind drifted off to pretty images of princesses dancing at formal balls. I could hear the sweet music and see the smiles flash as the young women batted their lashes at charming suitors who asked for their hands. But before long, I found myself dreaming about a large pumpkin that sat alone in the dark, surrounded by little mice . . .

The wire hangers screeched as Creek rifled through rack after rack at the dry cleaners. When we’d found Bella Donna on a corner in Indian Hill, he’d hoisted me on his shoulders and we’d snuck into the building by wriggling through an unlocked back window that was so small it scraped against our sides. But now, we didn’t dare turn on the lights and give ourselves away. So we had to go by feel.

“Here,” said Creek, pulling out a dark suit from a rack. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. “This one feels good. Is it a tux?”

I lifted off the thin plastic sheath from the garment and squinted, trying to see the brand name on the label with what little glow came from a nearby night light. I shook my head.

“I can’t read anything. But I can tell the seams aren’t very smooth. Keep looking.”

“Why? We’re already late, Robin. As long it’s black and fits—”

“Listen!” I growled at Creek. “We aren’t in Bender Lake anymore. This is my territory now. And the fastest way to look nouveau riche is to wear a crappy tux.”

“Nouveau what?”