at her with a mixture of rueful humor, a hint of trepidation and something else, something not readily identifiable.
It was that something else, naturally, that would haunt her.
He doffed his hat and offered her an extravagant, theatrical bow. “My lady,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
She nodded primly, playing along, and arched a brow. “Going to a costume party later, or is this a new trend I’m unaware of?”
“Oh, it’s definitely a new trend in men’s fashion,” he assured her, as though he were an expert on the subject. “It’s all the rage in Paris, trust me. You can’t go anywhere without seeing one of the Three Musketeers, Napoleon, Henry the Eighth or even Davy Crockett.”
She chuckled. “Davy Crockett? Really?”
Humor lit his gaze. “It’s the coonskin cap,” he confided conspiratorially, leaning close enough to make her pulse clamor. “They can’t get enough of it.”
“It’s getting a little deep in here, Robin, and you’re the only one wearing boots,” John interjected. He glanced at Marion. “The truth is Robin thought he could put an arrow through a tire swing from a hundred yards.”
She didn’t see why that should have posed any problem. He’d always been a keen archer. He’d been competing for as long as she could remember. Truth be told, she’d always enjoyed watching him shoot. The careful way his fingers nocked the arrow, the wide-legged stance, the way his muscles rippled in his long arms as he drew back the string, then sighted his target. Every motion was deliberate, but strangely natural, a beautiful combination of skill and strength. Just the thought of it made her belly flutter and grow warm.
With effort, she ignored the sensation and frowned. “That shouldn’t have—”
John grinned. “He was knee-walking drunk and the tire swing was in motion.”
Her gaze darted to Robin’s and she smothered a laugh. “And you’re surprised you lost?”
He sighed deeply. “Chagrined, I think, is the word you’re looking for,” he said, hanging his head in mock shame. “And for the record, I still hit the swing.”
“All things considered, that was damned impressive,” John admitted with a reflective nod. He looked at Marion, his expression hopeful. “Can you join us? We’d—”
She inwardly gasped and shook her head. “Sorry. I’m with a—”
“Ah, there you are,” her almost forgotten companion Jason said, sidling up next to her. He glanced at John and Robin—doing an understandable double take—and then slung an arm over her shoulder, which immediately set her teeth on edge. “I was beginning to wonder if I needed to send out a search party.”
Strictly speaking, this wasn’t a date, though she was sure Jason Reeves would beg to differ. Jason’s goal was to get her into bed—Marion’s goal was to collect the substantial pledge he’d made to the clinic two months ago. A recent newcomer to wealth through an innovative fast food chain, she knew that he had the money, but he didn’t seem to understand the definition of a pledge, that it truly was a commitment. When the repeated but polite reminders hadn’t worked, she’d made a phone call—sometimes that’s what it took, after all—and he’d taken the opportunity to invite her to dinner, promising to bring along his checkbook. This was their third dinner and she still hadn’t seen the check he’d promised.
She’d learned an awful lot about him, though. Lots and lots and lots. Ad nauseum. In fact, she could safely say that he was his favorite topic of conversation. It was extremely unpleasant … but, unfortunately, necessary.
Though Robin’s yearly donation for operations was substantial, there was always new equipment to be bought, newer, better medicines she needed to have on hand and more patients to be seen. It was the sad reality of the current economy and health care situation, one that never seemed to change from generation to generation. Her heart pricked.
She knew that all too well.
Marion had always prided herself on staying under budget, but by soliciting donations she’d managed to put enough in savings to float them for a while should they need it, as well as add additional staff, equipment, medicines and, ultimately, care for more patients. She had developed a good working relationship with the doctors and nurses who volunteered their time and she ran an extremely tight ship. Though her secretary, Justine, often accused her of having no life outside the clinic—one she couldn’t confidently deny—Marion didn’t care. The clinic and the people who came through it were her life, one that Robin had handed her when she’d graduated from college. It was one with purpose, one that met a true need in the community and one that honored her late brother.
Michael had only been sixteen when he’d died—she’d been eleven at the time—and there wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think of him, when she didn’t miss his smile, when she didn’t mourn the loss of the life he should have had.
Because they hadn’t had health insurance, her parents had always been careful about what sort of illness or accident had warranted a trip to the doctor’s office. Had Michael seen a doctor when his symptoms first started to show, there was no doubt in her mind that her brother would be alive today.
But he hadn’t.
And by the time her parents had realized that Michael was in serious danger, it was too late. He’d died within hours of getting to an emergency room.
Though she’d always adored Robin and his father, Marion had never liked Henry Sherwood. After Michael died, she’d positively hated him. The father she’d loved and respected turned to drink and, within months of her brother’s death, he’d abandoned the family. She hadn’t heard from him in years. Her mother, left with little choice, had stayed on and continued to work for Mr. Sherwood, though she’d ultimately blamed his stinginess for the death of her son. She’d become bitter and distant, a mere shadow of the lively, hardworking woman Marion remembered.
Odd how a single occurrence could change the landscape of one’s life. Michael’s death had marked one period for Marion, taking over the clinic, the next. Her gaze swung to Robin and her heart gave a pathetic little jump. Intuition told her if she wasn’t careful, Robin Sherwood’s return to Atlanta could herald another era, one that would spell absolute disaster for her heart.
Though he’d never orbited around her universe very often or for very long, he’d never failed to make a substantial impact.
Most significantly, the night before she’d left for college and he’d left for the military. It was a new beginning for both of them, with all the excitement and anxiety that came along with them. Marion had thought a lot about that night over the years—he’d been her first, after all—and though she could easily chalk up what happened between them to too much alcohol, recklessness, hormones and nostalgia, ultimately she knew better. It had felt magical, fated even. She’d had the occasional partner since then, of course, but nothing ever came close to how Robin had made her feel. The desperation, the desire, the unadulterated need. She was drawn to him in a way that she’d never been to another person. She always had been.
When she’d first learned that he’d been wounded in Iraq, the panic and dread that had rocketed through her had sent her into the nearest chair, her head between her knees to keep from hyperventilating. The mere thought of him being hurt—or worse, a world that he was no longer in—had literally terrified her. It was even more
