she had for him genuinely that special, not just a romanticized memory of what was?
No matter. Michael’s death was always going to haunt them—the association with his grandfather and the part he’d played in her brother’s death was a shadow they’d never be able to shake. And, though she knew enough dinner etiquette to get her through a nice meal, she’d just as soon eat a slice of pizza over a paper plate. Because rubbing elbows with the Atlanta’s wealthy set was necessary to get additional funding for the clinic, she’d learned to speak a bit of the language and had acquired a decent second-hand wardrobe for formal events, but she never failed to feel like an imposter, an outsider in a world she didn’t even want to be a part of.
Robin’s world.
Granted, he’d never made her feel that way, but his grandfather had. The old man had never even bothered to learn her name, had simply called her Cook’s Daughter. It was degrading.
Jason gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, Marion?”
She blinked, startled out of her reverie. “Er, yes, of course. This is Robin Sherwood and John Little,” she said, gesturing to both in turn. “They’re old friends of mine.”
As though he were a shark and had caught the scent of blood in the water—but only if blood smelled like money—Jason’s expression brightened with shrewd intensity. Clearly recognizing what businesses they belonged to—the truly wealthy was a small set, after all—he extended his hand. “Jason Reeves,” he said smoothly with a painfully affected smile. She was surprised his eye tooth didn’t sparkle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He glanced at Robin. “Sherwood Holdings, am I correct?”
At Robin’s nod, Jason flushed with giddy pleasure, then turned to John and arched a brow. “Red Rock Developments?” The massive development company was responsible for roughly half of all new construction in the greater Atlanta area.
John’s jovial expression had devolved from blank to a bemused WTF. “That’s right.”
“Excellent,” her non-date enthused, further mortifying her with his utter lack of self-awareness. “My family’s in commercial eateries. We’re new to the big business scene—we didn’t build any railroads,” he said aside to Robin with a wink, “but we’ve seen substantial growth and are rapidly expanding into other markets. It’s an excellent time to be in the food business.”
Marion would like to know when it was a bad time to be in the food business—everyone had to eat, after all—but rather than linger and allow this train wreck of a conversation to keep going, she pasted a bright smile on her face, glanced past Jason’s shoulder and said, “Oh, I think they’re ready to serve us. We should—” She attempted to nudge him away, but he held fast.
Evidently realizing that she was mortified and miserable, Robin decided that was the perfect time to ask Jason about his “commercial eateries.” She inwardly snorted. Newsflash, Jason. It’s called “fast food.”
“Commercial eateries?” Robin asked, his tone thoughtful. “It sounds fascinating.”
She couldn’t believe he said that with a straight face. John turned and coughed into his arm.
“Oh, it is,” Jason told him, utterly delighted. “It’s—”
“Carnival Cuisine,” Marion interjected quickly, hoping to shut down the long and involved story that led to his family’s business. “Funnel cakes, corn dogs, candied apples, deep-fried Snickers, cotton candy,” she said, the words practically running together, she said them so fast. “Anything you can get at a traditional carnival. Genius, right?”
To her horror, John’s face lit up with genuine interest. “It is. I went through the drive-thru recently for an ear of roasted corn and a turkey leg. Good stuff.” He jabbed Robin in the side. “Remember, I told you about it?
“I do remember,” Robin said, watching her closely. Those hazel eyes were rife with knowing humor, his beautifully sculpted lips curled into an almost-smile. He was enjoying this entirely too much, the wretch.
“Another satisfied customer,” Jason remarked with a smug chuckle. “I knew it would be a success. I just knew it. I had faith in the idea—it was mine, after all,” he bragged proudly, “and was certain that it would resonate with the masses.”
Oh, good Lord, Marion thought with a massive internal eye-roll. What masses? They were in the South, for heaven’s sake. Butter, lard and sugar were practically their own food groups. Good ones, too, in moderation she’d admit. Still …
Robin gestured widely to the table. “Have a seat and tell us all about it. I’d love to hear where you two met, as well. I’m sure that’s equally interesting.”
“It’s not, really,” Jason told him, plopping his rude ass into a chair without a thought for her. “It was at one of those tedious charity events. I’m sure you know the kind.”
“I typically like those,” the Prince of Mischief, as she’d renamed Robin, said. “It gives me a good feeling when I know my money is doing something important.”
With another veiled glance at her, Robin chewed the inside of his cheek, then, ever the gentleman, pulled out a chair for her and quirked a brow. Seething, she accepted it grudgingly and mentally braced herself for further humiliation.
“Right, right. Me, too,” Jason immediately back-pedaled. “That’s what I meant.”
And that’s how the rest of the meal went. Robin and John let Jason liberally share his opinions, then purposely voiced a different view—no matter how ludicrous—and watched him recant and agree with them.
It was a game. They kept score. Occasionally, she’d referee.
By the end of the evening, Jason had renounced real butter in favor of margarine, switched political parties, promised to cancel his country club membership and nam his firstborn son Sue because Johnny Cash had a point. (Yes, he did, but that wasn’t it!) To her disbelief, Jason had whipped out his cell phone and downloaded the Man in Black’s “A Boy Named Sue,” and set it as his new ring-tone. At John’s urging, he’d purchased the accompanying screen saver.
It was at that point that Marion started to drink.
And despite the fact that she’d arrived with Jason—who still hadn’t given her the damned check for the clinic—it was Robin, naturally, who ended up driving her home. A smarter woman would have protested, but her foolish heart had lifted at the thought and a secret thrill of anticipation had whipped through her. She inwardly sighed.
Which only served to prove how little perspective she had when it came to Robin Sherwood. And the hell of it? Right now, she didn’t care.
3
ROBIN WAITED UNTIL the automatic door locks had clicked into place before sending Marion a sidelong glance. “Your boyfriend is charming,” he remarked as he aimed the truck toward her address. “Eager. Hungry.” Self-important. Small-minded. A prick, Robin thought silently. In what sort of world did a girl like Marion go out with a guy like him? Honestly, when he’d watched Jason’s arm go around her shoulders, Robin’s irritation level had needled dangerously toward Kick His Ass.
Marion sighed, a weary smile playing over her lips.
