Dirty Deeds

by Lorelei James

  “No thanks.”

  “Then dig out the graph paper and colored pencils. I’ll be right back.”

  Tate tidied up the kitchen and strengthened her resolve to keep her thoughts focused on teaching Nathan the fundamentals of drawing. If he learned something, maybe then he’d be inclined to teach her a thing or two.

  She breezed back into the dining alcove and plopped beside him. “Now, I won’t bore you with a bunch of artsy-fartsy techniques you won’t need. Learning the still-life form is sufficient for your purposes.” She ripped off two sheets of graph paper and set one in front of each of them. “Since you’re used to working with angles when installing sewage systems, it’ll be easier to think in linear terms.” Grabbing a charcoal pencil, she traced a line down the center of the page. When he mimicked her movement, she tapped his knuckle until he dropped his pencil. “Uh-uh. Watch first. Then you can get some hands-on experience.”

  Hands-on experience? Nathan thought. Just what he didn’t need; the mental picture of her capable hand gripping his thick cock instead of that skinny pencil.

  “Are you paying attention?”

  “No.” Nathan bent closer to the perfect drawing she’d whipped off in thirty seconds. “How did you do that so quickly? It looks just like a tree.” He handed over his blank paper and urged, “Do it again. Slowly.”

  This time when she sketched, he focused only on how the stark simple line changed. How it took on a new shape just by linking smaller and fatter lines to it. Inspired, Nathan plucked up the pencil, slid the pad of graph paper under his elbow and copied her technique. He didn’t watch or worry how his picture turned out.

  Tate offered suggestions while she worked. Her tone was encouraging, never patronizing. It was almost…fun. When she finished her drawing, they both leaned back and looked at his.

  Nathan felt a rush of humiliation. His picture was god-awful. His six-year-old nephews had creations on Val’s refrigerator superior to this piece of crap. He threw his pencil down in defeat.

  “Now don’t get discouraged.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it takes patience. Besides, I’m thinking you’ll be a natural. Aren’t most Native Americans somewhat artistic?”

  “Only the ones who’ve been incarcerated and can devote every waking hour to sketching and drawing in jail.”

  She spun the pencil back to him, along with a white eraser on a stick. “You have some interesting break-away points, but we should be concentrating on a smaller scale. If you could keep these wild lines to a minimum, you’ll be an expert in no time.”

  That bit of praise lifted his spirits. “So I’m not completely hopeless?”

  “After your first attempt?” She leaned over to blow out the candles. They were dripping red wax down the silver candlesticks and onto the lace doily. “Give me a break. And give yourself a break too. This isn’t easy. Practice, practice, practice.” She tossed the paper in front of him. “Try again. Except this time we won’t freehand. We’ll block it out using the squares on the graph paper as reference points.”

  They drew tree after tree. Then they worked on single bushes, clumps of bushes, hedges and shrubbery. Finally, after what felt like the millionth attempt and dozens of pieces of crumpled paper later, he’d crafted one that wasn’t half-bad. When he passed it to Tate for her inspection, she beamed.

  “See? You’ve made huge progress in just the last hour.”

  “All thanks to you. Anyone ever tell you you’re a born teacher?”

  If at all possible, her smile brightened further. “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely.” He tapped his pencil on the paper. Why didn’t she talk about her job in Denver with the same zeal? “You head of the art department at your firm?”

  Her face went blank. “No.”

  “Why not? You obviously have the skills.”

  “You’re biased.” With false enthusiasm, she lined up sharpened pencils in shades of black, gray and white. “Guess what’s next?”

  “What?”

  “Rocks!”

  “God no.” The crick in his neck screamed when he’d straightened from the hunched over position. His poor backside had lost all feeling from sitting on the hard chair. No breeze had stirred the frilly curtains, making the already stifling atmosphere even more unbearable. How did people stand being stuck inside in one place all day, every day? He’d been at it a few hours and he longed for a lungful of refreshing night air. He glanced at Tate to see how she’d fared.

  She looked fresh as a daisy. Except where her hair stood on end from repeated, probably frustrated passes through it with her hands. And where her bottom lip was temptingly plumped from pulling it between her teeth. Sighing, she extended her arms high, the middle flaps of the fringed halter-top separated, giving him a glimpse of her cleavage. “You have another suggestion?”

  Hoo-boy, did he ever, but it didn’t have a damn thing to do with rocks…unless getting his rocks off counted. He didn’t dare let his thoughts follow that direction. Right now he had to convince Tate to finish the landscaping schematics. Tonight.

  His gaze shifted from the picture of cats playing poker on the far wall to the stained-glass panel beside the front door. “I suppose I could get my clipboard from the truck and show you my preliminary ideas for your landscaping. Put all this newfound knowledge to the ultimate test.”

  Tate’s elbows landed on the table and she studied him suspiciously. “You think you’re ready for something so elaborate?”

  No. But you are.

  He shrugged, wondering if it looked as forced as it felt. “Truth is, I’d like to turn in the final landscaping design to the Beautification Committee before you start investing in plants, grass and rocks. Especially if they don’t approve of the plans and demand a bunch of changes.”

  Although Nathan’s explanation seemed reasonable, there was something slightly off about the way he’d phrased it. But Tate was at a loss to put her finger on specifics so she let it go. “I guess I could take a look.”

  “Great!” He bounded out of the house and returned brandishing the clipboard. Then he plunked the plans in front of her tired eyes and waited expectantly.

  One brief glance and she knew the plans needed way more than a quick look. She gave a silent groan at the childlike scribbles. Not that she dared vocalize her dismay. Nathan was mortified by his lack of artistic talent. But the Beautification Committee would never approve this dismal plan. Any delay in approval meant a delay in listing the house and returning to her life in Denver. She had no choice but to fix it right now.

  In order to spare Nathan’s feelings she’d have to divert his attention from the sad fact she was essentially starting from scratch.

  After an hour, he hadn’t seemed to notice she’d erased every trace of his original drawings and replaced it with her own. The conversation hummed along, mostly about how he’d brainstormed plans for her landscaping. He asked and answered questions while she sketched like mad, implementing her skills to make his vision a reality. By the end of hour two, she worked in silence and he watched without comment.

  Finishing touches complete, she slid the clipboard to him for his perusal. “Well? What do you think?”

  “I think you are amazing,” he said, his gaze glued to the almost 3D explosions of color on the paper. “It’s like you read my mind. This is exactly what I’d envisioned.” Nathan looked up at her, his eyes gleaming. He cupped her face and brushed his mouth across hers. “Thank you.”

  Startled by his first show of affection today, Tate leaned into his embrace. “I should be thanking you.”

  He chuckled against her cheek. “Oh yeah? My back would be singing your praises if we could veg on the couch for a while. These chairs belong in a torture chamber.”

  She’d forgotten he’d worked a twelve-hour day. “I agree. You want something to drink?”

  “No.” Batting away his hair, he vigorously rubbed the back of his neck as they strolled to the sofa.

  �
��Why didn’t you braid your hair earlier?”

  “Honestly? My arms were too tired.”

  “Want me to braid it?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  Mind? She drooled over the prospect of wrapping that black silk around her hands. “Not at all.”

  Nathan placed his rough palms on either side of her face. He kissed her with a mix of passion and tenderness that made her lips tingle and her head buzz. “Where do you want me?”

  In my bed. Naked. Above me. Or below me.

  Seriously, Tate. Snap out of it.

  Was she turning into a nympho? Okay, technically she couldn’t be a nympho. One actually had to engage in sex in order to be a nympho. Logical explanation for her behavior was Nathan emitted some strong pheromones when he was touching her. She hadn’t exhibited these shameless sex-on-the-brain thoughts during their art lesson.

  “Tate?”

  “Oh right. Face the door.” She squeezed in behind him as he perched on the edge of the couch. “Relax.”

  Her fingers untwined the smooth strands shot through in spots with gold. The unique color mixed with the black must have been from the hours he spent working in the sun. She’d kill for such perfect hair. No wonder he kept it long. When she noticed the tension rolling off him, she began by massaging his scalp. Crown to nape, back and forth, left to right, from his cute ears to his strong jaw until he practically purred.

  Eventually Nathan’s muscular shoulders eased down. His head drooped toward his chest. She began to braid his hair. She took her time, enjoying the simple intimacy of touching him without restriction.

  “Tate?” His voice was strangely soft and tentative. “About that first after-dinner suggestion?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  Everything in her body went tight. Feeling victorious, she kissed him. She let the tip of her tongue taste the fine, surprisingly silky hairs on the back of his neck. Then she inhaled his manly musk, nearly hidden beneath the scent of her vanilla shampoo. “Got something to put on the end of this rope?”

  His triceps rippled when he passed over a fabric-coated hairband.

  She tugged his head back by the braid. “I hope you make up your mind soon about my suggestion.”

  He immediately tensed up.

  Tate laughed. “But, hey. No pressure. Now that you’ve lost every bit of relaxation, why don’t you lie down?”

  “Come on, Tate, give me a break. A man can only take so much.”

  “Seriously. Your spine is so stiff I could crack concrete bricks on it. How about if you lie facedown and I’ll massage your shoulders and back?”

  His feet shuffled on the edge of the Oriental rug. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want to. No strings, Nathan, unless you want them. But you do have to take off your shirt.” She doubted she’d con him into taking off his sweatpants, so she didn’t bother to suggest it.

  Nathan winced when he lifted the too-small Sturgis Rally and Races T-shirt over his head. He barely fit. Lengthy arms and legs hung off both ends of the couch. His back was virtually as wide as the floral cushions.

  Tate sighed at the glimpse of all that reddish-gold male flesh. She straddled his tight butt and flexed her fingers. It didn’t seem like work digging into his taut muscles, following the curves and hollows of his sleek skin. His body was absolute perfection. Without conscious thought her insides contracted in response to his masculine form.

  By the time she’d reached the tapered section of his lower back, she realized just how completely she’d relaxed him.

  Nathan had fallen sound asleep.

  She tossed his work clothes—jeans, tank top and boxers—in the dryer. Grabbing the romance novel from the library table, she settled in the Barcalounger across from the couch. He didn’t stir. He didn’t snore either, which was a bonus.

  Even the buzzing dryer didn’t rouse him. With a resigned sigh, Tate placed his freshly laundered work clothes on the coffee table. She covered him with a faded wedding-ring quilt. Something sweet moved through her as she watched him doze so peacefully. Yet stomping like an elephant held a certain naughty appeal too.

  When he awoke, would he come looking to surprise her?

  She slept in the nude. Just in case.

  But the next morning when Tate woke up, Nathan was gone.

  Teeth-clenching frustration set in that nearly undid years of orthodontics.

  It was distressing to think her judgment was still skewed when it came to men. She should’ve learned her lesson after the disaster she’d left behind in Denver regarding Malcolm.

  Malcolm. His name slithered through the recesses of her mind like the snake he was.

  At the time she’d considered herself lucky to snag the attention of Sir Malcolm DuMond—the attractive, charismatic man on the firm’s fast track. Working with him increased her chances of making senior designer. Especially when he’d all but guaranteed her the promotion—if she kept the details of the new, plum assignment quiet.

  Tate hadn’t thought it an odd request. Jealousy ran rampant between artists, and most of her colleagues were a secretive bunch. She shoved suspicions aside when Malcolm suggested they work from his private office—after hours, instead of her stuffy cubicle. She’d believed this was her shot at the big time and poured every ounce of creativity into layouts, giving up nights and weekends. A social life paled in comparison to visions of a corner office, her impressive job title etched on a brass plaque. The pride on her mother’s face.

  Two weeks into the project Tate had slept with Malcolm. Office romances were expressly forbidden. But they jumped headfirst into the affair, consequences be damned. No one would suspect straight-as-an-arrow Tate Cross possessed the sex appeal to attract a player like Sir Malcolm.

  Yet it had bothered her that Malcolm called all the shots—not only in the boardroom but in the bedroom.

  Unfortunately the clandestine meetings didn’t equate to great sex. When Tate summoned the guts to question Malcolm about his lackluster performance between his Ralph Lauren sheets, he’d assured her the “cuddling” portion of their liaisons appealed to him as much as the act.

  An act she’d swallowed hook, line and sinker.

  The day before the final client meeting, Malcolm had abruptly pulled her from the big presentation. Then Tate discovered the truth—Malcolm claimed he’d single-handedly created the campaign. Thereby being named head of the art department. Not only that, he’d recommended another graphic artist for the vacant senior designer position he’d left when he moved up.

  Betrayal stung on both a professional and a personal level. When she’d demanded an explanation, Malcolm found the cojones to admit the only reason he’d slept with her: she was the best artist in the company—with the smallest backbone. She was too nice, too innocent about the ways of the business world to jeopardize her future by seeking revenge. He’d warned her if she fought him, she’d be the one out of a job.

  Tate shattered her meek persona when she confronted Malcolm at a staff meeting.

  Proving he’d used her designs in the project was almost as vindicating as blabbing the details about their relationship. His denials fell on deaf ears. Management saw their intimate association as much a breach of company policy as Malcolm’s purported ethics violations. They’d both been suspended pending investigation.

  Shaking off thoughts of the past, she dumped grounds into the coffeemaker and wondered if her career would recover. Especially after her labor rep had invoked the little-known clause in the company’s family-leave policy that allowed her to take two months off. Returning to South Dakota to handle her late aunt’s estate seemed the ideal, albeit temporary solution. On the cusp of her third decade, logic dictated she take time to determine the course of her life, now that her entire professional future was in jeopardy.

  As the rich aroma of coffee wafted toward her, she glanced at the patched cracks in the plaster ceiling. Now logic decreed she run as fast as her short leg
s could carry her. Not only was she over her head in basic home repairs, she had no clue what to do about Nathan.

  The phone rang. Doubtful it was Mr. Romance calling to apologize, although part of her hoped.

  “Hello?” she said brusquely on the fifth ring.

  “Morning to you too, sunshine,” her brother, Ryan, drawled. “Did I wake you?”

  “You wish,” she sneered.

  “Pretty crabby for first thing in the morning. Aren’t you usually chipper as a bluebird or some damn thing? Singing folktales