“I wouldn’t do it for a heartbeat if I didn’t need the money. You could say that I’m not in love with Mr. Blake Orbison or his company. But you know, we all need the money.”
“That we do. Arrogant guy?”
“Let’s say that I don’t like the way he treats people. On an… institutional scale.” Whoa, girl, she told herself. Lose the bitter and get back to reckless. More attractive, and a whole lot more fun. Trust her to meet a truly prime specimen of manflesh for once and immediately put him off. “So I’m sure I shouldn’t jump off his rocks. But hey, what’s life without a little danger?” There, that was better.
“Now, see, darlin’,” he said, his voice getting even deeper, the accent going a shade richer, “that’s what I tell myself all the time. It’s a real shame that so few people think like us.”
“Hmm.” She might not be good at flirting, but he clearly had enough flirt for two. “You on the project yourself?”
“Sure am. Mind if I join you?”
“They’re not my rocks.”
“Well, that’s true.” Hot Guy’s irresistible, crooked little grin was still going on like gangbusters, and she remembered with a stab of something too much like chagrin that her swimsuit was navy blue and a one-piece style that had been on clearance for $7.99, but that her grandma would have flipped past with a “Boring, baby. I might be old, but I’m not dead.” Her hair was in a messy, dripping braid, she wasn’t wearing any makeup, her nose was probably running, and she was nobody’s dream girl.
Nothing she could do about it now, though. She was about to turn and head up the rock again, but she may have gotten a little distracted. Because Dream Boy was pulling up that black T-shirt, and glasses or no… she could see that he didn’t have a six-pack. He had an eight-pack. And then he kept going, and her mouth might have gone a little dry. It had been a while. And it had been longer… no, it had been never that she’d seen a chest that good. Not up close and offscreen.
When he dropped the shirt and his hands went to his belt buckle, she realized she was standing there staring. And what was he doing?
“Ah…” she said. “Around here, people generally wear clothes to swim. I mean, I’ll just get kicked out, but you could get arrested.”
“But then,” he said, “like you say, we live dangerously. Badasses gotta badass.” He sat on a rock and started untying the laces of his work boots, which was when she realized that standing there gawking at him as he stripped was probably not her smoothest move. So she turned around and headed for the rock again.
This time, she jumped off cleanly. And if she looked back when she heard the splash behind her… well, she couldn’t really see him anyway, not unless he got really close. Which wasn’t happening.
Which was fine.
Blake didn’t know who she was, but he was going to have to find out. She had a weird squint, her body was more athletic than stacked, and that was one of the ugliest swimsuits he’d ever seen on a woman below the age of forty, but she had enough attitude for two, honey-colored skin that was already touched by the sun, a set of cheekbones that his thumbs needed to brush over while he held her head for his kiss, and legs that wouldn’t quit. If he’d been in charge of her, he’d have had her wear something cut all the way up to her waist, just so he could look at those legs. Her ears had been pierced in a couple places, and then in a couple more, because she had two piercings at the top of the left ear with a ring through each and a tiny silver chain joining them.
If anything had looked more like a pair of handcuffs, he didn’t know what it would be. That chain was hot as hell.
And then there was that other thing.
When she’d turned around and walked away, then started climbing up that rock, he’d discovered that she had exactly the kind of ass that a Southern boy loved best. The kind that took two hands to hold. Firm, round, and downright juicy.
Hell, yeah.
When she got up there, she got a thumb under each side of the navy-blue material and snapped the suit down over the gorgeous curve of butt cheek, and he thought he’d have a heart attack. And then she jumped off, and he’d just say that following her up there didn’t take any decision-making at all, and swimming behind her to shore to do it all over again was a foregone conclusion.
After the second time they’d jumped, she turned to him in the water, treading water with one hand while she slicked her dark hair back from her face with the other, and said, “Too cold to stay long. Anyway, I have to get going.”
“Aw, now, darlin’,” he complained, “those are words that cut a man to the bone.”
He was rewarded by a smile that lit up her whole face. That was some mouth, too. That mouth said generous and good time, not to mention Lay me down and love me right.
“Anybody ever tell you that you’re forward?” she asked. “Stripping to your underwear in front of a woman you’ve just met and all? Black might have been a little less obvious than fire-engine red, too, not that I looked.”
“Can’t get anywhere if you don’t try,” he said. “Words to live by. And I thought we’d established that I’m a badass. Two badasses ought to get to know each other better, don’t you think? Maybe have a drink, do a little dancing, see if they get anywhere they want to go. I’ll bet you know the spot for it, too.”
She didn’t answer. She was looking past him, and he turned in the water and saw Jerry Richards checking them out, his hands on his hips.
“Shoot,” his new friend said, nearly under her breath, through teeth that had started to chatter. “Is that security?”
“Yeah. Head of security.”
“Jerry? Shoot. Look, I’ll go in first, swim around to the left, up to the beach. You go on over to the right behind the rocks. There’s a place you can slip out of the water there. Give me five minutes. I’ll either talk my way out of it, or he’ll haul me off. He’ll leave, and you’ll have a chance to get out.”
“Uh…” He didn’t even know how to answer that. “I don’t generally let women take the fall for me.”
“He knows me, and he doesn’t like me. As soon as I get closer, he’ll recognize me no matter what. But he’ll just call me a name or two, look me up and down, and threaten me some, because he’s a sleaze. With you—who knows. I have a feeling you don’t respect authority, and Jerry isn’t too good on ‘reasonable use of force,’ especially when he feels disrespected. And he feels disrespected a lot.”
Just what he’d thought. He was going to have to do something about his security department. “I tell you what. We’ll call it Opposite Day. Go on behind your rocks. I’ve got this.”
He didn’t wait to hear her answer, just swam for shore. Stupidest argument he’d ever heard anyway. She must have met some real princes if she’d known any guy who’d go for that.
Unfortunately, she followed him. She might have the kind of mouth he loved both ways, she might have a body that made his palms itch and the kind of spirit that called his name, but she was lousy at following directions.
Taking her to bed would be a power struggle all the way. Of the most delicious kind, because you never wanted to play the easy game. The best wins were the ones you fought for, and the best opponents were the ones you had to work on. Long and hard.
No more bad girls, he reminded himself. No more wild rides. You’re looking for sweet. We’re going for classy here, remember? It’s time to find wife material.
But there was one part of him that tended to talk the loudest in these situations, and unfortunately, he’d never yet succeeded in making that be his brain.
Dakota followed him in to shore, mentally slapping herself around some.
She’d known this was a bad idea. She took responsibility; that was her deal now. Besides, she couldn’t stand to get somebody fired just because she’d longed to leap off those rocks like she was sixteen and… and life was different.
Or more like she was twenty-nine, had longed to do something reckless, and had found somebody who seemed to long for exactly the same th
ing. Which didn’t mean she should be leading him, all unsuspecting, down what she knew was the wrong path. He wasn’t going to like her much when he was unemployed.
He was pulling himself up and onto the rocky shore, she could see that much. She climbed up behind him, and he put out a hand onto her arm and steadied her, which was nice of him.
His briefs were sure-enough red, and… well, there was this pouch. Outlined with black, in case you’d missed it. This close up, she could see that just fine. If there were any shrinkage going on there, she’d just say that the un-shrunk version must be…
She jerked her eyes back up to his face, and there was that half-smile again, like he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. He was still holding her arm, too. She wrenched it away and paid attention to Jerry, because of course he’d come to bust them. And whether Mr. Hotness liked it or not, she was taking this one.
“My fault,” she said, talking right over whatever Jerry was saying. “I jumped off the rocks and did a bellyflop, and he… uh… thought I was in trouble and jumped in to rescue me.”
She wished she could see Jerry better, because he wasn’t talking, just staring at her, she thought. “Hang on,” she said abruptly, and stumbled her way across the rocky ground to the spot where she’d stashed her bag. It was under a big bush, which she saw as a fuzzy circle of green. She always picked a landmark like that to avoid wandering in circles and having to quarter the ground for her belongings.
“This some kind of ritual? Pacing the area off?” It was her dream guy. He’d followed her, still wearing only his briefs. For some reason, Jerry had let him go. Not like Jerry at all.
Ah. Red bag spotted. She patted around the top of it, found her glasses, and shoved them onto her face with a sigh of relief. Then she stood up, took a look at her companion, and just about fainted.
“Oh, sh—shoot,” she stammered. “Tell me I did not just do that.”
“Do what? And I’ve got to say—I’m kinda digging the librarian look here.”
She barely heard him. She saw Jerry clearly enough now, coming up to join them and saying, “I’ll just take off, then, Mr. Orbison, go check in with my evening shift.”
“Yeah,” he—friggin’ Blake Orbison—said. “You go on and do that.”
“You take care, Dakota,” Jerry said with what she guessed was supposed to be a paternal smile but instead was just sleazy. “You want to watch out jumping around those rocks. I know you wouldn’t want Mr. Orbison to be sued, and your—well, I guess we’ll call it your family—doesn’t need any more accidents, do they?”
She didn’t slap him, but she sure wanted to. She didn’t look at him at all, just went for her towel, then realized that she was giving both men a great view of her butt, which wasn’t the part of herself she liked to lead with. So to speak. She stood up again, wrapped the towel around her waist, tried to ignore them while still talking to them, and said, “You’re right. We don’t need any more accidents on Mr. Orbison’s property.” And picked up her bag and left.
She was still barefoot, and the rocky ground was bruising the soles of her winter-tender feet. She didn’t care. She was out of here.
“What the hell?” Blake muttered, then went for his jeans and hauled them with difficulty up his still-wet legs.
Jerry cleared his throat. “I told them all to do the job and get out. They know they’re not supposed to be hanging around afterwards or going into anyplace they’re not working.”
“What do I care if somebody takes a swim?” Blake buckled his belt, then shoved a foot into a work boot without bothering with socks. “Is she one of the cleaners or what?”
“Dakota? You’d never catch Dakota Savage doing anything that feminine. She’s one of the contractors that took over the painting after you canned Steve Sawyer’s crew. Course, she’s normally all covered up.”
Blake looked at him more sharply, then went back to tying his bootlaces. “Let me guess. You think firing Sawyer was a mistake.”
Jerry gave a shrug of a meaty shoulder. “Steve’s a good man. Dakota’s… well, that whole family’s pretty much trash. But hey, sometimes trashy’s exactly what you’re looking for, know what I mean?”
If Blake hadn’t, the smirk on Jerry’s face would have told him. And even though it was what he’d been thinking a few minutes earlier, it annoyed the hell out of him. Anyway, he had his boots on. He grabbed his shirt and socks and took off.
He caught up with her not in the parking lot, as he’d expected, but around the side of the building. He wouldn’t have noticed her except for the flash of orange in his peripheral vision.
She was tying her shoelace when he came up to her. She was wearing shorts now, which wasn’t a bad look at all. She had some leg on her, that was for sure.
“Dakota,” he said, and she whirled to face him and didn’t lose her balance. She was still crouching, which meant he was looking down the front of her suit. It was covered, not very thoroughly at all, by an orange tank top. Her hair wasn’t looking too good. Her body was looking just fine. And “Dakota Savage”? That was a name. Looked like she could live up to it, too.
She stood up straight, shoved up the severe rectangular black-framed glasses that had “sexy librarian” written all over them, and said, “I have to go.”
She wasn’t smiling anymore. Her face was all the way closed down. Nearly severe in its lines, cheekbones and nose and jaw all firm, strong, and sharply drawn. Somebody might have called those looks “exotic.” He couldn’t imagine anyone would ever have called her cute, but he couldn’t see how they’d call her trashy, either. Other than that chain in her ear. That chain was giving him definite ideas, even as her body language and ugly swimsuit said exactly the opposite. “Challenge” was the word all the way around.
“You know,” he said, “you’ve got me all confused. I thought we were getting along real good, and here I’ve gone and driven you away somehow.”
She wasn’t looking him in the eye. “I shouldn’t have been swimming out there. Forget it, OK?”
“Ah…” He scratched his nose. “Let me guess. You need the job.”
Her gaze finally swung around to him. Fierce, that’s what he’d call that. “Here’s a tip. Down here at the bottom, we all need the job.”
“You don’t like rich guys.”
“Gosh, you’re quick.” She yanked a helmet out of her front basket, jammed it onto her head, and shoved the fastening closed. “Your name’s on my paycheck. I’m not going to say anything else. Except that I don’t think much of a guy who lets somebody go on like that, listens to them digging their grave, disguises his voice, and laughs at them.”
“You weren’t going to say anything else, huh. Except that.” He considered telling her that he got more Southern as things heated up, but it didn’t seem like a good idea.
“I’m a good painter. So is my partner, and he really needs the job. He has a baby. One more week, and we’re gone. Just forget it.”
He sighed. “Whether you swim with me, whether you tell me what you think of me—hell, whether you go for that drink with me, or anything else—that doesn’t have anything to do with the job. I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Now, see, I’d have said you’re exactly that kind of guy, letting me go on like that, putting me at that disadvantage. But I’ll tell you another thing. I don’t care what Jerry said. Or I do. I do care. But I don’t accept it. Whatever he said, I’m not that kind of girl. And even if I were, you’d be the last man on earth.”
I’m not that kind of girl? Had anybody actually said that in the last forty years? He would have laughed, but then again—no. She was really upset, somehow. She straddled the bike and said again, “I have to go. I appreciate you not letting him bust me. And I’ll appreciate it more if you’ll forget all about this.”
She didn’t wait around to hear his answer. She just rode away.
By the time she’d ridden the three miles home, Dakota had herself under control again. Sure, it had been stupid. Sure, ev
ery bit of it had been impulsive. Sure, she had nobody to blame but herself. Well, and Blake, but she’d known for a long time that you couldn’t control what anybody else did, and he was a rich, arrogant guy who didn’t care about other people. You could only control yourself, and she did control herself.
Usually.
Once she’d put her glasses on, she’d recognized him right away. The resolutely square jaw might be covered with stubble now, the dark hair might be longer than in any publicity photo, and there might have been a few lines carved into his brow and fanning out from the corners of his eyes that she hadn’t noticed in his pictures. He might have deepened that accent in a way she’d never heard in an interview, back when she’d been researching him… maybe a little obsessively, but who could blame her? But the strong nose was exactly the same, and so were the hazel eyes. Nearly gold, with a rim of dark green around the iris. Not many men had those eyes, or looked at you that way out of them, with a gaze so intense it was nearly hypnotic. Not many men looked like that, period.
Tough, that was the word. Not quite handsome, and all male. Some people might have called it “confident.” She’d have called it “entitled.” Like he thought he was king of the world.
It had been harder to hold that thought when he was standing over her with those shoulders, those arms, that chest, and those rock-hard abs displayed above a pair of low-slung, dusty Wranglers. Looking like a Coke commercial, like the construction worker who’d be setting down his jackhammer, pulling his T-shirt over his head, and turning the head of every woman from eight to eighty. Before tipping his head back and downing his drink with the kind of abandon that got your imagination working overtime.
She’d sure never seen a picture of him like that. Football uniform, yes. Business suit, yes. She had plenty of defenses against suits, and more against privileged, arrogant athletes. Not so much against long, lean, sculpted muscles that looked like they’d been built the hard way. With work. And none at all against the ugly white lines of scar tissue that showed where a man had hurt and healed.
Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1) Page 2