Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  “Nope,” he said. “Everything’s fine. And sure, go ahead and finish up tonight. I can’t believe you got this far already. Looking real good, Miss Dakota. Maybe you really are all that. Of course, that could just be because the furniture’s covered up. Antler-free zone.”

  “You can’t tell very well now,” she said, trying to ignore the glow of satisfaction that gave her. He was charming; that was his deal. “It never looks good until you clean up. If you do want to see, just give me half an hour.”

  “I do want to see. And if I give you a hand, we can get it done faster.”

  “You don’t want to give me a hand.”

  “And why would that be?” He still looked tense to her. Something in his shoulders. Like he was trying to be polite, but he wanted his house back. Exactly like that.

  “For one thing,” she said, knowing she should be professional and get out of his space, “you’re paying me to do it. And for the other, you’re dressed up like the Cowboy Angel of Death, and no piece of that outfit is going to look good with taupe paint all over it. Especially those boots.”

  Maybe not all that professional.

  He didn’t answer her. Instead, he stepped closer, and she caught her breath. And then he reached out and took her chin in his hand, and she forgot to breathe.

  She thought for one crazy moment that he was going to kiss her. He didn’t. Instead, he rubbed his thumb over her upper lip. And didn’t let her go.

  For a second, she just stood there, shocked into stillness. And then she realized what he’d been doing. She’d smeared paint all over herself, and he’d wiped it off.

  Some of the tension seemed to have left him, because his smile looked real when he finally dropped his hand and said, “I don’t know about that. And I think I like you with a little bit of a paint mustache. Pretty cute. The Cowboy Angel of Death, though? I’d be insulted, except that it sounds kinda hot.”

  Apparently she was abandoning any hope of “professional,” because she said, “Yeah, I’m a class act with my paint mustache, and you’re my dark, dangerous fantasy man. The gunslinger outfit’s totally working. But do me a favor. If you’re going to stand around here, go change your clothes. You’re making me nervous that I’m going to mess you up. And do not tell me,” she added while he was still opening his mouth, “that you’d be glad to get messed up with me. I can hear the thought forming, and it’s beneath you. You can do better.”

  He actually stood there with his mouth half-open for a second, and then he clapped a hand to his chest and staggered. “You got me again. Straight to the heart. Be right back.” He headed for the stairs, the heels of those boots ringing out on the stone floor once he was off the dropcloth, then turned around halfway there and asked, “So the black shirt works?”

  “Go away,” she said, sinking to her knees again and picking up her brush.

  “I’m keeping it on,” he said. “I think it works.”

  Blake started to take the stairs two at a time, and his knee instantly told him what it thought of that idea. He switched to one at a time, trying to make it look nonchalant, and then tried to pretend he wasn’t hurrying. Just like when he’d been driving here and wondering why he’d scheduled his afternoon so he wouldn’t be home until after five, when he’d wanted to see Dakota again ever since he’d left her. After that, he’d tried to tell himself that he hadn’t had any spike in his pulse rate when he’d seen her old Ford pickup in his driveway. That hadn’t worked, either.

  She didn’t fit into the life plan, and after what he’d heard today, messing around with her would be a purely lousy thing to do. So why was he changing into faded Levi’s and applying a little extra Jack Black deodorant just to make sure he smelled all right for her? All she’d be able to smell was paint.

  It was stupid, but he did it anyway. Story of his romantic life. He kept the black T-shirt on, too. That “gunslinger” comment had come from somewhere.

  Because you were a quarterback, dude. Except he didn’t think that was it.

  He headed back down the stairs, and when he came around the corner from the landing and saw her taupe-painted walls… yeah, they looked better, blue painter’s tape and all.

  She was on her hands and knees painting the baseboard, her movements quick and neat. Her baggy white overalls weren’t doing a thing for her, and the thick braid hanging over one shoulder had some paint at the end, like she’d dipped it in the pan sometime during the day. And he was glad she was there.

  She looked up when he walked over, and he said, “Put me to work, boss. Painting’s in my blood.”

  That made her smile. “Casual” had sure-enough been the way to go here, because she was relaxing. That was good. “I’m almost done with this,” she said, “and besides, you have to be neat to do trim. I have a feeling you’re the messy type. Exuberant painter, that’d be you.”

  “Exuberant? That sounds almost like an insult. Bet you’re right, though. I tend to get into my work. You could say I put my whole self into it.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said dryly. “Well, put your whole self into climbing that ladder and taking the tape off from around the windows, then. You’re taller than me.”

  “I am that.”

  She looked at his bare feet. “Not exactly dressed for the jobsite. You’re going to get yourself messed up.”

  “Us exuberant types,” he said, “we don’t mind rolling around in it. It’ll wash off.”

  “Then go do it. My paint’s drying out.”

  After that, she had him taking the dropcloths off everything and folding them up, but when he finished, she was still painting. He sat on the edge of his uncovered coffee table—still unfortunately antler-intensive—and asked her, “How long did all this take?”

  “The weekend and today. It’s a huge room, especially when you add the entry, and a high one. Major ladder time. I haven’t gotten to the kitchen, you probably noticed, but I’ll do that tomorrow.”

  “Weekend, huh? What about that stained glass piece you were working on?”

  She smiled, and as always, it gave her a whole different look. Still strong, but—shining.

  Whoa, boy, he told himself, and promptly forgot it.

  “My conch,” she said.

  “That what it is? The thing you were working on last week?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She forgot to paint for a moment, and her eyes went dreamy. “I didn’t get to finish it. It’s going to be so good.” She turned away, gave a few last careful swipes to the end of the baseboard, then set her brush down and started to gather her things. “I’ll take this stuff out to the truck, and you can enjoy looking at your living room in almost all its glory. I’ll take the tape off from around the baseboards tomorrow, once they’re dry.”

  “Mm,” he said. “I’ve got another idea. I help you load up your truck, and you come back in and help me admire your work, maybe have a beer, and tell me about your conch.”

  She sighed. “I’ve got to say, a beer sounds good. I’ve been here a while. I don’t drink at Russell’s, for obvious reasons.”

  He got up and picked up the paint can and a stack of dropcloths. “Happy to be your designated drinking spot. Come on, wild thing. Let’s drink a beer. We could even jump off my dock if we wanted. Did you see I’ve got one? Got your name on it, too.”

  “Let me guess,” she said. “Your meeting, or whatever you went off to do in your private jet? It got boring.”

  “You got that right. Besides—badasses gotta badass.”

  A beer was fine, he told himself. A beer was absolutely no big deal. He liked her, that was all. She was interesting. Also an artist. He needed more people like that in his life.

  Hanging out with her was fun, and if they flirted a little—well, that would be fun, too, for both of them. They could be… friends.

  Yeah. Friends would be good.

  Go home, Dakota told herself. Right now.

  Instead, she gathered the rest of her supplies and asked, “So did you see it?”

 
“Uh… see what?” He headed after her into the soaring entryway, then rocked to a stop. “Oh.”

  She couldn’t tell. What did “Oh” mean?

  “If you don’t like it there,” she said quickly, “we can move it. I just thought, since I’d painted, I’d show you how it looked, and…” She shut her mouth on the rest. He was standing there, holding the paint can, staring at her eagle. His eagle. Which was hanging in the big window above the front door, looking like it would swoop down on them.

  The seconds ticked away. He was going to say he didn’t want it after all. Now that he saw it in the house, he was realizing everything that was wrong with it. That part at the bottom of the left wing, the awkward place where she hadn’t gotten the shadow just right. And she’d already sent the money from his check to the mortgage company. It was gone.

  He said slowly, “I don’t know. I’m wondering, now…”

  “Oh.” She thought she was going to throw up. “Uh, I can… I could switch it for the owl, if you want.” He’d liked the owl. He’d stood there in Russell’s room and studied it. She couldn’t have mistaken the look in his eyes that day. “Or make you another piece, maybe, if you…” It had been so much money. She’d known it. Way too much for two pieces. What had she been thinking?

  “Dakota. No.”

  The blood had left her head. She swallowed hard and said, “I’m going to… put these things in the truck.” There would be an answer, some answer. But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t let him see her cry.

  She headed fast into the circular drive and shoved her supplies into the back of the truck. She could tell he was still behind her, and sure enough, he set down the paint can and the dropcloths.

  Get it together. She took a breath that was unfortunately unsteady, but even as she was doing it, his hands were on her shoulders, turning her around. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded. “What could you be thinking I was going to say?”

  There was nothing but concern in his eyes. And she’d gotten it wrong. How was she going to explain this? “Oh,” she said weakly. “Huh. I thought you were saying you didn’t like it.”

  “If I hadn’t liked it, I wouldn’t have bought it. But I did buy it. It’s mine, and I’m not giving it back. There’s no way I’m letting it go.” He must have realized he was holding her, because he dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Come on back inside with me, and let’s look at it together. Your room, and my eagle. And whatever you were thinking—it’s not true. We’ve got to work on your confidence, darlin’.”

  She didn’t answer that, maybe because he was right. She went back into the house with him, the smell of paint hitting her hard, like always. Blake didn’t seem to notice it. He turned in the middle of the entryway to study the eagle again, and this time, she concentrated on breathing and not making assumptions, and waited.

  “It looks good there,” he finally said. “It looks great there, and if I didn’t like it so much… but I don’t think you can see it well enough up that high. I want to see his wings. I want to see his eyes, and the way he’s grabbing for that fish. I want to feel him doing it.”

  “If we put him in one of the living-room windows, though,” she said, “he’ll be smack dab in the middle of your lake view. I don’t think that works. That’s why I put him here. Maybe the dining room?”

  He. Blake thought of his eagle as a “he”? Like it was a real bird, the same way it seemed to her? And he wanted it. It was as good as he’d thought at first. He wasn’t going to change his mind. The thought was making her lightheaded.

  “That’s a point about the lake,” he said. “But I’ve got an idea. Come with me.” He took her hand and headed for the stairs, then stopped and said, “Are you comfortable?”

  “Uh… what?”

  “Aren’t you hot? Don’t you want to change?”

  “I’m looking forward to it, yeah, but I’m always hot while I work. Nothing new there.”

  “Baby, you’re the artist here. You’re doing me a favor right now. So why don’t you say, ‘Blake, honey, quit pushin’ me around. I’m off the clock.’”

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly, she was feeling a whole lot better, and not just because she wasn’t going to have to somehow figure out how to pay back twenty-four hundred dollars she didn’t have. “Maybe because I’m never going to call you ‘honey,’ just like I’m never going to let you call me ‘baby’? And you might have caught me off guard there.”

  His eyes were smiling again, even though his mouth wasn’t. “I must’ve, the way you lost all your badass like that. Good to see it coming back. You’ve wounded me again, too, but I’m ignoring it. So what do you think? Tell me to quit wasting your time and to go get you that beer? Tell me to quit wasting your time, period, because you’ve had a long day and you’re heading on home? Or take off those clothes and come help me figure out where to hang my bird? Which sounds dirty. Why is that?”

  She was laughing. “Let’s go for ‘combination.’ Let’s go for ‘my choice.’ I’m taking off these clothes. I’m washing my hands. I’m telling you to get me my beer first, and then, if you ask me nicely, I’m helping you figure out where to hang your bird. In a non-dirty way.”

  He grinned. “See, I knew you had it in you.”

  She was still smiling when she headed into the bathroom. Until she had another of those moments of truth.

  This house had way, way too many mirrors. Painter’s cap, check. Overalls, check. Knee pads and paint-smeared tennis shoes, double-check. And she still had a smear of paint on the corner of her mouth. That was extra attractive. When she took off her cap and took her hair out of the braid, she found she had paint in there, too.

  It was a while before she headed back out the door carrying a handful of clothes and shoes, but by the time she did, she looked a little better, and more importantly, had given herself a much-needed reality check.

  The woman who’s going to paint your ceiling or gut your fish, she’d told Evan, and she’d been right. And maybe, horribly, something else. The woman who’s going to be your short-term good time, because you’re bored, she’s in your house already, and you’ve heard she’s good for it.

  Blake was waiting for her in the kitchen. “That’s better,” he said, taking in her shorts, white T-shirt, and bare feet, then handing her a wonderfully cold bottle of beer. “Dump those somewhere, and I’ll show you my idea.”

  It sounded casual, and in the right way, too. It was “paint your ceiling,” then, not “swipe right for tonight.”

  He took her upstairs to his office, next to the master suite. A huge black walnut desk sat in the middle of a room dominated by five panes of bay windows, with an upholstered window seat made for reading, for sketching, for dreaming.

  “I do like your house,” she said.

  “It’s not too bad at all. It’ll look better once you’re done with it, of course. And I was thinking the same as you, that the eagle should be downstairs. But I’ve decided I want it in here. I’m a greedy guy, I guess. I want to keep the best for myself. Besides, it’ll get me in the right frame of mind while I work.”

  “Mm. Put it in the middle window, right here? It’d sure make a statement.” She took a sip from her beer and glanced at him. He was leaning up against the desk, the bottle held negligently in one big hand, one ankle crossed over the other, and he wasn’t looking out the windows. He was looking at her. “So the right frame of mind is ‘predatory’?”

  “So often,” he said. “At least the way I do it.”

  Was it warm in here? Or was it his eyes? “Sounds a little scary,” she said, going for breezy. Going for confident. “Do I really want to be doing business with you?”

  His eyes were shining gold. His eyes made her weak in the knees. He said, “Oh, I think so. ‘Predatory’ might just mean that I know what I want, and then I go after it.”

  “And do you always get it?”

  “Usually. The secret is—you got to want it enough. And I do want it.”

  She took an
other sip of beer, and he didn’t. He was just watching her. She said, “Well, I’ll hang the eagle here, then.”

  “Dakota…” He said it like he liked saying it, and all she could do was look at him. He shoved off the desk, took a step closer, then reached out and brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. She was swaying into him, and just like that, his hand was holding her head, his eyes drinking her in. He took one more step, and she could barely breathe. And then he kissed her.

  It was a bare brush of his lips over hers, but it sent a tingle of pleasure right down her body. His thumb was stroking her cheek, his lips returning to hers as if he needed them. Gentle, but so sure. And in another second, it wasn’t going to be gentle, because she could feel his urgency.

  She realized she was dropping her beer bottle the second it happened. She grabbed for it, but she was too late. She jumped back as it hit the carpet, the frothy liquid spilling out in a soaking mess, splattering on her bare feet.

  He was down before she even had a chance to react, scooping the bottle up, then standing and setting it on the desk.

  “Sorry,” she said, trying to laugh it off. “That was smooth of me. I’ll just… ah, the eagle. I’ll wait to move it until after I paint in here.”

  “Dakota…”

  She didn’t listen to whatever he would have said. She was already talking. “I should get home. Russ will have dinner going. I need to go.”

  He looked at her without saying anything. Two seconds, three, and she forced herself to shut up and meet his gaze. Finally, he asked, “Is it Evan, or is it me?”

  “Evan? No. What? No. I just need to go. I’ll do your kitchen tomorrow. I’ll be here around eight, unless you’d rather I started later. Tell me when.”