Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  There wasn’t enough air in this room. She needed to say something. Anything. “You’re kind of pushing your luck, aren’t you?” she finally managed.

  It was more than a smile this time. He laughed. “Always, baby. Always. I just can’t help it. And you make me want to do it. You make me want to stand over there on that wild side and say, ‘Come on over, Dakota. Come on over here, darlin’, and let me show you how.’ I want to go there, and I want to take you with me.”

  Did he kiss her, then? He did not. He walked right out the door and left her with that.

  She stood there looking at the closed door for a full minute before she turned around and headed for bed like a sleepwalker.

  Friday night.

  No pressure.

  Dakota spent all day Tuesday thinking about what to do.

  Did she plan out her next glass piece? No, she did not. Did she think about which galleries she might approach, now that she had not only her collection of flowers, but the image of the shell to show them? Nope. Did she work through Russell’s budget in her head, now that she had another sizable check in the bank, and consider M & O’s schedule for the rest of the summer? Not even once.

  Did she even reconsider the wisdom of going out with Blake?

  No. She didn’t. Instead, she spent nearly nine hours painting his walls and thinking about clothes. And makeup. And manicures. And waxing. And hair. She told herself that the check should go to the mortgage company even as she wondered how much it would cost if you did absolutely everything, beauty-regime-wise, and then tried to calculate how much it would be if you did the minimum. She ran through a mental inventory of her closet and her bathroom drawers, thought about Michelle Schaefer and her probable subscription to Vogue, and got a mental image of Michelle and every other female dinner guest mentally going, “Dress Barn. $49.99.” And then told herself that didn’t matter, that she was more than her external appearance, and knew even as she gave herself the talk that “inner beauty” was one thing, and Michelle Schaefer’s living room was another.

  And what did she do in the end? Did she put a thousand toward the mortgage and five hundred toward reinvestment in glass supplies, like any prudent woman would do? Did she go for that bare minimum, buy a new dress on sale, give herself a pedicure, and figure the shoes she had were good enough? Not a hope. She took off Thursday at one o’clock and drove to Spokane—spending money and not earning it, double whammy—spent three full hours shopping and nearly three more getting beautiful, didn’t get home until nine-thirty at night, and took off even more time on Friday afternoon to finish the job.

  No, not finish the job. She’d set the job back, in fact. She wasn’t even done with the upstairs, and she still had the whole downstairs to go. On the other hand, whatever Michelle Schaefer or the other plucked, painted, coiffed women at Blake’s dinner party thought of her, she’d know she looked good.

  Blake drove back to the little white house in the shabbier part of town at six-thirty Friday night, questioning himself the whole way.

  He’d been planning another trip this week. Instead, he’d put it off.

  Why?

  So he could take Dakota out.

  Why?

  Because he wanted to.

  Got no reason not to trust you with my girl, Russell had said. Don’t give me one. Blake had a feeling Russell wouldn’t approve of the life plan. But the fact was, Blake wasn’t going to get anywhere with it until he got over this… obsession.

  He wasn’t just looking for some kind of conquest. It wasn’t like one night was going to do it anyway, at least it sure wouldn’t for him. It would be a relationship like any other one. It would just be higher octane. He and Dakota needed to ride that wild side until they burned out.

  She’d probably be the one to call a halt, in the end. Blake wasn’t all that easy to live with, or even to be in a relationship with. He seemed laid-back to a woman at first, until she found out the guy he really was. Too intense. Too focused on his work, and on being the best. Not interested enough in the things women liked. Too interested in sex, and never around to pay attention to her otherwise.

  He was a bad boyfriend, and he knew it. He ought to, as many women as had said it. It was going to take him a while to be a good husband, if he ever made it. He’d need somebody patient, and probably someone who didn’t expect too much, and that sure wasn’t Dakota. Dakota would expect everything. Look at what she was already doing. Sneaking into his mind, tormenting his body, messing up his plans even when he never saw her. Especially when he never saw her. She’d gone straight back to ghost mode this week, coming in and doing her painting after he’d left for work, then disappearing before he got home.

  If anything, Dakota should recognize that this deal would probably turn out the opposite of what she’d been thinking. She thought he was just looking for a short-time good time. The truth was, she’d be the one realizing that was as much as he was good for, and that she deserved more.

  She needed somebody who was going to stick around here, somebody to go fishing with Russell and then barbecue that fish, to sit and watch the Mariners afterwards and wonder aloud when the team was going to trade for a leadoff hitter who could put his bat on the ball in any kind of reliable way. She needed somebody who liked her art as much as it deserved and would encourage her to push it harder, somebody willing to save up for a trip hiking through the rainforest and snorkeling over the coral just to make her happy. Somebody to appreciate her and give her what she needed.

  And if the thought of it made his hands tighten on the steering wheel and the muscles of his thighs seize up… well, that was that obsession again. Especially when he remembered that whatever Dakota said, he knew who that guy was. It was Evan. But Dakota didn’t belong with Evan.

  So who does she belong with, dude? You?

  Yeah. Me.

  Which started the whole thing up again. It was a relief to pull up outside the house and head up the walk. And there his stupid heart was, racing like he was sixteen and borrowing his dad’s car to take a girl out. All he needed was a bad rental tux and a corsage in a plastic box, and he’d be going to the prom.

  He knocked on the door, and Russell showed up to answer it. “Come on in,” he said. Sure enough, he was watching baseball. “Dakota’s not quite ready, I don’t think. Sit down a minute.”

  “Sure.” Blake sat on the couch, then gave Bella a pat or two before she settled down again at Russell’s feet.

  On the screen, a Mariners batter was taking some practice swings, and the Red Sox pitcher was pivoting, then throwing fast to try to catch the guy on first. The runner dove for the bag, and the practice swings started up again.

  “Training camp must be coming up pretty soon,” Russell said. “NFL, I mean.”

  “Another month or so.”

  A quick glance from Russell. “Yeah. You don’t want to talk about that. Guess I know how you feel. Watching everybody else go to work when you ought to be there and you won’t ever be there again—that’s no good at all.”

  “Nope.” If Russell knew Blake didn’t want to talk about it, why was he talking about it?

  “Seems like you still run around a hell of a lot, though,” Russell said. He was still watching the TV, where the guy’s count was two and two.

  “I do my share,” Blake said cautiously. Where was this going?

  “Huh, now,” Russell said. “Course, I don’t know exactly how it all works, but I don’t see how you could’ve been doing that kind of thing while you were playing.” The pitcher threw an inside ball, the batter leaned back out of it, and the count was three and two.

  “I didn’t,” Blake said. “I’m just the CEO, not the president. I’m the idea guy. I make the appearances, court the investors, make the big calls. You can’t run a company hands-on and quarterback an NFL team at the same time. I’ve always had an executive team to execute.” The pitcher threw to first again, the runner dove for the bag again, the first baseman tossed it back to the pitcher, and they were
back at Square One.

  “Guess you’re doing it different now,” Russell said. “Doing it how you said. Hands on.”

  “Well, a man’s got to do something,” Blake said. “When one door closes, a window opens, and all that.”

  “That helping, then?” Russell asked. “Business-wise? Making you more money? Making the stock rise, or however you count it?” The batter was taking yet more practice swings, and the catcher had come out from the mound to confer with the pitcher.

  Playing sports always felt fast. Football time went by before you could blink your eyes. Watching sports on TV always felt too long. Too slow. Made you too impatient, when you couldn’t do it yourself.

  Blake actually had to stop to think about Russell’s question. “Hard to say. People seem not to scream and run when they see my face, so I guess it’s doing some good. It’s how business works, I guess you’d say. Airports and hotels.”

  “Huh,” Russell said. “See, I’d think, if you didn’t have to do it, why do it? But then, I never did like moving around all that much. If I wasn’t getting some big payoff from it, I’d probably just stay home.”

  The pitcher wound up again and threw a blazing fastball. The batter swung mightily. And missed.

  “Three and out again,” Russell said. “You know, sometimes you got to wonder why you keep watching, when a team just seems bound and determined to do it wrong.”

  Blake had stopped listening, though, and he was rising to his feet. His date was here.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. The only time he’d even seen Dakota without her glasses was that night at the Heart of the Lake. She’d been hot then. Tonight, though, she was something else.

  Her dress wasn’t anything like he’d expected. It wasn’t red, and it wasn’t black. It was a yellow floral print with wide-set straps and a halter top, cut close to her body. It wasn’t too tight, it wasn’t low-cut, and it wasn’t too short. It was the way it showed off the smooth skin of her upper chest and arms, though, not to mention the length of her legs and the curve of her waist. And as for the way it hugged that gorgeous ass… Lord have mercy.

  Or maybe it was the shoes. They had a little platform and a high heel that made her even taller, a strap that tied below her perfect red toenails, and another one that tied around her ankles. Those shoes were hot in the most accidental way possible.

  Or her hair. It could have been that. She’d cut it, maybe, and it tumbled around her bare shoulders and down her back. He missed seeing that chain in her ear. On the other hand, if he brushed her hair back behind her ear, he’d be able to uncover it just for him, so he could kiss her there again. She had a silver heart on a chain around her neck, and that was all. No other ornamentation. Nothing but soft skin and all that personality.

  She was made up, though, and he loved it, even though he liked her face just fine naked. The eyes that were normally hidden behind her glasses were almond-shaped and tilted up at the corners under her black-winged brows, her cheekbones sliced across her face like she was daring you to take her on, and her mouth was painted rose, the lips looking richer and fuller than ever.

  She still wasn’t cute. He wasn't sure she was even pretty. She was beautiful.

  He realized, all of a sudden, that she was just standing there and looking at him, a hand on her cocked hip and a sexy tilt to her head, while a smile played over that rose-red mouth.

  “Uh…” he said, then shook his head to try to clear it. “I’m trying to think what to say. What happened to my painter? And darlin’, I’m not even going to try to kiss you hello, because I’m scared to mess that up. You look great. I’m going to say that and shut up.”

  Dakota’s smile was the tiniest bit smug. “Russell says you’re a silver-tongued devil. I don’t call that your best effort.”

  Blake laughed out loud. “What do you think, Russ? Think I’m good enough for her?”

  Russell settled back into his chair with a sigh. “Nope. Guess you’ll just have to do your best. Game’s back. You two should go on and go out.”

  Dakota bent and brushed her lips over his cheek. “Bye. I’ll text if I’m going to be late.”

  He reached for her hand and gripped it. “You remember,” he said, his voice low. “You’re just as good as everybody else there.”

  She straightened up fast, blinked, and asked Blake, “You ready?”

  “Yeah,” he said, breathing in the rich, exotic scent of her. “I’m ready.”

  You look great, Dakota told herself. You’re going to do fine. Just be quiet and let Blake do the talking. He’s good at it. Meanwhile, you are poised. Classy. Mysterious.

  Well, no. She was a house painter, and everybody knew it. But she’d pretend.

  Everybody would be looking at Blake and not her anyway, because (a) he was the one with hundreds of millions of dollars, and (b) he looked fantastic. He was wearing the Cowboy Angel of Death clothes again. Black T-shirt, dark-gray pants, tooled black cowboy boots. He’d shaved, too, which was flattering, although as far as she was concerned, he needn’t have bothered. That dark stubble of his looked nothing but hot. She might have spent some time imagining how it would feel against her skin the next time he was kissing her neck. Maybe.

  He shut her car door, hopped in himself, and took off, and she said, “So how’s it—” at the exact same moment he said, “So how is—”

  They both stopped talking, and Dakota said, “You go on.”

  Blake shook his head. “Can’t believe I’m nervous. I was just thinking, walking to your door, that this feels exactly like picking up my date for the senior prom. Except that I didn’t bring you a corsage and I’m dressed better.”

  “Now, why in the world would you have been nervous about your prom?” she asked, feeling better already. This was a big deal to him? Really? “Don’t tell me you weren’t homecoming king.”

  He glanced at her, that little grin starting to form, and she sighed and said, “It’s too depressing. So, what? Did you do a little dance with the queen, like the bride and groom at a wedding? Did you save your crown?”

  “Yeah, to the dance thing. It meant a lot to my date. She was a cheerleader. Man, she loved that night. And that’s a big nope on the crown. Tossed that thing the next day. A guy who keeps his homecoming crown is a guy who wears his Super Bowl ring.”

  “I bow to the knowledge of the master. So wearing your Super Bowl ring isn’t done?”

  “If you’re a tool, it is. Or if you’re going to be in a fight, maybe. They’re big suckers.”

  “How many do you have?”

  He glanced at her again, then sighed. “Crushed once more. One.”

  “What, I was supposed to memorize your stats? Sorry.”

  She was smiling, he was, too, and her tension of the past hours was gone.

  “So how about your prom?” he asked. “Who’d you go with? Anybody I’m going to have to punch tonight because he kissed you first?”

  That wiped the smile off her face. “I didn’t go.”

  He turned onto the lake road and started around the first of its curves. “Let me guess. You were one of those artistic types who thought prom was juvenile. Wore dark eyeliner and a lot of black. The kind of girl the jocks always had a secret thing for. Or maybe that was just me.”

  It took her a moment to answer. “I didn’t have a great time in high school.”

  “Oh.”

  He seemed to be thinking about how much to pursue that, so she asked, “Who’s going to be at this thing tonight?”

  “I don’t know, really. Michelle said something about ‘putting together some people you’ll want to know socially, going forward,’ which I translated as ‘People guaranteed to be boring.’ You see why I invited you.”

  “Oh, is that why?”

  He grinned. “Maybe it’s one reason.” He turned off the road and headed down the winding drive. “You been out here?”

  “Oh, no.” Her tone was dry again, and he shot another glance across the car, then parked in an eno
rmous circular driveway that already held ten or twelve other cars.

  “Well, whoever it is,” Dakota said, “it’s a lot of them. It won’t be too concentrated.”

  She hopped out and reminded herself, Classy. Mysterious.

  That idea deteriorated as soon as the door swung open to reveal Don Schaefer. Balding, glasses, golf shirt and slacks, as genial and casual as his wife tended to be cool and scary.

  “Blake!” Don said, pumping his hand and clapping him on the back for good measure. “Glad you could make it.” He turned to Dakota, put out his hand, and said, “Don Schaefer.”

  The dryness was all the way back as she put her hand coolly into his and said, “Hello. But you know me. Dakota Savage.”

  He stood still for a moment, and then he laughed, a jolly ho-ho-ho that actually made Dakota relax some. “Well, how about that? Didn’t even recognize you. That’s how women are, though, isn’t it, Blake? They get so glamorous, it’s like they’re living in some different world, whereas us poor slobs just go on looking exactly the same no matter how they try to shine us up.” He rubbed a rueful hand over his scalp. “Or not. I swear, Michelle looks prettier every year, and I lose a little more hair and gain another couple pounds. But why am I talking to you out here? Come on in and say hello to everybody. Some folks you’ll know, Blake, and some you won’t. Way it should be. Get you settled down and feeling at home, now you’re part of the community. Dakota can help you there, too. She’ll know just about everybody.”

  He was ushering them into a living room even bigger than Blake’s. A fairly astonishing room, in fact. All three sides were walled with windows, opening the room to the outdoors in spectacular fashion. One entire wall opened onto a wraparound deck, creating an indoor/outdoor space that doubled the room’s already substantial size. A grand piano sat in a corner, looking no larger than an upright under a peaked ceiling that rose twenty feet above it, while three separate cozy seating areas invited guests to settle in.