Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  He didn’t answer. He was busy. She managed to open her eyes enough to look around. They were almost at the resort, near the swimming beach. And there was somebody walking along the shore near the building. A ways away, but still, he was there. She said, “Blake. Stop.”

  He sat up right away. “What?”

  She tugged her shirt down and hissed, “Somebody’s there.”

  He glanced toward the shore. “Security, that’s all. We’re ramping up the patrols with less than two weeks to go till the opening. But unless he’s got binoculars, he’s not thinking that I’m the luckiest guy in the world and he isn’t. He’s seeing my boat in the water. That’s it.”

  She squirmed off his lap, and he let her go. If she didn’t change their direction, Blake was perfectly capable of persuading her to waste her entire day. He was a convincing man. She said, “I tell you what. You take me out to dinner again tonight, after I put in my workday, and I’ll have you for dessert. I think I’ve got a debt to pay, and I’ll bet you’re just delicious. Consider that an IOU.” She put her lips up to his ear and whispered, “And I won’t stop until you’re done. All the way, baby,” then danced back out of reach and said, “Right now, though, I need to cool off.”

  He wanted to tease her, work her up? Well, two could play that game. She didn’t wait for his answer, just ran lightly down the ladder from the flying bridge and then down to the mezzanine, climbed onto the edge, and leaped far out into the water.

  As always, the cold water shocked even in June, a tingling, jolting wake-up call, and she laughed out loud as she surfaced. That had been awesome. Blake’s T-shirt ballooned out around her, but who cared? He’d turned the boat, and the look on his face made her laugh some more. She treaded water and called up to him, “I’m going to trespass again. I’ll meet you at the marina.” And then she swam for the floating logs.

  It wasn’t even a hundred yards. Not nearly far enough to qualify as exercise, but it felt good all the same.

  She was still smiling when she dove and swam all the way to the bottom beneath the barrier, just for the heck of it.

  At first, she didn’t understand what had happened. She was swimming, and then she wasn’t moving. Something was brushing against her face, one of her arms. Water weed, she thought, suppressing the flash of instinctive panic at the age-old threat of an unseen presence in the water. Her monkey brain screamed Shark, her logical brain answered Lake, and she moved her arm to brush the weed away.

  Except that she couldn’t. She wasn’t going forward, either. Something had her. Something was grabbing her, and she couldn’t see what it was. It was dark under here, ten feet beneath the surface. Deep green water, and a filmy something at the edge of her vision.

  The thoughts processed in seconds that felt so much longer, like time had slowed.

  Focus. Calm. Figure it out. She forced herself to stop kicking forward, which was only getting her more stuck, and felt around her head and arm with her free hand. Fine filaments tried to cut at her, and there were so many of them.

  Some kind of web. A web that was torn, because her head was through, and one arm to the shoulder. The other hand was free, behind whatever it was.

  Pull out your arm and swim backwards. She was still holding her breath. Of course she was. But it was getting harder, the panic starting to rise, trying to get loose and racket around her brain. Because there was nothing to push off of. Every time she tried, her hand went through a hole, and she had to tug it out. She tried to grab whatever was holding her arm, but something was caught. Stuck.

  Net. A torn net. She reached above her head, grasped the filaments, and tried to wrench them off, but something was stuck there, too. She couldn’t get them off her hair. And Blake’s shirt was trapping her.

  She was kicking hard to stay horizontal, not to have her legs float upward. Trying with one hand to wrench the sodden, flapping shirt off her body, twisting in the water. On her back now, still far down in the green, the lighter water above her taunting her, the air much too far away. And it was getting so hard to hold her breath. Her fingers clawed at the wet cotton, but she could barely see now. Her lungs were bursting, and the water was darker. Her hand groped, fell away.

  The water flickered, blurred around the edges. Then it went black.

  Blake watched Dakota swimming away and had to laugh even as his body protested her defection. Seemed like all she ever did was turn the tables on him.

  Tonight, though? Dinner sounded good, and that promise of hers sounded better. Dakota naked, on her knees, and not stopping until he was done? Oh, yeah. That would be just fine.

  He was still thinking about it when she disappeared from sight under the log, and he sighed, killed the idle, and started to turn the boat. It wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning. Breakfast, and then he could be taking her home by nine. Nine-thirty at the latest. And he’d tell her it was going to be an early dinner.

  Early and quick. He’d waited a long time for this. He was done waiting.

  He glanced toward shore again, maybe just because he liked looking at her.

  She wasn’t there.

  Half of him was thinking, She swam that fast? The other half was turning the boat, his pulse racing, his muscles tensing, his body saying Wrong before his conscious mind caught up.

  He got closer and realized why. A disturbance in the water on this side of the logs. Ripples that shouldn’t have been there. He was pushing that slow-idle button again on the thought, and then he was nearly sliding down the ladder, leaping over the side of the boat, and swimming hard.

  Precious seconds wasted, twice, to surface and orient himself. And he still didn’t see her. He was swimming along the edge of the logs where the water had been disturbed, turning his head, peering beneath him through water that wasn’t clear enough.

  He was on top of her before he recognized her. At least, he saw something far below, like a giant fish. Something pale.

  Legs. Kicking feebly. And then not.

  He was diving deep, touching her back, her arms, and she wasn’t responding. She was stuck, caught somehow, and at first, he couldn’t figure out how. He was groping around the billowing cotton of her shirt, the floating seaweed of her hair, and he felt it. Something catching her there.

  He felt around some more. Her head, her face. Whatever it was, it wasn’t around her neck.

  Pull. He grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her straight backward with all his might. A moment of resistance, then she came free, and he was dragging her to the surface, kicking hard.

  Her body was limp, her eyes closed. He said, “Dakota!” and got nothing. No response at all.

  Rescue breathing. Now. It wasn’t easy to do it in the water, but he managed. Pinching her nose closed with one hand, holding her in place with the other while his legs worked hard to keep him afloat.

  Two breaths. Still nothing.

  Get to shore. You can’t do the rest of it here. He grabbed her across the chest, his hand tucked in her armpit, and swam harder than he ever had. The shortest route around the logs, and then to the beach, using every bit of his strength and his will.

  It was fast. It seemed like forever. He stopped once along the way to give her a couple more breaths. Still nothing. Finally, he got his feet on the sandy bottom, and then he was hauling her, striding against the resistance of the water like it wasn’t there. Straight out of the lake and onto the beach, where he laid her down and dropped to his knees beside her.

  Try again with the breathing. Then move on. The long-ago lifesaving lessons in the community pool had come back to him in force. Three more breaths, done right this time, here on land, watching her chest rise as he filled her lungs with air.

  Check for a pulse first. Then chest compressions. If there wasn’t a pulse, her heart would have stopped. He could start it again, though. He had to. First, though, he got a hand under her ear and focused.

  It wasn’t easy. He was trembling himself, and she was so cold. He was about to give up and start work
ing on her chest when he thought he felt a faint movement under his fingers. Then he felt her jerk under him, heard the choking sound.

  He rolled her fast, and even as he did, she gave a convulsive heave and was expelling what was in her stomach. A trickle of water came out, that was all. But she was breathing. Huge, sobbing gasps, only her chest moving, her arms and legs still limp.

  Get help. He looked around. The guy who’d been on shore was nowhere in sight. He reached for his pocket, for his phone, and even as he pulled it out, realized it was drowned, as dead as Dakota’s had been.

  He couldn’t leave her. She was breathing now, but what if she stopped? He didn’t know if that could happen. He couldn’t risk it. He left the useless phone where it lay, got her under the shoulders and knees, and was running with her through the deep sand. His knee protested hard and threatened to buckle, and he wouldn’t let it.

  Off the beach, onto the boardwalk, then the sidewalk. Far too long a distance, and still, nobody was there.

  He was at the front doors of the resort now, a blank expanse of glass. Dark inside, nobody in sight, but somebody would be here. He had full-time security. Where the hell were they? He was kicking at the glass, hitting it with his bare foot. Over and over.

  Above him, the burglar alarm started an insistent clangor, the noise harsh and unrelenting. Good. That would bring someone. Dakota moaned in his arms, a protesting sound, but that was good, too. If she was hearing that racket, she was conscious.

  The man came running. Not from inside. From outside. Around the corner of the resort, coming fast, young and fit, shouting. “Hey! Hey! Get out!”

  Blake whirled and roared at him. “911! Ambulance! Now! Ambulance! Now!” His quarterback voice, the one that could reach the entire offense even over the din of sixty-seven thousand in Seahawks stadium.

  He was shouting like fourth and goal, and the guy heard, even over the alarm. He slowed, and his hand went to his belt. He had his phone out, and he was punching buttons, making the call. A few words, and then he asked Blake, “What happened? What do I tell them?”

  “Drowning. Tell them to run. Tell them now.” Dakota was still breathing, he thought, but her eyes were closed, her face white.

  The guy finished talking, then hung up, shoved the phone back in his pocket, unlocked the front door of the resort, stripped his shirt over his head, and made a quick pad of it. “Put it under her head,” he said. “I’ll get a blanket.”

  He took off, his footsteps echoing against the stone, and Blake laid Dakota gently down on the iron-hard floor. He was shaking himself, but she wasn’t, and her skin was so cold. He stripped his swim trunks off her, then the Devils T-shirt. It was torn, a huge triangular rip where she’d been caught and he’d pulled her free.

  By the time he had her clothes off, the security guard was running back again, a white down comforter in his arms. He threw it over Dakota and asked, “What else?”

  Blake was shoving his soaking dress pants over his hips, pulling off his briefs along with them, then yanking off his T-shirt. He climbed under the comforter and lay on the cold stone, then pulled Dakota over him. “Come on, baby,” he told her. “Climb on. Hold onto me. Come on.”

  She heard him, because she was trying, and her eyes had opened. Her movements were sluggish, but she was moving. Blake told the security guard, “Help me get her on top of me.”

  The guard did it, his movements decisive, unhesitating, not seeming to notice or care that they were both naked, and Blake thought vaguely, Probably ex-military. After that, the guy pulled the comforter over them both, straight over Dakota’s head, and said, “I’ll go out front and watch for the ambulance.”

  Blake said, “Yeah.” Dakota’s body was so cold over his, and he began to rub his hands over her back, up and down, chafing warmth back into her. He felt her begin to shiver, and he thought, Yes. Come on. Shiver, baby. Shiver hard.

  The ambulance didn’t take long. It just felt that way. The two paramedics put Dakota on a gurney, covered her with a blanket, and strapped her down, and Blake got to his feet, holding the comforter around his naked body.

  Dakota was shuddering now, her teeth chattering. She looked up at him as he walked beside the gurney toward the waiting ambulance and said, “B-b-blake. Your b-b-boat.”

  “What?”

  “It’s in the l-l-lake.”

  The security guard had been locking the door behind them, but now he was beside Blake again. He said, “Where?”

  “By the logs,” Blake said. What did it matter?

  “I’m on it.” The guy took off.

  “You n-n-need to give him a r-r-raise,” Dakota said.

  The paramedics were putting her into the back of the ambulance now, and Blake climbed up behind them. He smiled at her, though it felt shaky as hell, and said, “Good thought, darlin’. I’m on it.”

  At the hospital, a low brick building on the highway, Dakota was whisked out of sight into the ER. Blake stood on the sidewalk with the paramedics, and one of them looked him over and asked, “What about you?”

  “I’m good,” he said. “I’m fine.” His body was still trying to shake from the adrenaline, but he was used to that. If Dakota was fine, he was fine. She hadn’t looked all that wonderfully fine chalk-white, with her eyes closed and an oxygen mask on her face, but that was treatment, that was all. He’d had plenty of treatment himself in his time. Somehow, though, he was discovering that it was a whole lot different to be beside the gurney instead of on it. A whole lot worse.

  The paramedics looked at each other, then the older one said, “You can probably get them to help you out in the ER.”

  “I don’t need help,” Blake said. “I’m fine. I got wet, that’s all.” And had aggravated his knee, he’d found when he’d climbed down from the ambulance and felt it buckle under him, but that would settle down once he got some ice on it.

  “Dude,” the younger paramedic said, “you’re a little bit naked.”

  “Oh.” Blake hitched the comforter more securely around himself. He’d forgotten about that. “I’ll go see if they can help me out with that. Thanks, guys.” He hobbled along the sidewalk toward the main emergency entrance and headed inside.

  It wasn’t the big city, that was for sure. A woman was holding a toddler who clung to her and looked miserable, and an older guy was sitting with a reddening towel wadded over his hand with his wife beside him. That was it. They both looked up at his entrance. Blake nodded and made his uneven way to the nurse’s desk at the rear of the room while the woman behind it, a middle-aged woman dressed in plain blue scrubs, watched his progress.

  “Hi,” Blake said when he got there. “My…” He had to stop a minute and think how to put it. “My girlfriend just got brought in. Dakota Savage.”

  “The drowning,” the nurse said. She started to write something down, and Blake’s heart just about stopped.

  “What?” he managed to get out.

  She looked up. “Near-drowning. Sorry. That’s the word.”

  “Oh.” He did his best to get hold of himself. “Uh… I’m waiting for her. Letting you know I’m here.”

  “Name? Phone number? And I’ll need some information on her. Address, date of birth, insurance carrier.”

  None of which he knew. He indicated the comforter. “Seems I came here in my birthday suit. No phone. No wallet.” That was still on the bedside table, back on the boat. “If somebody can loan me a pair of pants and a phone, I’ll get Dakota’s dad out here, and he can give you all her information. But—wait. I don’t have his number. If you’ll look it up for me, I’ll be much obliged. Russell Matthews.”

  “You’ll want to get somebody to look at whatever’s wrong with that leg, too,” she said.

  “I’m fine.”

  She gave him the hairy eyeball. She had those half-glasses that made older ladies look scary. “You’re not fine,” she said flatly. “You think you’re fine. It’s adrenaline.”

  “Thanks. I’m familiar with adrenaline. Lo
ok, I’m about half crazy here. How about a pair of pants and a phone? I’ve got to call her dad. He needs to know. He needs to get here.” He added, any momentary vestige of humor deserting him, “And I also need you to call the sheriff and get him out here, too, right now. I don’t mean a deputy. I mean the sheriff.”

  She eyed him over the glasses some more. “Why would that be? Is there some crime here?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’d say so.”

  You could say that calling Russell was bad.

  Not that the man said much. He just said, “I’m on my way,” and hung up. But Blake stood there at the pay phone in his borrowed blue scrubs and had to lay his forehead and hands against the wall for a minute. Just for a minute. He knew what that call could have been.

  After that, he made a call to his assistant—another number he’d had to ask the long-suffering nurse at the desk to look up for him.

  Jennifer didn’t ask him why he was calling her at nine o’clock on Saturday morning. As soon as he said her name, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Long story. Here’s what I need you to do. Find out where my boat is—should be at the resort marina somewhere, but it was loose on the lake, and security’s been running it down, I hope—and get my wallet and keys from the master cabin. Bedside table. My truck’s down there at the marina, too. Take it to my house and get me some clothes and shoes, all the way down to the skin, and bring everything to the hospital. I don’t know where I’ll be exactly, and my phone’s dead, so you’ll have to ask. Ask them what room Dakota Savage is in. I’ll figure out a ride home for you.” He gave her a couple more instructions, then added, “And, Jennifer—right now.”

  “I’m out the door already. Dakota? How bad? Did you get hold of her stepdad? You need me to call him?”

  That wrenched him out of taking-care-of-business mode once again. He had to take a deep breath before he said, “She’s going to be all right. I hope. I already called Russell.”

  “I’m hanging up,” she said. “Driving.”