Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  She was opening and closing her mouth. Shaking her head, too. “I don’t even know where to start. First—last—you didn’t hold back, not that I noticed.”

  “I had a whole glass of wine before I made my move. I talked for an hour, I swear. About half killed me, too. You were in this same robe with nothing underneath, and all I wanted to do was lay you down, untie that bow, and finish the job you started. I knew how bad you needed to come, and I knew I was the man to get you there. I finally got started, and what did you do? You ran out, that’s what. I haven’t ached that bad since I was sixteen. I thought I might need medical attention, like when you take too much Viagra.”

  “You have never taken Viagra.”

  “Well, no. But I’ve heard.”

  She took her head in her hands and pressed her palms against her temples. “I’m a drowning victim, you know. You’re giving me an ache. A head ache. I am not going to stop halfway through painting your house. We made a deal.”

  “Only because I wanted you in my house. And now I’m unmaking it.”

  “You can’t unmake it.”

  “I just did.”

  “All right. Here’s the deal. I’ll stay with you tonight, and I’ll… wait. What am I agreeing to tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to take you shopping. You’ve got to look pretty at my grand opening. You’re my date.”

  “Excuse me? Have you invited me?”

  He sighed. “What did I just say?”

  “You have to ask.”

  He took her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed the backs of her fingers. Then he turned it over and kissed her palm. “Miss Dakota, may I have the pleasure of your company at my grand opening? And may I have the very great pleasure of buying you something almost as beautiful as you are to wear to it?”

  She looked like she was trying to think about it but was weakening. He liked her weakening. “Yes, you may,” she said. “Have the pleasure of my company, I mean. But I bought a dress. You saw it. You thought it was pretty, too.”

  “Trouble is…” He was still holding her hand, and now, he was running his thumb over her palm. He did like her hands. Slim and strong and capable, but when she touched you, you knew those hands belonged to a woman who felt everything she did all the way down to her soul. “Trouble is,” he said again, keeping his mind on the job, “everybody’s seen that dress. A woman needs a new dress for a special occasion. She needs new shoes, too. Killer shoes with sky-high heels and ankle straps. I do love you in ankle straps. I know exactly where to take you to get them, too.”

  “The car and driver,” she said. “The jet. This house. And now you want to buy me fancy clothes? I feel like a courtesan.”

  “You kinda look like it, too, right now. It’s a good look. You’re not my mistress, darlin’. You’re my girlfriend, and I want you to feel beautiful.”

  “Where were you thinking? How would you know where? There are some consignment shops that have gorgeous things. I’ll have all day.”

  “Nope,” he said. “My rules tomorrow. And how do I know? Research is my life.”

  That was how Dakota ended up in a fitting room at Anthropologie the next day. Which, yes, was the right place, all the way down to the chandeliers and the soft indie music. Nothing about what you needed, and everything about what you wanted. About clothes that were art, and luxury that said you were thirty, not fifty, and you could afford it. Or that, just maybe, you had a guy with a jet. A guy who was sitting on the husband-couch, his elbow on its back and one booted foot stuck out in front of him, with a smile in his eyes for every dress you came out to show him.

  A guy who said, “Pretty. But nope,” every single time, until she put her hand on her hip in the gorgeous tulle-skirted, flutter-sleeved, beaded blush-and-black confection and said, “I’m getting worn out here.”

  “Nah,” he said. “You’re doing good. You just haven’t found it yet. Come on, baby. Try a few more. I want you to knock my socks off, but what’s more important—I want you to knock yours off. I want you to know that nobody there is more beautiful than you.”

  “This dress is six hundred dollars,” she informed him. “I’ve never bought anything that cost more than two hundred dollars in my life. And by the way—your girlfriend was a supermodel.”

  He picked up a magazine, sat back, and opened it. “Yep. She was. My old girlfriend. And you’re more beautiful. Sorry, but you are. And that’s not the right dress. Color’s wrong with your skin, and you know it.”

  When she put on the right one, she knew. And when she walked out to show Blake, he put his magazine down and sat up straight.

  It was the flowers that had made her pluck it off the rack, and, yes, they were beautiful. Huge, lush, pink, full-petaled peonies, and they weren’t printed onto their black background. They were embroidered. They were something she’d have created in her glass, and they made you want to stroke them.

  But it was the cut that was selling Blake, she could tell. She cocked one foot and put her hand on her hip again, but she did it in a different way this time. Because this dress was perfect for her. One-shouldered and sleeveless, skimming and emphasizing her curves all the way down to the knee. And when she pivoted and showed him the back, with the pink ribbon belt tied in a bow and trailing nearly all the way to the slim-cut hem, he sighed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Baby, that’s gorgeous. See, now, look at your skin. Look at your shoulders and your pretty collarbones. You’re classy, you’re sexy, and you’re everything any man could ever want.”

  “Silver-tongued devil,” she said, trying to ignore the warmth that was spreading everywhere. Including to her heart. Especially to her heart.

  “Nope,” he said. “Honest man.” His eyes were shining gold, her breath was coming fast, and she was falling hard. “Lucky man.”

  They were on their way back to Wild Horse when Blake got the call.

  Dakota didn’t pay attention at first. She was looking out the jet window but not seeing anything, thinking up a schedule and a proposal and a plan. That is, until something in the tone of Blake’s voice caught her attention.

  “Yep,” he said. “Good. Don’t stop,” and hung up.

  “What?” she asked.

  All the fun and sweetness she’d seen in him these past two days was gone. “You were right,” he said. “There was broken glass on the beach. Right under the sand, in two spots. Two beer bottles’ worth. One of them just at the edge of the water, like you said.”

  “Oh.” The ice trickled down her spine as if she were under the water herself, still trapped. Her reaction made no sense, though. This was no more than the scenario she’d imagined. “What… what are you going to do?”

  “Already got more cameras going up, and we’re hiring more security. They’ve let the sheriff know about the glass, too, for what it’s worth. What’s that going to be, trespassing and littering?”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Have they found out anything? About… what happened to me?” A question she’d avoided asking so far. When they’d been in Portland, it had all felt so far away, and all she’d wanted to do was forget it. But she knew Blake hadn’t, and he wouldn’t.

  “He won’t tell me,” Blake said, confirming her suspicions. “Just says they’re investigating, and I should butt out.”

  “Which you hate.”

  “I do. But at least there was nothing in the water under the boulders.”

  She did her best to get a grip on her emotions. “Then that’s it. Whoever it was, they did focus on one thing—the swim area. And they wouldn’t have thought it would be this bad. They weren’t really trying to kill anybody, just disrupt things. And now you’re on it, and you’ve beefed up your security, and they see that.” She wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. All she knew was that she wanted it to be true.

  “They’d better see it.”

  She waited for him to say something else, and he didn’t. He didn’t look like the impossibly charming man who’d taken her shop
ping, the man who’d held her hand walking down the street. This was the hard man under the surface of the charm, and he looked dangerous.

  She shivered, and his expression changed. “Hey,” he said. “You’re all good. Nothing else is going to happen.”

  “I know it’s stupid. It’s just… sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still see it. I try not to go back there, but I still feel it. Like… danger. Like it’s still out there.”

  “I know,” he said. “Because I do, too. But it’s all right, baby. You’re safe.”

  The next morning, she went to see Evan.

  “Hey,” he said, setting down the roller in the living room of the Lake Street house. “You’re back.”

  “Can you take a break?” She held up two paper cups and waggled them in what she hoped was an enticing manner. “Wolf Canyon’s finest dark brew right here.”

  He took his cup and headed outside with her to sit on the steps of the wide wraparound porch. Barely past eight-thirty on this morning in late June, with a breeze coming off the lake. The water sparkled and rippled in the sunlight, a white boat carved a lazy semicircle through the water, and she took a sip of coffee and indulged in a dangerous moment of imagining that this could be her life.

  Sipping coffee on the porch instead of going to work. Yeah, right.

  “What’s up?” Evan asked, bringing her back to reality.

  She hesitated, not sure how to start, then said, “I have this thing. In Portland. With my glass.” She told him about the gallery. She didn’t mention Blake.

  Evan got still—more still than usual—which meant he was emotional. Finally, he said, “That’s great.”

  She waited, but that seemed to be all that was forthcoming. “I’ve got Blake’s house to finish, of course.”

  “Need help?”

  “No. He says no rush.”

  Evan shot her a glance, and she said, “Well, yeah. He’s cutting me some slack.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But here’s my plan. I’m going to pull out all the stops to finish his house around the grand opening of the resort on the Fourth. Then I want to take a month off painting.” She didn’t wait for Evan’s answer, but hurried on. “If I could get at least three pieces done, then I could get back to the painting part-time after that, at least for a month. If we had Danny and José full time to help you, we could manage it even if we got quite a bit of work. I need to make sure I’ve got plenty of pieces in reserve if the first ones go fast. If they really sell.”

  Evan was just looking at her, so she kept going. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t be all the way out of it. Blake wants to have a party at the house on the weekend after the Fourth for some of the people in town. He thought he could show off what I’d done—painting his house, I mean—and it would give M & O a push. We’ve never had enough of that high-end market, and this is exactly what we need to get it. I could still consult on the colors and do the sales part, and I wouldn’t take a draw for the month. I’d take less after that, too. If you could keep Danny and José working…”

  She stopped, because Evan had a hand up. “Hang on,” he said. “What do you mean, you won’t take a draw? What about Russ? What about the bank?”

  “I’ve made almost ten thousand dollars on the glass just in the past month. I sold two pieces in Portland just a couple days ago. I charged a lot, and they paid it. I’m far enough ahead to do this, easy. I could take two months off. It’s just having enough man-hours for you.”

  “So let me get this straight. Every bit of this hangs on Orbison. He’s going to give a party, and you think that’s going to get us contracts. You’ve made ten thousand bucks, but where has it come from? From him, I’ll bet. And you want to count on that? That’s your big plan?”

  “The party idea is about ten days away,” she said, trying to rally. “I think I can hold his interest for that long. Give me some credit. And the gallery isn’t Blake. It’s me. It’s mine. My deal.”

  “Is it?” Evan’s ice-blue eyes were steady on hers, looking too deep, seeing too much. “He takes you to Portland on his plane, and somehow, you’ve got the kind of deal you’ve never been able to land? Why don’t I believe that?”

  She was hanging by a thread, but she kept going. “It’s not about what you believe. I’ve got an opportunity. I’m asking you if you’re willing to work without me for a while. I’m telling you that I’ll be doing my part to bring in business and do the initial work, so you won’t suffer. If you get in a bind, I’ll step up.”

  Evan set his coffee cup down on the step beside him, every move deliberate. “It’s not about me, and it’s not about the business. We’ll get by. We always have. It’s about you making a stupid decision. Orbison paid too much for a few pieces of glass because he wanted to get in your pants, and now you’re ready to jump off the deep end.”

  All right. That was too far. “Oh really? Because I’m such an idiot that I can’t make a rational choice to go after my best opportunity ever to do what I want most?”

  “No. Because you’re in love with him, and you’re hoping too much.”

  The words punched the air out of her chest. “Maybe I am. So what?”

  “So he’s not in love with you.”

  Another jolt, and then her chin lifted. “He saved my life. And why couldn’t he fall in love with me? Why not?”

  “Dakota.” Evan sighed. “All right. He got you out of the lake. He’s an OK guy. He talks good and looks good and sounds good. He has a fancy house, he has a plane, and he can write you a big fat check and make you feel like all your problems are over. But how long is he going to be in Wild Horse once the resort opens? Have you asked him that? He’s on vacation, or close enough. So, sure, go on and take a month. If you get us more work, that’s great. But make it be about the glass, not about him. You don’t have him, and you’re not going to get him. He’s not long term. It’s not going to happen.”

  Her blood was heating, and not in a good way. “Wait a minute. When April got pregnant, did I say, ‘Watch out, Evan, because she’s not going to stick?’ No, I didn’t. But I thought it. I was scared the whole time she was pregnant that she’d take off before she even had the baby, but you were in love with her and I knew you wouldn’t listen anyway, and even if you did, what could you do about it? So I shut up and hoped I was wrong. Which means that when she left, I didn’t say ‘I told you so.’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and I helped you pick up the pieces.’”

  “I didn’t have pieces. I was fine.”

  “You were not fine. You were a mess. And I didn’t tell you so. I didn’t tell you it was bound to happen, because you’d picked the wrong person to love. I treated you like an adult. An adult who was my friend.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Well, you’re not helping. Look. I know what I am. I know who Blake is. And yes, I’m…” She took a breath and said it. “Maybe I’m in love with him. But I don’t have any illusions. That’s why I’m taking this chance and throwing everything I have into it. Maybe he helped me get hung in that gallery, but if I sell there, it’s because of my work. My talent. Nobody can make people buy. It’s up to me to make sure that what I’ve got to sell is the best I can make it, and I’m going to bust my butt to do that. I’m asking you to help me. I’m not asking you to warn me about my broken heart. I know all about my broken heart. I can see it coming down the road exactly the same way you can. I’m asking you to let me do what friends do, to let me make my mistake and take my medicine, and then to be there when I’ve done it. Just like I’ll do for you when you fall in love again.”

  “I’m not falling in love again.”

  “Yeah, Evan. You tell yourself that. You were made to be a woman’s rock. That’s the man you are.”

  He stood up. “You’re wrong. Not anymore. I’ll be Gracie’s, and that’s it. So—yeah. Take your chance. Take your month. Do what you have to do. And when Orbison’s gone, I’ll be here. And I won’t say I told you so.”

&nbs
p; Evan was wrong. Not about Blake, maybe, but about her. She went out with Blake on Friday night because she wanted to. For once, she was doing what she wanted. Broken heart be damned.

  Or maybe because Blake said on Thursday night, when he’d come home to find her painting the downstairs bedroom and pulled her first into the hot tub and then into his tree-trunk bed, “So do I get to take you out on the town Friday night? Seems to me you’ve still got something to make up for.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, trying to ignore the hand that was still lazily grazing her body from shoulder to hip, then traveling up again as if he didn’t know how that was lighting her up. “I don’t think I owe you anything.”

  “Oh, really?” He shifted onto an elbow and began to focus his considerable attention on her breasts. “Not even teasing the hell out of me with that perfume and those jeans that barely covered you, showing me what would happen if I unbuttoned one single solitary button, when I was supposed to be paying attention to somebody else?”

  “Not my fault that you—” She sucked in a breath as he shifted lower, cupped her breast in his hand, and started to work with his lips and tongue. “Went out with the—ah—wrong woman.”

  “Mm,” he said. “Hang on a second, darlin’. Let me get you a little closer to a ‘yes.’”

  Which was why, on Friday night, she was wearing those same distressed jeans, the little white blouse with its asymmetrical hem, and her platform sandals, walking into the Heart of the Lake with another big guy in jeans and boots. Except that this time, they were both with the right person.

  And except that Steve Sawyer wasn’t sitting with Jerry Richards tonight. He was with Ingrid.

  Dakota saw them as soon as she followed the hostess onto the patio. Strings of white lights in the trees, candles lit on the tables even though it was barely dusk. And Ingrid and Steve.