Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  “Blake,” she protested. “I’m painting.”

  “Not anymore.” He set her down. “Drop that roller, baby.”

  She put it in the pan, eyed him suspiciously, and said, “What?”

  He already had her cap off and her overalls unfastened. “We’re getting naked and going for a swim break before lunch, that’s what. This is too much like hard work. Get that off.” He was pulling his paint-splattered T-shirt over his head and working his shorts down his hips and over his bare feet. “You’re falling behind, honey.”

  “I’m not swimming naked,” she protested, but she didn’t sound too sure to him.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have any neighbors real close by.” She was still working on her boots and socks, so he helped her out. Skinny little ribbed tank top, check. Bra, check. Overalls and thong, double check. “Now, see,” he said when she was naked, “If you had a prettier bathing suit, I’d let you wear it. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with naked.”

  She had her hands on her hips. “Blake Orbison. I am not swimming naked with you.”

  He sighed. “I didn’t want to have to do this, darlin’, but…” He lifted her again, and this time, he tossed her right over his shoulder.

  Oh, yeah. She was squeaking some more, and he was heading out of the house and down the sloping lawn to the dock.

  “We’re naked,” she was still moaning. “Oh, man.” Which was when he tossed her in.

  So, yes, the weekend had its moments. And even with his painting deficiency, they managed to get through a whole lot of it. Enough so all she still had left to go by Sunday night was his entirely oversized game room. Two days' worth, she’d told him, which was perfect. Deadline met.

  This time, they ate dinner at Russell’s. And Blake was leaving Dakota there tonight, which he wasn’t one bit happy about.

  “That’s a first,” Russell said, setting out another of those Russell-meals that said he’d never heard of fat grams. Enchiladas, refried beans, and guacamole. Russell’s version of world cuisine. “Never had the customer help with the painting before. Most of ’em would be a menace anyway.”

  “Which he was,” Dakota had to put in. “Luckily, the horror is over.”

  “Got to get back to work now, though,,” Blake said. “My ego’s too damaged anyway. I have to do something I’m good at. And starting Tuesday, things get crazy. Got a few football players showing up to give me some star power for my grand opening, or maybe just get some free room and board, and then my mom and dad are coming in from Virginia that afternoon. In fact, I had a couple thoughts about that while I was painting today. First one—most important one—is that I’d like you both to come over for dinner on Tuesday and meet them. The folks, not the players. I won’t tempt fate.”

  He had to wait a few seconds, because Dakota was looking at her plate, then looking at him.

  “They won’t bite,” he finally said, when the silence had stretched out too long. “It’s dinner. You can do dinner. No different from me sitting here with Russ. Which is—OK, it was a little scary at first, but I got over it.”

  “All right,” she said, and he let go of that breath. The one he’d been holding.

  “And I thought you might give me a hand on the boat with the guys on Tuesday morning, Russ,” Blake went on. “For a guide fee, of course.”

  “Nope,” Russell said. Blake was sure he looked taken aback, and then Russell went on. “Friends don’t charge friends.”

  “Now, see, if you’d tell that to Dakota…” Blake said. “The way she’s gouging me on that paint job?”

  “Oh, friends can charge friends to paint,” Russell said. “But not to fish. That’s too much like a good time.”

  “You haven’t met these guys,” Blake said.

  Which wasn’t true, of course. As soon as Blake had spent an hour in their company, it was like he’d never left.

  Three of them, the early arrivals, went out on the boat with him and Russell on Tuesday morning, and it didn’t take long for the beers to get cracked and the trash talk to start.

  Blake had left Russell in the cockpit to drive the boat and was on the mezzanine with DeWayne Johnson, who’d been catching Blake’s passes since Ole Miss, but was catching somebody else’s now. Anton Culpepper was kicking back with only one eye on his rod, not seeming too concerned about any possible salmon he might or might not be catching. And Eric Halvorsen was talking.

  “DeWayne and Anton went and got married,” the left tackle was complaining. “Pretty soon, there’s going to be nobody to cut loose with except the rookies.”

  “Uh-oh,” Anton said, lazily as always, his ball cap pulled low over his eyes. Anton never looked fast until he did. Saving his energy, he always said. “Somebody better tell Coach. Corrupting the youth. Could be time to dial it back, maybe. Bein’ married’s a whole lot easier. Only one name to remember.”

  “Who remembers their names?” Eric said. “I just call ’em ‘honey.’ Plus, she’d want to decorate my house, and I’ve had enough decorating. I got a new house,” he told Blake.

  “You’re kidding,” Blake said. Eric was famous for having lived in a hotel for the past three years. He’d always said, “Why not? Maid service, room service, valet parking, full-time security, and two restaurants and a bar in the lobby. I don’t have to hire anybody to make it happen, and I never have to worry that somebody’s going to break in while I’m on the road. It’s like magic.”

  “Only problem is,” DeWayne said now, “That house is a flat disaster. Dude’s got a pool table and a La-Z-Boy and a big-screen TV, and that’s about it. You sleeping in that La-Z-Boy, man? Redneck paradise.”

  “Nah,” Eric said. “That was before. I’ve got furniture now. I got this lady to do it. She backed up a whole moving van. I’ve got towels, even.”

  That set DeWayne and Anton off. “Towels,” Anton said. “Look out.”

  “I got these real ugly pictures, though,” Eric complained. “She asked me what style, and I said, ‘I don’t know. Modern, I guess.’ I meant, not like my grandma’s house. I didn’t mean that. Like this one? It’s a red stripe. I mean, it’s white, and then there’s a red stripe. It’s not even straight. Just smeared across there like somebody took a big fat paintbrush to it. And that’s not even the worst one. I got a black square, too. I’m serious, man. Black square. The lady said it was modern. I said, when my mom sees it, she’s going to say, ‘Eric, honey, you got took. That ain’t art. Nobody in their right mind would hang that over their couch.’”

  Blake smiled. “Guess you got three choices, then. Go art shopping, get married, or have your mom come pick for you.”

  “Nah. She likes these things that look all… lit up. I can’t explain it. Houses. They got too much light in ’em, like they’re cozy or something. Light in the windows.”

  “And, man,” DeWayne said, “you too ugly to get laid if you got that kind of thing on your wall. You better stick with the black square. Girl’s gotta look somewhere else then, ‘cause she ain’t gonna be lookin’ at no black square.”

  “I could buy one of those birds like you got hanging in your lobby, Blake,” Eric said. “See, that looks like something. You can tell it’s an eagle. It’s not a house with cozy windows, and it’s not a black square. It’s a bird of prey, man. That’s cool. Where did you buy it? Maybe I can order one of those.”

  When he’d brought Dakota’s pieces home from Portland, Blake had hung the eagle in the resort’s lobby. It just looked too good there, like the finishing touch. He was getting a little sign made to go next to it with her name on it, too. If he had his way, Dakota would have that stained-glass career sooner rather than later. She’d been made for something more than painting bathrooms.

  “You can’t order that,” he told Eric. “That’s one of a kind. But I know the lady who did it. She’s painting my house right now, but she’s an artist, up and coming. She does special projects, too. I don’t mean she’d do exactly what you said, because she doesn’t work th
at way, but if you said, ‘I want an eagle,’ she’d come up with something better than you’d have been able to imagine. But you should see some of her other stuff. I’ve bought three pieces off her, about the prettiest things you’ve ever seen. And sexy—whoa. Not black squares, and not houses with light shining out of the windows, either. I mean, serious stuff. I couldn’t hang it in the resort, because you could call it downright erotic, but it sure looks nice in my bedroom.”

  He was about to say more, but he changed his mind. He realized at the last minute how that would sound. Like he was sleeping with his house painter, that was what.

  “Huh,” Eric said. “Well, hey. I should probably do that.”

  “Expensive, of course,” Blake said. “Tell her you’re a friend of mine, that I thought maybe she could give you a discount. Only three thousand.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Eric said. “So where could I take a look at that?”

  Blake finished off his beer. “She’s painting my house, like I said. I’ve got to go pick up my folks at the airport soon as I get back, but go on and stop by and ask her to show you those couple things she did for me. Be sure to tell her I said three thousand. The eagle would be more, though,” he thought to add. “And you’d have to wait.”

  With any luck, Dakota would be three thousand dollars richer by tonight. She could start letting go of that mental calculator Blake had seen whirring in her brain all weekend, no matter how many times he’d pulled her into the lake or into bed. She could start to see what he did, that she had a future out there waiting for her. All she had to do was take it.

  Dakota was painting trim in a frenzy, thinking that Blake’s house had far too many windows. It was already past two o’clock, and she needed to be done by four if she was going to have time to go home and get dressed in time to come out again and meet Blake’s parents.

  Besides, she wanted it to be done. For his parents, and for… something else. Once she wasn’t working for Blake anymore, she’d find out what they had, or what they didn’t. Once he had to make an effort to see her.

  Her stomach dropped at the thought, but that was why she needed to know. That was exactly why.

  In two days, the resort was opening. And then what?

  He’s on vacation, Evan had said. It wasn’t exactly true, but it was partly true. Blake had two other houses—at least two she knew about. And his home was in Portland. This was a vacation house, and he wasn’t going to stick around much longer. He’d complained about his furniture, but he hadn’t changed it. People who actually lived in a home, who hated their furniture and could afford to replace it—they did it. People who were visiting didn’t bother.

  At least she assumed that was how it would work.

  It took a while for the voice from upstairs to make it into her consciousness. There it was again, though.

  “Anybody home?”

  Blake. He was supposed to be picking up his parents. Did he… maybe he wanted her to go with him. Maybe…

  She put her brush hastily away and pulled off her cap. On her way to the stairs, she unsnapped the bib of her overalls. Whatever he said, she knew her overalls weren’t in any way cute. Her orange tank top, though, was. At least he seemed to think so.

  She ran up the stairs, calling out, “Right here,” then got to the living room and rocked to a stop.

  There was a man in the kitchen, and it wasn’t Blake. It was somebody bigger. Probably six-five, and huge. Blonde hair and a flattened nose, wearing board shorts and a T-shirt, enormous hands hanging by his sides.

  He turned and looked at her out of narrow blue eyes, and she had an icy moment of pure fear before she whirled and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” he said in a voice so deep, it was as if it was coming out of the bottom of a barrel. “You’re the painter. Sorry if I scared you. Blake said to come on in.”

  “Oh. Yes. I am.” One of Blake’s teammates? Blake had told him to come on in? Like Dakota would be fine with having some huge, strange guy walk in while she was alone?

  She stayed where she was and willed her heart to settle down. She wanted to fasten her overall straps, because whoever this was, he was looking her over too closely, and her tank top was too low. She didn’t, because it would have looked defensive. “Can I help you?”

  Now, he was smiling. It wasn’t a hugely better look for him. “Blake said you do art. Sexy art.”

  “Excuse me?” He’d come over from the kitchen now and was standing too close, like nobody had ever explained the concept of “personal space.” She took a step back.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Guess I’m supposed to say erotic. Erotic stained glass. That’s what he said.”

  “What?”

  “I saw that eagle, and I was thinking something like that. But then Blake said you’d done sex— I mean, erotic stuff, and I thought that’d be even better. He said I could ask for what I want.”

  Something cold was happening in the pit of her stomach. “What exactly did he tell you?”

  “I told you. That I could tell you my idea and you’d do it, so here it is. It’s like, the Kama Sutra.”

  “Uh… I think you might have…” What?

  “Not all of it,” the guy hurried on to say. “Just five or six positions. Sort of, you know, subtle. I mean, if it was stained glass, she might not even notice what it was at first. Then she’d look closer, and—boom. Hit her right between the eyes, get the mood going right there. And I’m asking her what her favorite one is, see, making it like a menu. I’m thinking oral both ways, then you got doggy style, and one with her legs up over my shoulders. Reverse cowgirl, maybe. That’d be good. And something where you can tell it’s anal, get that conversation started in a classy way. That’s six, right? Basic stuff. Does she like to ride, or does she like to be on her knees? That’s, what do you call it. Empowerment.”

  She couldn’t believe it. She could not. “Let me guess. You’ve got a stripper pole in your bedroom.”

  His eyes got a faraway look. “Damn. I never thought of that. That’d be good, too. I never had my own place before. Blake said three thousand apiece for the pictures. So that’s, what, if there’s six? Eighteen thousand?”

  Time to shut this down. “You’ve been given wrong information. I don’t do that.”

  “Blake said you did. Said I should ask you. It’d be classy. Just the position, not like I’m asking you to do her tied up, or some kind of spread beaver shot or anything. So which ones would turn you on best if it was you? I mean, getting oral, obviously. But what else?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I think you need to go. You have the wrong idea of what I do.”

  He scratched his head. “Well, shoot. Blake said…” His expression cleared. “Wait. He’s pranking me, right? He knew I’d think you were hot, and he’s trying to make me look dumb so it’ll be harder for us to hook up.” He laughed. “Damn. He’s a sneaky bastard. OK, forget all that. So when do you get off here? I’ll buy you a drink out there at the resort, we can talk about you doing one of those eagles for me, and maybe you’ll feel like helping me make my list. Now that Blake put it in my head, I want that art bad.”

  “I’m not interested.” She wasn’t getting a menace-vibe anymore. She was just mad.

  “Aw, honey, come on. I meant it about the eagle, that I’d buy that off you. And if we did hook up, it wouldn’t just be about me. I meant that, about the menu thing.”

  “Blake shouldn’t have shared my information with you.” It was as cold as she could possibly make it, and now, she was fastening her overall straps. “I’m not interested either way. Any way.” Blake couldn’t have said anything to make this cretin think she’d do something like that. He couldn’t. Blake wouldn’t do that to her.

  “Oh. I get it,” the guy said. “You and him are…” He made a motion with his hands that she’d like to think meant something other than what she knew it meant. “Hey, that’s no big deal either. He doesn’t mind sharing, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not unless it’s h
is girlfriend.”

  The blood was leaving her head. “Well, maybe I do,” she managed to say. “And that’s it. Get out.” It wasn’t her house, no. But she didn’t care.

  “Man.” The giant was shaking his head. “See, now, at least I’m straight up. I’m real sorry. Blake’s… he’s on the marriage plan. I guess he didn’t tell you that, but hey, I like you. I mean, really, not just because you’ve got a good body. You’re feisty, and I like that. Kinda exotic, too. But Blake… nope. He’s looking for this certain woman, see. I mean, not just for fucking. For marrying. The conservative type, you know. Somebody with her own money and a big-time job, so he knows she’s not a gold-digger. I shouldn’t tell you, but like I said, I like you. Plus I need to get him back for setting me up like that.”

  She wanted to put a hand onto the back of the sofa, but she didn’t. “And you know this how? The same way you knew I’d make your porno art?”

  “Well, because he said. He’s been saying that for a while. Sorry. It’s not like it’s a secret. So—hey. I’m going. Sorry if I made you feel bad. If you want to have that drink, just have them buzz my room. I’m here two more days.”

  It was almost six by the time Dakota got home. She parked the truck and opened the front door, and when Bella rushed to meet her, she gave the dog some extra love and had to force herself not to drop into a heap on the floor and bury her face in Bella’s fur. She’d kept it together on the whole drive home, but she wasn’t going to be able to do it much longer.

  “Hey,” Russ said, coming from the hallway as fast as his hobbling gait would take him. “Where’ve you been? It’s almost time to leave.”

  He was in a white button-down shirt, dark slacks, and the string tie she’d bought him last Christmas, with a sterling silver and turquoise clasp. His hair was flattened down and combed so neatly, and the lump was rising in her throat. Russell, dressing up, getting his hopes up that this was going to work.