No Kind of Hero (Portland Devils Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  She hesitated. “Five more minutes,” she told the dog. And then she went into the shop next door. The new one. Soap You Up. After that . . . she really went wild.

  Well, relatively.

  All those inappropriate thoughts might have been why, when Dakota Savage called her the next day, Beth said what she did. Or maybe it was the book.

  “Hey,” Dakota said when Beth picked up the phone after checking that it wasn’t Portland and it wasn’t her mother. She was lying in the hammock, and she wasn’t reading her paperback. She’d started the thriller the night before, and when her attention had wandered, had gone searching through the virtual stacks instead. Somehow, she’d downloaded something even more high-octane, and she was now on Book Two. A billionaire and a librarian, a lifetime Good Girl with a kinky side. They were putting each other through hell, but they were also putting each other through their paces, and Beth could tell she was going to be reading Book Three today.

  The only progress she was making so far was in laziness and debauchery, but she was batting a thousand there. Halfway through her break, and had she bought a juicer and started a detox program? She had not. Had she journaled her journey? Nope. Had she even left this property today, other than for a long, cool swim in the lake that made her hammock time feel even more delicious? Not a hope. Kegel-wise, though, her training was going great. She was tuned up and ready to go.

  “Hey,” she said back to Dakota. She stretched out a little more luxuriously, rubbing one silky red-toenailed foot over the other and making the hammock sway, inhaling the scent of pines mingled with her mother’s roses and dragging her mind away from the throb in her body. “What’s up?”

  “I thought you might go out for that dinner with me,” Dakota said. “A drink, anyway. Blake’s out of town, I’ve been working like crazy on my glass to catch up on the orders after my layoff, and I need some stimulation. If I watch another baseball game with my stepdad, I’ll go insane. Help me out. Want to go to Heart of the Lake?”

  Dakota had broken her arm on the Fourth of July. Beth knew that, too. A whole lot more exciting things had happened in Wild Horse in the past few months than had happened during her own eighteen years of residence, and none of them were more surprising than the whirlwind romance between Dakota Savage, house painter, and demigod NFL-star-turned-businessman Blake Orbison.

  The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. “That’d be good. But maybe we should go someplace redneck instead.”

  A pause, and then Dakota said slowly, “Why would that be?”

  Oh. Stupid. Thoughtless. “Not because of you,” Beth hurried to say. “Because of me. I know you’re not a redneck. I mean, you’re an artist. I don’t know. I was thinking it would be fun to sort of . . . step out a little. Dance, maybe. Drink beer.”

  “I’m still a redneck,” Dakota said, her voice easy again, and Beth breathed a sigh of relief. “Artist or not. Right. You can step out, and I’ll be the sober friend who doesn’t dance. That’ll be a switch.”

  “You don’t dance?” It was too hard to have this conversation over the phone. Beth didn’t know Dakota well enough, not anymore. Maybe not ever. Had Beth insulted her? Dakota had always seemed so wild and free, so tough and sure of herself. Like there was no redneck bar and no redneck that could ever get the better of her.

  Dakota laughed. “I dance. But when your boyfriend’s the biggest employer in town, nobody asks you. Plus, Blake can be a little scary when he’s riled. Ten bucks says I don’t dance tonight, unless I do it with you. But all right. Beer, band, and possibly burgers. And if there’s going to be carousing involved, I’d better pick you up. See you at seven.”

  When Dakota walked into the cottage, she took one look at Beth and said, “No.”

  “Pardon?” Beth asked, startled. Dakota looked good—long dark hair, sparkling brown eyes, high cheekbones, bronzed skin, toned body. Gauzy blouse, cowboy boots, distressed jeans. Exciting, vivid, and alive all the way to her work-short fingernails, which weren’t polished, because Dakota didn’t need to be perfect to be sexy. Damn it.

  “Were you kidding about the carousing?” Dakota-the-Perfectly-Imperfect asked.

  “No. Of course not. What? I’m wearing heels. And tight jeans.” As tight as she could manage, anyway, though she’d had to put them in the dryer on high heat to get them that way. The juice cleanse would have been a bad idea.

  “Put sleeves on that blouse,” Dakota said, “and it’s a camp shirt. A camp shirt is not sexy in any way, shape, or form. Even I know that. And your hair’s in a knot.”

  “A messy knot.”

  “A knot,” Dakota said again. “No knots at a redneck bar. You’ve been gone way too long. What else do you have in your closet?”

  “Not that much. I’m on . . . sort of vacation. I didn’t bring many clothes.” Or you could say that she’d drifted around her condo throwing items into her suitcase at random and having to suppress the urge to leave it all behind, jump in her car, and drive.

  Dakota took one more critical look. “Do you want my suggestions? Seriously? Is this a slumming thing for you, or what? I don’t know what’s happening in your life now, so just tell me. What are we doing here?”

  Beth laughed, she was so surprised. “Were you always this up-front? I didn’t remember that.”

  “Probably not,” Dakota said. “Life lessons, and possibly a little Blake Orbison rubbing off. Call it the power of security.”

  “All right,” Beth said. What the hell. It was Dakota, and she liked Dakota. “I need a . . . a guide. I want to try being a different person, or at least pretend to be for a night or two, and it’s been a long time since I was wild.”

  Dakota looked dubious now. “Were you ever wild?”

  Beth could feel herself flushing. “Once or twice. But it’s been a while since I went to a . . . where are we going, exactly?”

  “The Yacht Club.”

  “Oh.” Beth swallowed. “Well, yeah. I definitely need some help.”

  “The jeans are OK,” Dakota said. “What bra are you wearing?”

  Beth lifted her shirt and showed her, then had to laugh. “If this were this book I’m reading, we’d be forgetting all about going out and getting busy at this point.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Dakota said, “but that’s not how I roll. OK, show me what else you’ve got, bra-wise. I can do everything else, but I can’t do the bra, and I can’t do shoes. Tell me you have cowboy boots.”

  “Maybe in the house, in my old closet. Unless my mom threw them away.”

  “Let’s go,” Dakota said. “And then we’ll head over to my house and work on the rest of it. I have a feeling this is going to be very, very entertaining. Blake’s going to be sorry he missed it.”

  Evan might have been grumpy.

  Gracie had repaid him, after he’d taken her for that great outing complete with the ice-cream store, by being up half the night fussing. This morning, giving her the first bottle of the day and marginally more awake, he’d realized why. A reddened patch of gum and a hard little white spot beneath it.

  “Well, hey, princess,” he told her, lifting her to his shoulder, “you’re getting a tooth.”

  In answer, she threw up on him.

  He took her to the lake on Saturday afternoon and didn’t look for Beth. So he wasn’t surprised when she wasn’t there. But by six o’clock, he’d pretty much had it. Which was when his mom called.

  “Hi, baby,” she said. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. Gracie’s getting a tooth.” And at the moment, swatting the spoon away, causing a glob of rice cereal to fly through the air and slide down the cabinet before hitting the floor. The one he’d cleaned today just for her. Babies could write the book on ‘ungrateful’. “How about you?”

  “Oh.” His mom paused a moment, then said, “I’m coming over and sleeping on your couch tonight, if that’s all right with you. My air conditioner picked today to go out, wouldn’t you know it.”

 
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’ll come check it out.”

  “I just did tell you. It’s too hot now to fix it, and it’s dinnertime. Do it in the morning and I’ll give you a great big kiss. Or I have a better idea. Why don’t you take the chance to go out tonight? I won’t be in your way then, and I can watch my shows.”

  He paused in the act of spooning more cereal into Gracie, which caused her to bang on the high chair tray and open her mouth wider like a baby bird whose mom was slow with the worms. Evan slipped the rubbery spoon into her mouth, pulled it out before she could get any ideas, dipped it into the Peter Rabbit bowl again, then said slowly, “Is your air really out?”

  “If it isn’t,” his mother answered tartly, “I’m suffering for nothing. Why would I do that, and why the heck wouldn’t you want to go out? There’s no prize for Most Suffering, and I don’t see that staying home every Saturday night is getting you anywhere but bitter.”

  “Thanks.”

  The sigh came right down the line. “Honey. I’m grumpy because I’m sweaty and hot. Unless you’ve got another use for your couch tonight, and I wish you did, I’m hanging up and coming over. You do what you want.”

  Did anybody else’s mom tell him he needed to get laid? He doubted it. But when Angela came through the door, held out her arms to a drooling Gracie, and made her sobs turn to smiles, Evan handed his baby girl over, took a shower, and changed into his best Levi’s, a clean T-shirt, and his good boots.

  A beer would be all right. Maybe some music, too. The Yacht Club. And if there happened to be a woman there who liked biceps better than smooth talk? That would be a bonus. Why had he responded to Beth yesterday—hell, every day—the way he had? Because he was desperate for it, that was why. And maybe because just looking at her had reminded him how silky her hair had felt when he’d first taken it down, how she’d gasped when he’d kissed her neck, how her skin had always smelled like vanilla.

  Maybe there were guys out there who could forget what a woman looked like naked, the salty-sweet taste of her when she was rocking and rolling, the feel of those long legs wrapped around your neck, her hands stroking over your shoulders like you were all she’d ever wanted. The way she’d hang on tight as she got closer, and the sounds she made when you finally got her there, when she forgot all about being proper and pretty and sweet and gave it up to you.

  Yeah, there were probably guys like that. He wasn’t one of them.

  Which was why he was going out. All this confusion was probably about April anyway, not Beth at all. Beth was probably just a, what did you call it. Displacement for the real issue. When you fell off the horse, you got back on. He clearly needed to go ahead and take that ride.

  He’d never been the casual kind. He’d always fallen too hard, loved too deep, stuck too long. But a man could change. Time to start.

  When he got to the Yacht Club, he almost drove on by. Because there amongst the pickups and sedans stood something as out-of-place as a socialite at a rodeo. A cherry-red Maserati Levante, the SUV of the stars, as sleek and shining as a supermodel and just as out of place.

  In other words, Dakota was here, driving the absolutely over-the-top rig Blake had bought her to celebrate getting the cast off her arm—and, as he’d pointed out when she’d objected, because she couldn’t haul on the steering wheel of her truck anymore. But really because he’d wanted to, which Evan had to admit he understood. Blake drove a Ford, but he’d bought Dakota a Maserati. That said something about him, and it wasn’t bad. Dakota had mentioned that Blake was out of town this weekend, too, which meant Evan should check in on her, because there were still too many assholes in this town.

  Damn. He ought to head over to the Heart of the Lake instead, where he’d have no responsibilities tugging at him, and where, come to think of it, he’d be a lot more likely to find a single woman looking for some fun to liven up her lakeside vacation, instead of hanging out someplace where he knew everybody’s name and they knew his. Except that he wasn’t a wine guy. He was a beer guy. And he did need to look out for Dakota. That was carved too deep to ignore.

  He parked at the end of the row and headed for the winking pink-neon Bar & Grill sign, through the late-evening sunshine slanting across the rows of powerboats at the public marina, and stepped into low light and loud music and laughter. Alden Sexton saw him and raised his pool cue at him in salute, and Caroline Caswell and her husband Jesse, who’d played defensive tackle in high school and had his own garage now, gave him a wave.

  Cowboy boots and jeans, beer and burgers and a band on Saturday night, and the girls next door dressed to kill. The Yacht Club.

  He nodded back at Alden, gave Caroline a wave back, and looked for Dakota. Checking on her. Checking in.

  She was sitting alone at a high-top in the corner with a beer bottle in her hand, which was all right. Looking happy, and no low life buzzing around. Maybe Evan actually didn’t have to look out for her anymore. Maybe Blake had this.

  Even as he watched, though, the number ended and a blonde in tight jeans was walking over to join Dakota with a guy right behind her. The girl climbed back up on her barstool, which was a sight in itself, then shook her head and laughed at the guy with her. Wayne Johnson, who was a dog and always had been, leaned over her and touched her shoulder, obviously trying to get her on the floor again.

  It didn’t work, though, because the band started back up, Wayne finally walked away, and the blonde stuck one booted foot up on the rung of her barstool and settled in. She reached a long arm up and swept that mane of hair over one shoulder, and Evan could see the strap of the black halter top around her slim neck, the curve of her waist beneath the band of black, and a whole lot of smooth, pale skin. And half of the guys at the bar could see it too, because they were watching.

  He knew that back. He’d kissed that back. Slowly. All the way down it, while she’d lain under him, shuddered, sighed, and trusted him. When he’d been the only one touching her.

  He should definitely have gone to the Heart of the Lake. He still could. Or he could head over to that one vacant barstool, the one next to Cheryl Fenton, who happened to have been recently divorced and also happened to be looking at Evan, then looking away. Like she did like biceps, and like she wanted to try on a quiet guy for size after the loudmouth she’d married.

  He could sit next to Cheryl, buy her a drink, ask her to dance, and eventually get to a slow one where he could pull her up tight and help her forget she’d wasted time on a loser and remember she was still beautiful. He could do it in front of Dakota and . . . everybody else. He should do it. Right now.

  When Beth saw Dakota wave, she didn’t pay much attention. Dakota had been waving since they’d got here, wrapped in a cloak of self-assurance and shining as brightly as the diamonds in her ears. Maybe it was Blake, and maybe it was more. Maybe it was doing what she loved and getting paid for it.

  Beth paid attention, though, when she heard the low voice that was nearly a growl coming from somewhere close behind her. “You should’ve told me you were going out.”

  Dakota rolled her eyes and said, “I don’t need a babysitter,” and Beth didn’t turn around.

  “I didn’t say you did.” Evan came into view, and Beth had to look at him then. Navy T-shirt, dark-blue Levi’s, chest and shoulders and thighs making their usual statement, and pale-blue eyes as watchful as a cougar’s. She knew how intense those eyes could get, and right now? They were well on their way. And she was supposed to be dancing. With somebody else. That was the whole point of the evening. She should have stayed on the floor with what’s-his-name, except that he’d held her too close.

  And her discomfort at that didn’t mean there was anything wrong with her. She’d been plenty heated up reading that book today.

  Over a fictional hero. Not a real man. In fact, she hadn’t been anything but stiff and frozen for so long, she’d forgotten what it felt like to get hot and bothered. She took a final sip of her beer, which was warm, and wanted another one. Except tha
t she’d already had two.

  “Oh, I think you did,” Dakota said, and Beth struggled to remember what this was about besides Evan towering over her and staring at her with those eyes. “I’ve got a big, strong man now, remember? You don’t have to be my hero anymore.”

  “Funny,” Evan said, the growl still in evidence, but fading. “I was just telling myself that.”

  “That’s a fail, then,” Dakota said.

  Evan actually smiled. “Could be.”

  Dakota sighed. “Sit down. Join us. I’d have asked you to come with us if I’d known you were going out. Where’s Gracie?”

  “My mom’s at my place. Her air conditioner’s broken, so I thought, might as well have a beer.” Evan sat down, and this table was too small. His arm didn’t brush up against Beth’s, but she felt his heat anyway. Too close, and she reached for her beer to cool off and remembered it was gone.

  “Uh-huh,” Dakota said, then pulled her phone out of her bag and glanced at it. “Blake. Be back in a minute.” And she took off.

  Beth looked down at her glass again, then moved it around the table, tracing figures-of-eight in the condensation in a way she’d never have tolerated in herself during a client meeting. Evan sat silent a minute longer, then said, raising his voice to be heard over the band, “I didn’t hear her phone ring.”

  “Being tactful,” Beth said through a throat that had tightened.

  “I never saw you dressed like that, either,” Evan said. “Guess it’s new.”

  “I can dress any way I want,” Beth said, then could have bitten the words back. How childish could she get?

  “No,” Evan said. “You look good.” The waitress approached, and he said, “Hi. Whatever IPA’s on tap would be good,” then looked at Beth and said, “Want another one?”

  She shouldn’t. She should keep her wits about her. Instead, she said, “Yes, please,” and gave her own order.