Page 1 of Silver-Tongued Devil
“Man, I’m hot.” Dakota Savage tossed the paint roller back into the pan, then wrenched off her respirator and goggles with a sigh of relief.
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything. I’m classy like that.” Her partner, Evan O’Donnell, was already methodically stacking materials on the bare concrete floor of what would eventually be the Tamarack Suite. After weeks of work, the Wild Horse Resort, one hundred sixty rooms and suites of town-transforming luxury destination, was barely more than a week away from being completely painted. Which was good, because the sooner they were done, the sooner M & O Painting would be getting their next check. And bad, because the sooner they were done, the sooner their nice big job would dry up. Literally.
“What? Oh. Yeah, right.” Dakota scraped a couple random flecks of white paint from her glasses with a fingernail, squirted the lenses with water, then dried them on a somewhat-clean section of her white overalls before grabbing a rag and the bucket of water and starting to wipe down the windows. Everything stunk now that her respirator was off, but, hey—stink was her life. “Soon as we’re done, I’m swimming. I mean assoonas we’re done, I’m in that water, baby. Treat time.”
Now that she was clearing the glass of its protective film of hairspray and could see the lake again, she was tugged toward it by a nearly physical force. Today was only Wednesday, with two long days still to go before she could disappear into her workroom. She had this idea… but it would have to wait. Meanwhile, the temperature outside was hotter than north Idaho had any right to be in late May and even higher in here, especially beneath her layers of clothes. No A/C for the crew. No matter how “luxury” the resort was going to be or how rich its owner, the budget was everything. People, on the other hand? Not so much. She wouldn’t have taken this job for any money if she hadn’t needed—well, any money.
But out there… out there were celestial blue sky, rippling blue water, and the cedar-clad mountains rising beyond. Directly below Dakota’s vantage point on the resort’s fifth floor stretched the marina, its neat rows of newly constructed docks as yet boasting only a handful of boats instead of the crowd that would eventually—everybody said—fill every slip. And then, of course, there was that long crescent of sandy beach off to the left beneath a golf course that had once been a residential neighborhood. The golden sand of the private beach glittered under the afternoon sun, beckoning her with the promise of a refreshing swim in water that was still nearly winter-cold, but who cared?
Of course, she didn’t plan on using the beach.
“Go on.” Evan shrugged a big shoulder toward the door, since his hands were full. “I’ll finish up here, check on the rest of the crew.”
“Nah. I’m good.” Evan was looking fairly tired himself, even though somebody else might not have seen it. His pale-blue eyes seemed shadowed in his craggy face, and he’d grown even quieter than usual during the past months. When she was stressed, she got testy. Evan just became more stolid than ever, until he seemed carved from an especially hard block of wood that you were surprised could actually move and speak. When she’d told him she was taking over her stepdad’s part of M & O Painting five months ago, he’d said, “Fine,” and that had been it. Of course, he’d beenreallystressed then. Just like her.
Now, he shrugged. “You covered for me the other day when I had to take Gracie to the doctor. Plus all those other times. You’re due.”
She kept working on the windows. “Necessity versus luxury. No comparison. And I know you want to get home to her.”
“I’m sick of you anyway. Get out. But don’t swim here,” Evan added. “Show some sense. Ride on into town and go from there. You know what tightasses they’ve been about that, and I’m not bailing you out.”
Dakota finished the windows, then started peeling tape off wooden trim. “You’d bail me out in a heartbeat and you know it, but you aren’t going to have to. You don’t go to jail for trespassing, Mr. Straight Arrow. It wouldn’t be that big a deal. Here’s what happens. Jerry Richards or one of his henchmen yells at me to get out, and I act like I can’t hear him at first. Then I climb out of the water, dry myself off real slow, and act sorry. You know Jerry’s a dirty dog, and most of those guys aren’t any better.”
Evan jammed the lid on the five-gallon paint bucket with a couple blows of his big fist, then hefted it with ease. “Right.”
“Hey. It could work.”
“You ever get yourself a bikini?”
“Well, no. I swear, the smaller the suit, the more it costs. So what? It’s still a swimsuit, right?”
“I’ll get my bail money ready. Not saying you don’t have a—well, anyway.” The tips of his ears were turning red. “But I’ve seen that black suit, Grandma.”
“It’s navy blue.”
“Even worse.”
So far, Blake Orbison’s new life plan wasn’t meeting his expectations. Or maybe that was him. All he knew was—if he’d been his employee, he’d have fired himself. The Wild Horse Resort needed his attention now, weeks before the grand opening, but he kept… lapsing.
“Buck up, punk,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” Jennifer Cardello, his north Idaho assistant, asked, looking up from her phone and stumbling over a tree root.
“Sorry.” He’d already grabbed her arm. Now, he hauled her upright. “Am I walking too fast for you?”
“Oh, no. I love speed-walking and typing, especially when it’s about a hundred degrees out. I often ask myself, why has this been missing from my life until now? And then I answer myself. Because it sucks.”
“Not loving the walking meeting concept, huh? I think better when I’m moving. Well, I used to, back when I was able to move.” The bum knee still took him by surprise sometimes, when he started to run and then remembered it didn’t work so well anymore.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “You’re totally a loser now.” At his surprised bark, she added, “Switching to voice dictation. Hang on.”
“Right,” he said. “Strike that from the record, though. The part where I feel sorry for myself.”
She was still fiddling with her phone, but now, she sighed. “Blake. I work for you. I’m not allowed to judge even if I were, you know, judging. Which I might be, but I’m not saying, see?”
“That’s right. Somebody told me you were professional. Who was that? Oh, yeah. The mayor.”
“So fire me. It’d be a blessing. I’m just saying.” At his grin, she said, “We’re both grumpy. You’re allowed to be. I’m not. So grump ahead, and I will pretend to be cheerful.”
