Page 23 of Silver-Tongued Devil
“Yes, you can.” The intensity on his face, in his golden eyes… it was mesmerizing. “Youcan. You can charge whatever you want.”
“Somebody actually has to pay it, though,” she said dryly. “It’s not fine art. It’s stained glass.”
“Now, sweetheart,” he told her like it was obvious, like he was completely sure, “that’s not believing. Damn straight this is fine art, and the more you charge, the more people will know it. You’ve got to make ’em believe, and that starts with you.”
She was having trouble getting her breath. “Easy to say. I need… I need the money. And don’t call me sweetheart.”
He was standing so close. Nine inches away, maybe. She could practically feel the heat coming from his body. He took her hand, still resting lightly on the glass, and turned it gently over. His thumb brushed the pads of her fingers, and she shivered. She should pull her hand away. She should.
“You’re cut here,” he said.
“Glass,” she said through a throat that had turned dry. “It happens.”
“Mm.” He let go of her hand, and she tried not to wish he hadn’t. She didn’t like him. He’d done Russell so much harm. He said, “How much would this cost if you could charge enough?”
“Um… I can’t charge enough for this, not for the hours it took. It was my first one. It’s not perfect.”
“You’re wrong. It’s perfect. How much?”
“Two… thousand?” Her voice rose on the word. “Maybe fifteen hundred.”
“Twenty-four hundred.”
Her heart beat faster just hearing that number. “How do you know?”
“What I said. You get to declare your own value. You aren’t the bargain bin. Don’t put yourself on sale.”
“Is that what all the quarterbacks say?” she asked, trying to rally.
There was something rueful in his smile. “That’s what the agent says about his guys who are quarterbacks. I’m not a quarterback anymore. But it’s the same deal with the resort. You can be mass-market, or you can be high-end. If you look high-end but you price mass-market, you’re just confusing folks. Let ’em know you’re there, and that you’re the real deal. The girl who walked by me last night like she owned the room—where did she go?”
“I was…” She had to swallow. “Maybe faking a tiny bit.”
“Maybe fake it a tiny bit more. Fake it until it’s real. Don’t give ’em room to doubt. And I want the eagle.”
She blinked. “What?”
“The eagle in your workroom. I want it. How much?”
“Uh…” she began.
He held up a palm. “Stop right there. Don’t move the number down. I can see you doing it. Don’t think about what’s wrong with your work, either, why you really can’t charge that much. And if you say the number and I try to bargain you down, you say, ‘This isn’t a clearance sale. That’s the price. If you can’t pay it, I’ll take it on over to the gallery.’ Let me know that I’d better buy it now if I want it, because you know it’ll get snapped up.”
“Has anybody ever told you that you’re annoying?”
He laughed this time, his eyes gleaming with what she could swear was appreciation. “Oh, maybe a couple hundred people. How in particular?”
“It’s like you’re in my head. And why would I move the number down? You’ve got more money than God.”
There he was, smiling that crooked smile again, looking so damn good in that white T-shirt, all lean hips, biceps, and brown skin. “Well, that’s true, darlin’. I do. And yet you were still moving that number on down.” He beckoned with one hand, a come-to-me gesture that was way too compelling. “Come on, Dakota. Give me a number. And then give me one for that iris, and, no, there’s no discount for two. And I don’t care how many pieces are in the iris. I care that I want it.”
Her knees were weak. “Maybe I don’t want to sell them to you.”
He smiled so slow, and she didn’t want to analyze what that smile did to her. “Nah.”
“Dakota.” It was Evan’s voice, and she whirled, as flustered as if he’d caught her in Blake’s arms.
Evan’s face was at its most expressionless. “Salmon’s ready.”
