Page 30 of Silver-Tongued Devil
“Stone’s nice, though.”
That would be one way of describing it. Predominantly jade green, but with so much depth and richness to it.
An enormous fireplace and chimney surround dominated one wall, the band of stone rising the entire two-story height of the ceiling. Pale green, gold, cream, black, and gray ran through every thick-tiled piece in complex patterns full of life and texture. The floor was more of the same material, and it was gorgeous.
Those puke-green walls, though… at least the trim was painted a glossy white. But then there was the furniture. Couches and chairs in over-upholstered brown leather, with great rounded arms and tufted backs, like English club chairs on growth hormones. Coffee and side tables made of all sorts of terrible things, from reclaimed barrels banded in copper and covered with glass to barn-wood tabletops that looked like they’d give you splinters sitting on top of deer-antler bases. Drapery fabric in apple-green gingham falling in swags and pooling on the floor, and—to add a final touch of horror—topped by bows at the corners. And since there were a lot of windows, there was a lot of that fabric.
All of it shouted “rustic retreat” in the most over-the-top way possible, like a stage set for “Annie Get Your Gun,” as if a troupe of yelling cowboys and square-dancing maidens would be bursting onto the scene at any moment and starting a hoedown. It was horrible.
“Who the heck,” Dakota asked,“wasthis guy? And who was his decorator, Buffalo Bill?” You’d think she’d know, but there were plenty of rich people tucked into acreage on north Idaho’s scenic lake frontage. Either they flew in and out and took no part in the life of the town, or they descended on City Council meetings to offer the inbred backwoods dwellers the benefit of their insight. Those types were less popular.
“Some investment banker from New York,” Blake said. “His wife wanted a cabin in the wilderness, but she decided it was a little too much wilderness after all, and they bought a place in Vail instead. I think they came out here about three times. So what do you think? Looking past the hideousness. You said color. You still sure about that? I don’t think my eyeballs can take much more color.”
She turned in a circle. The view—you had to account for that, whatever you did inside here. The scene was so vibrant, it nearly came inside. Deep-green mountains reflected in silver-blue water across thirty feet of window. In the winter, it would be all grays, whites, and blacks, but the view would be just as dominant in this room.
The enormous kitchen at one end seemed to have counters and breakfast bar made of something more subtle than the flooring, which was good. A barely-veined cream-colored granite, she found when she went closer. Whoever had designed the house originally had had taste, even if the person painting and decorating it hadn’t had one bit.
She crouched to study the flooring more carefully, running a hand along one of the veins of sand-colored rock that interrupted the predominant green. Blake, to his credit, didn’t say anything, just waited.
“I think,” she finally said, “you want a taupe. Do what they did here, pick up a color in the stone, but therightcolor that won’t compete for your attention, so you keep the focus on the natural materials and not the décor, and then you choose harmonizing textures and colors in your furnishings. Taupe.”
“I hear… words words words,” Blake said. “And damned if I know what taupe is. Is that like tan? I don’t want tan.”
“No. It’s taupe. And I know you can’t be as much of a Philistine as that. You’re building that resort. You liked this house. Clearly, you know what you want.”
“Usually,” he said, and she looked up at him standing over her and got a little… breathless.
She pulled a Pantene color deck from her bag and fanned it out for him against the stone floor.Get it together. Color.“Here. This.”
“I can’t tell.” He crouched down beside her and touched first one tiny block of color, then the next, his hand brushing hers.
“It’ll give you warmth,” she went on desperately, “especially if we keep it light but do a touch of red in it, give it a slight rose undertone. Then you do some browns, some mushroom, some splashes of pale gold in your decorating, in your window treatments. You warm it all up, make this big space cozy just with color. Subtle, but warm. Restful and masculine. The opposite of what it is now.”
“Rose undertone?” His eyes were amused.Warmthwas the word, all right. “Are you paintin’ my house pink, darlin’?”
She sighed. “All that, and that’s what you heard?” She didn’t mention the “darlin’.” He couldn’t help it, or he didn’t want to. And maybe she didn’t hate it. “I’m not painting it pink. Your testosterone levels will remain intact. Hey, you want the whole thing in Decorator’s White, we’ll do it. You could’ve just gotten Evan out here for that, though. No need for my talents. You’d be speaking each others’ language. ‘White,’ you could grunt at each other with manly nods. You’d be getting Navajo white, max. That’s about as frisky as Evan gets.”
“Navajo White, huh? You know, that’s exactly what you remind me of. How you look, how you act…”
He was looking at her, not the walls, and definitely not the fan deck. Crouching so close to her, she could smell the scent of him. Warm, clean cotton, and something else, too. Something faintly spicy. Soap or shaving cream, maybe, except he hadn’t used shaving cream this morning. He still had that dark stubble going on, and he was all firm lips and square jaw, warm eyes and no smile. Broad shoulders and a forearm, thick with corded muscle, resting on a lean thigh.
It took a minute to realize what he’d said. When she did, the blood drained from her head. “Pardon?”
“You’re part Indian, aren’t you?”
She stood up fast. “Show me the rest of the house. Taupe’s a good basic color, but if you want some variation, we can do that. Maybe in the bedrooms.”
“Wait.” He put a hand on her arm, and then, when she looked down at it, took it off. “What did I say?”
“How Iact?”She wasn’t doing very well on her customer management. Her professionalism was all over the place, and she couldn’t help it.“PartIndian? Why don’t you just call me a squaw and get it all out there?”
“What? Oh.” He looked truly discomfited, and she tried not to let that bother her. “Sorry. I’m so used to the NFL, to being in such a…”
“A diverse environment,” she finished. “So it’s not possible for you to say a racist thing. You’re just honest, that’s all.”
“Well, yeah.” He wasn’t as cool as usual, either. “I’m used to saying what I think, and to everybody else saying it back. Which you’re doing, if I can point that out.”
“You don’t have to be politically correct, because it’s stupid, and anyway, you’re the boss. Just like you were the quarterback. You’re in charge, and other people can just get over it if they’re going to be that sensitive.”
