Page 2 of Silver-Tongued Devil
“I’m done,” he decided. “Complainingandmeeting. Besides, it’s probably time for you to go do… whatever.”
“Leave work? Nah. I live for you.” When he grinned again, because she’d just about jollied him out of his bad mood, she said more seriously, “I’ll type this up and update your calendar. And then—yeah, I’m out of here, if you’re OK.”
“Go. And thanks.”
She hesitated, though, for once, and he shot a look at her and realized that asking her to walk beside the lake in heels and a slightly too-tight skirt probably hadn’t been his best idea. She was looking sweaty and decidedly redhead-flushed. He sighed and said, “You’ve got me all guilty. Get out of here before I have to give you a bonus or something equally horrible to make up for it.”
“Nope,” she said, back to brisk again. “I said the thing about you being a loser. I was being ironic, for the record. Plus grumpy.”
“Got that. Head on back. See you in the morning.”
He watched her pick her way over the uneven ground and felt another unwelcome stab of conscience and irritation. What the hell was going on with him? He didn’t do weather. Rain, sleet, or sun, you got the job done. He didn’t do moods, and he didn’t do doubt. Except that he was doing all of them right now. He’d gone through some life changes, sure, in the too-quick transition from NFL quarterback to full-time businessman, but uncertainty was part of the deal, and so was injury. And so was taking what came your way, dealing with it, and moving on.
That was just about enough of that. He didn’t do introspection, either. Hell, most people would have doubted that he knew what the word meant.
To his relief, he rounded the corner of the bluff path and saw Jerry Richards, head of security on the project, standing around with a couple other guys, all of them looking excited.
He headed on over there. If you couldn’t do discipline, do distraction. Not a motto he’d be hanging on the wall, but it worked for now.
“Hey,” he said, approaching the three men with SECURITY emblazoned in white on their black T-shirts. “What’s going on?”
The other two looked at Jerry, who said, “Got a trespasser out there.” He hitched his belt up under his gut. “I’m on it. Headed down there right now to deal with it.”
Blake took a look and saw the swimmer moving parallel to shore. Going fast, probably because it was freezing out there. This was the big security risk? North Idaho could be a little short on excitement at times. “Swimmer in the water, yeah,” he conceded. “But I don’t own the lake.”
“Gym bag on the shore,” Jerry said. “Stuck it behind a rock there, see? Little bastards think they’re cute. I’ll run him off right now.”
“Nah,” Blake said. “I’ll do it. It’ll do me good to kick some ass. Not literally, of course,” he figured he’d better add.
“Hey, do what you gotta do,” Jerry said. “You’re the boss. Nobody’s going to say a damn thing.” He looked at his guys, who nodded hastily back, and Blake remembered the rumors he’d been hearing about his security chief’s methods and made a mental note. And gave a mental sigh. This project…
Well, he’d wanted a challenge.
Dakota was about thirty degrees cooler already. Literally. She couldn’t feel her feet anymore. She headed to shore, scrambled up the highest of the weathered gray rocks that lined the shoreline in the little cove, and bounced a couple times on her toes.
She was just about to jump when she heard the “Hey!” from behind her. It startled her so much that she stubbed her toe, shrieked, fell, and hadn’t righted herself by the time she hit the water fifteen feet below with an enormous slapping sound.
It was a belly-flop. No other way to describe it. She remembered why you didn’t do that, too. Because ithurt.
She came back up to the surface spluttering, treaded water, and hauled air back into her lungs while trying to ignore the sting from her abused face and belly and, she would swear, her internal organs. She might not have had the breath to say “Asshole” out loud, but she thought it.
She squinted toward shore and saw somebody. She couldn’t tell without her glasses, but she thought it was a guy, and he—she—might be wearing a black shirt.
Jerry Richards, probably, excited about getting a chance to be official. What did he have, binoculars?
Well, she’d figured it could happen. Whoever it was, they weren’t going anywhere, and the water was cold, so she swam back in and hauled herself back up the smaller rocks onto the shore. Not too close to him—itwasa guy, she thought—but he headed right on over, unfortunately.
She wasn’t sure she could pull off “cute,” now that she was faced with it. She’d never been blonde, she’d never been anything close to perky, and she’d never been good at flirting. This had probably been dumb. Good thing they were almost done with the job.
Except that there was Evan. Oh, shoot. Evan. Who needed every day of the job. Heck,sheneeded every day of the job. Irresponsible, that’s what this idea had been. However irresistible it had seemed or how rebellious she’d felt.
It wasn’t Jerry. That much, she could tell as he got closer. It was somebody a whole lot slimmer. Tall, check. Short dark hair, check. Black shirt, check. But no gut, and she thought there was some darkness around the jaw that wasn’t quite a beard. Another security guy. She could be cute enough for him. Maybe. What would he care, really, what she did?
“Hi,” she said as he approached. “Next time maybe don’t yell right when I’m jumping.” Taking the initiative. Projecting confidence. She was better at that than “cute.”
“Hell of a graceful landing,” he agreed, and glasses or no, she could see the flash of white teeth through the dark stubble just fine. Also that he had a pair of shoulders to die for, and some very nice arms in that T-shirt. Not to mention long legs in dusty jeans and work boots, and about six foot three of lean muscle. Nobody she knew, because she’d have noticed him. She might not be able toseehim, exactly, but she could see enough.
“If you’re security,” she said, “I was just going.”
