Page 35 of Silver-Tongued Devil
“One of us has a corporate lawyer. One of us has a PR department and a Super Bowl ring. One of us is a golden boy who’s been on a Wheaties box. And one of us has the power to take a piece of shit down and keep him there. And that ain’t you.” He picked up his OSHA report. “It might be your town. It’smycountry.”
He didn’t let the adrenaline take over until he was back in the Explorer again and down the road. Once he hit the city limits sign, though, he had to pull over and do some deep-breathing exercises.
It’s over,he told himself.You went looking for information. You got it. It’s over.
But not for Dakota. For Dakota, it would never be over.
Dakota was on her hands and knees, painting trim like lightning, when she heard the front door opening. And then that dark-molasses voice. “Hi, honey. I’m home.”
Shoot, shoot, shoot. Not fast enough.
She barely had time to shove up onto her knees before he was there in all his glory, dressed in dark-gray slacks, tooled black cowboy boots that made him even taller, and a black T-shirt, his suit coat slung over his shoulder, every bit of him looking like a working woman’s paradise. Warm eyes, firm mouth, broad shoulders, and biceps to die for. A bona fide good time.
What shewantedto say was, “Cowboy, take me away.” What sheactuallysaid was, “I’m just about done.” She also tried to pretend that she wasn’t wearing a painter’s cap, overalls, and knee pads. “I wanted to finish these baseboards so you’d have your main living area done. You said you wouldn’t be back until tonight.”
“Keep talking like that,” he said, “and I’m going to think you didn’t want to see me.” Something in the way he said it caught at her, and she looked at him more closely. The words and his pose were casual, but everything else about him, she realized through her own discomfort… wasn’t.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Something not go well in your… meeting, or whatever it was? I can be out of your way in ten minutes. I can finish the baseboards tomorrow.” She was still kneeling, which was awkward, with the way he was standing over her. She set her brush down in the paint pan, stood up, pushed her glasses up her nose with the back of her hand, then ran the hand in what she hoped was a casual fashion over her upper lip. She could tell she was sweating.
“Nope,” he said. “Everything’s fine. And sure, go ahead and finish up tonight. I can’t believe you got this far already. Looking real good, Miss Dakota. Maybe you really are all that. Of course, that could just be because the furniture’s covered up. Antler-free zone.”
“You can’t tell very well now,” she said, trying to ignore the glow of satisfaction that gave her. He was charming; that was his deal. “It never looks good until you clean up. If you do want to see, just give me half an hour.”
“I do want to see. And if I give you a hand, we can get it done faster.”
“You don’t want to give me a hand.”
“And why would that be?” He still looked tense to her. Something in his shoulders. Like he was trying to be polite, but he wanted his house back. Exactly like that.
“For one thing,” she said, knowing she should be professional and get out of his space, “you’re payingmeto do it. And for the other, you’re dressed up like the Cowboy Angel of Death, and no piece of that outfit is going to look good with taupe paint all over it. Especially those boots.”
Maybe not allthatprofessional.
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he stepped closer, and she caught her breath. And then he reached out and took her chin in his hand, and she forgot to breathe.
She thought for one crazy moment that he was going to kiss her. He didn’t. Instead, he rubbed his thumb over her upper lip. And didn’t let her go.
For a second, she just stood there, shocked into stillness. And then she realized what he’d been doing. She’d smearedpaintall over herself, and he’d wiped it off.
Some of the tension seemed to have left him, because his smile looked real when he finally dropped his hand and said, “I don’t know about that. And I think I like you with a little bit of a paint mustache. Pretty cute. The Cowboy Angel of Death, though? I’d be insulted, except that it sounds kinda hot.”
Apparently she was abandoning any hope of “professional,” because she said, “Yeah, I’m a class act with my paint mustache, and you’re my dark, dangerous fantasy man. The gunslinger outfit’s totally working. But do me a favor. If you’re going to stand around here, go change your clothes. You’re making me nervous that I’m going to mess you up. And donottell me,” she added while he was still opening his mouth, “that you’d be glad to get messed up with me. I can hear the thought forming, and it’s beneath you. You can do better.”
He actually stood there with his mouth half-open for a second, and then he clapped a hand to his chest and staggered. “You got me again. Straight to the heart. Be right back.” He headed for the stairs, the heels of those boots ringing out on the stone floor once he was off the dropcloth, then turned around halfway there and asked, “So the black shirt works?”
“Go away,” she said, sinking to her knees again and picking up her brush.
“I’m keeping it on,” he said. “I think it works.”
Blake started to take the stairs two at a time, and his knee instantly told him what it thought of that idea. He switched to one at a time, trying to make it look nonchalant, and then tried to pretend he wasn’t hurrying. Just like when he’d been driving here and wondering why he’d scheduled his afternoon so he wouldn’t be home until after five, when he’d wanted to see Dakota again ever since he’d left her. After that, he’d tried to tell himself that he hadn’t had any spike in his pulse rate when he’d seen her old Ford pickup in his driveway. That hadn’t worked, either.
She didn’t fit into the life plan, and after what he’d heard today, messing around with her would be a purely lousy thing to do. So why was he changing into faded Levi’s and applying a little extra Jack Black deodorant just to make sure he smelled all right for her? All she’d be able to smell was paint.
It was stupid, but he did it anyway. Story of his romantic life. He kept the black T-shirt on, too. That “gunslinger” comment had come from somewhere.
Because you were a quarterback, dude.Except he didn’t think that was it.
He headed back down the stairs, and when he came around the corner from the landing and saw her taupe-painted walls… yeah, they looked better, blue painter’s tape and all.
