Page 5 of Silver-Tongued Devil
Jerry cleared his throat. “I told them all to do the job and get out. They know they’re not supposed to be hanging around afterwards or going into anyplace they’re not working.”
“What do I care if somebody takes a swim?” Blake buckled his belt, then shoved a foot into a work boot without bothering with socks. “Is she one of the cleaners or what?”
“Dakota?You’d never catch Dakota Savage doing anything that feminine. She’s one of the contractors that took over the painting after you canned Steve Sawyer’s crew. Course, she’s normally all covered up.”
Blake looked at him more sharply, then went back to tying his bootlaces. “Let me guess. You think firing Sawyer was a mistake.”
Jerry gave a shrug of a meaty shoulder. “Steve’s a good man. Dakota’s… well, that whole family’s pretty much trash. But hey, sometimes trashy’s exactly what you’re looking for, know what I mean?”
If Blake hadn’t, the smirk on Jerry’s face would have told him. And even though it was what he’d been thinking a few minutes earlier, it annoyed the hell out of him. Anyway, he had his boots on. He grabbed his shirt and socks and took off.
He caught up with her not in the parking lot, as he’d expected, but around the side of the building. He wouldn’t have noticed her except for the flash of orange in his peripheral vision.
She was tying her shoelace when he came up to her. She was wearing shorts now, which wasn’t a bad look at all. She had some leg on her, that was for sure.
“Dakota,” he said, and she whirled to face him and didn’t lose her balance. She was still crouching, which meant he was looking down the front of her suit. It was covered, not very thoroughly at all, by an orange tank top. Her hair wasn’t looking too good. Her body was looking just fine. And “Dakota Savage”? That was aname. Looked like she could live up to it, too.
She stood up straight, shoved up the severe rectangular black-framed glasses that had “sexy librarian” written all over them, and said, “I have to go.”
She wasn’t smiling anymore. Her face was all the way closed down. Nearly severe in its lines, cheekbones and nose and jaw all firm, strong, and sharply drawn. Somebody might have called those looks “exotic.” He couldn’t imagine anyone would ever have called her cute, but he couldn’t see how they’d call her trashy, either. Other than that chain in her ear. That chain was giving him definite ideas, even as her body language and ugly swimsuit said exactly the opposite. “Challenge” was the word all the way around.
“You know,” he said, “you’ve got me all confused. I thought we were getting along real good, and here I’ve gone and driven you away somehow.”
She wasn’t looking him in the eye. “I shouldn’t have been swimming out there. Forget it, OK?”
“Ah…” He scratched his nose. “Let me guess. You need the job.”
Her gaze finally swung around to him. Fierce, that’s what he’d call that. “Here’s a tip. Down here at the bottom, we all need the job.”
“You don’t like rich guys.”
“Gosh, you’re quick.” She yanked a helmet out of her front basket, jammed it onto her head, and shoved the fastening closed. “Your name’s on my paycheck. I’m not going to say anything else. Except that I don’t think much of a guy who lets somebody go on like that, listens to them digging their grave, disguises his voice, and laughs at them.”
“You weren’t going to say anything else, huh. Except that.” He considered telling her that he got more Southern as things heated up, but it didn’t seem like a good idea.
“I’m a good painter. So is my partner, and hereallyneeds the job. He has a baby. One more week, and we’re gone. Just forget it.”
He sighed. “Whether you swim with me, whether you tell me what you think of me—hell, whether you go for that drink with me, or anything else—that doesn’t have anything to do with the job. I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Now, see, I’d have said you’re exactly that kind of guy, letting me go on like that, putting me at that disadvantage. But I’ll tell you another thing. I don’t care what Jerry said. Or I do. I do care. But I don’t accept it. Whatever he said, I’m not that kind of girl. And even if I were, you’d be the last man on earth.”
I’m not that kind of girl?Had anybody actually said that in the last forty years? He would have laughed, but then again—no. She was really upset, somehow. She straddled the bike and said again, “I have to go. I appreciate you not letting him bust me. And I’ll appreciate it more if you’ll forget all about this.”
She didn’t wait around to hear his answer. She just rode away.
By the time she’d ridden the three miles home, Dakota had herself under control again. Sure, it had been stupid. Sure, every bit of it had been impulsive. Sure, she had nobody to blame but herself. Well, and Blake, but she’d known for a long time that you couldn’t control what anybody else did, and he was a rich, arrogant guy who didn’t care about other people. You could only control yourself, and shedidcontrol herself.
Usually.
Once she’d put her glasses on, she’d recognized him right away. The resolutely square jaw might be covered with stubble now, the dark hair might be longer than in any publicity photo, and there might have been a few lines carved into his brow and fanning out from the corners of his eyes that she hadn’t noticed in his pictures. He might have deepened that accent in a way she’d never heard in an interview, back when she’d been researching him… maybe a little obsessively, but who could blame her? But the strong nose was exactly the same, and so were the hazel eyes. Nearly gold, with a rim of dark green around the iris. Not many men had those eyes, or looked at you that way out of them, with a gaze so intense it was nearly hypnotic. Not many men looked like that, period.
Tough, that was the word. Not quite handsome, and all male. Some people might have called it “confident.” She’d have called it “entitled.” Like he thought he was king of the world.
It had been harder to hold that thought when he was standing over her with those shoulders, those arms, that chest, and those rock-hard abs displayed above a pair of low-slung, dusty Wranglers. Looking like a Coke commercial, like the construction worker who’d be setting down his jackhammer, pulling his T-shirt over his head, and turning the head of every woman from eight to eighty. Before tipping his head back and downing his drink with the kind of abandon that got your imagination working overtime.
She’d sure never seen a picture of him likethat.Football uniform, yes. Business suit, yes. She had plenty of defenses against suits, and more against privileged, arrogant athletes. Not so much against long, lean, sculpted muscles that looked like they’d been built the hard way. With work. And none at all against the ugly white lines of scar tissue that showed where a man had hurt and healed.
All right, then. So she’d had an unfortunate encounter with an NFL quarterback-turned-ruthless-businessman who was too compelling for her peace of mind. So what? Time to shake it off. Which she did, though it took all three miles of her ride home to get to that point.
