Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  Fortunately, there wouldn’t be another Christmas like that one, because Courtney was explaining her beauty secrets to another lucky guy now. But that was why he was on the new track. So much less aggravation in every way if he had the well-bred, ladylike type who’d pick up on social cues and steer the conversation onto safe ground and all that good stuff. So much calm, orderly structure at home, too. The way it was supposed to be when you were raising a family.

  “How about interest in the possible expansion?” he asked Melody, getting back to the topic. If the resort went the way he was hoping, he was going to open up a destination mini-mall beside it, a pedestrian space full of the kind of upscale boutiques people enjoyed wasting their money in while they were on vacation. Some people, anyway. Courtney had cured him of any hidden shopping desires he’d ever possessed.

  “Interest is strong,” Melody said. “I can send you a summary.”

  “Do that.” She should have done it already. “And then update it every week,” he added. “Business name, what they do, website, revenues.”

  “Spreadsheet,” Jennifer murmured beside him.

  He glanced at her. Wasn’t that obvious? “Yeah. Spreadsheet.”

  “Oh,” Melody said. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.”

  “Good,” Blake said. “That’s it, then.”

  Melody made a note, shoved her hair back again, crossed one foot over the other in her high-heeled ankle boots, revealing some extra leg in her short skirt, and asked, “Do you have everything else you need out at the house? Can we do anything for you?” She was taking care of the commercial leasing side, while her mom had handled his house and the much more complex business of acquiring all that lakefront. Small town; family business. The mom, Candy, was pretty good. Lots of experience, and she knew everybody. Melody, he wasn’t so sure about.

  “I’m good,” he said. “Thanks for giving Dakota the key.” Somehow, he’d forgotten about that on Friday when Dakota had come out to the house, and she hadn’t asked for it, either. Maybe she’d been distracted. He knew he had been.

  He’d remembered to give her his phone number, though. That hadn’t escaped him. She’d called him that afternoon in Denver, and he didn’t care to admit how his heart had leaped when she’d said, “This is Dakota Savage” in that low, slightly husky voice.

  He’d kept pedaling the exercise bike that was his warmdown after the workout in the hotel gym, trying not to favor his right leg, pushing through the pain, and said, “Tell me you’re missing me already, and you’ll make my day.”

  “I don’t think your ego needs supersizing,” she’d answered, which had made him laugh.

  “That was a good one,” he’d said. “What can I do for you?”

  It had only been, “Get me a key to your house,” but he’d still been smiling when he’d hung up and made a quick call to Farnsworth Realty. He was almost smiling just thinking about it. Thinking how Dakota was there now, starting to make his house non-ugly. And just that she was there.

  “Well,” Melody said now, reaching a hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear like he might not have noticed the first three times, “if you do need anything—anything at all—let me know.” She hesitated, catching her lower lip between her perfectly straight teeth, then added, “And if Dakota Savage doesn’t work out, I have a couple other people I could recommend. We have a list of the most reliable tradespeople, and I’d be happy to help you with getting estimates or anything else you need. Another time, just call. You can leave it to me.”

  He looked her over. “Is there a reason you’re expecting Dakota not to work out?”

  She shrugged one blue-clad shoulder. She was wearing a snug royal-blue knit dress with a high neck, long sleeves, and a swingy, short skirt that looked exactly like a high-school cheerleading uniform, a type of outfit with which he’d once been intimately familiar. “Dakota doesn’t have the… best reputation,” she said delicately, as if she were picking her high-heeled way through a minefield. “There’s her stepfather, and her brother, and then… well, I don’t want to get into it, but let’s say that they’ve both had issues, and there’s been some talk about… well. Why she’s home, why they have that…” She coughed. “Bond. I’ll just say that they’re not on our ‘recommended’ list.”

  “You got anything to say about her as a painter?” he asked, keeping his tone even.

  “I don’t know her work very well, although her stepfather had that accident on the job and tried to blame it on Steve Sawyer, and Dakota got into it, too, and made a huge stink when everybody knew it was Russell’s own fault. So from a liability standpoint, I’d have some concerns. And for the rest… I suppose you could call it a character issue.”

  The way he was firing people in Wild Horse, pretty soon there’d be nobody left to work for him. He needed to let this go. “If I need recommendations from you,” he said, not adding when Hell freezes over, “I’ll ask. Thanks for coming over, and I’d like that spreadsheet tomorrow.”

  She nodded, and if she understood the snub, she didn’t let it show, because she looked as polished and perky as ever when she said, “You’ve got it. Like I said. Whatever you need, we’re here for you,” smiled at him, and walked out.

  Blake didn’t look at Jennifer. He breathed a couple times, then said, “I can tell you’re holding it in. Go ahead.”

  “I’m not unbiased,” his assistant said.

  “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” He grinned at her, feeling better, and she grinned back. Another woman who, if he’d been a different man, he could’ve gone for. Funny and smart and pretty, and no baggage that he could see. The problem was, he never fell for cheerful redheads. It was that damn wild side. That side kept shouting “brunette! With a temper!” in his ear. “Go on,” he said. Tell.”

  “Well, you know how you took Beth Schaefer out?”

  “Yeah, I do remember that, but I didn’t know you knew.”

  She shrugged impatiently. “Of course I knew. If that was because Beth’s a sweet person, you don’t want Melody. If it was because Beth’s got the right family and always looks pretty, then maybe you do, because from what I hear, your date may not have gone that well.”

  Why did he have the feeling that Jennifer knew about his marriage-and-family plan? He’d always held his cards close to his chest, but then, he’d never had an assistant like her before. “I don’t. Want Melody, that is. I don’t like that kind of woman much anymore.”

  “You mean bitchy women?”

  He was so surprised, he laughed out loud. “You said the word. I didn’t. Was she a cheerleader in high school, by any chance?”

  “Not a cheerleader. Head cheerleader. Had the cutest clothes from kindergarten on up, and she still does. But my great-grandma would have said, ‘Pretty is as pretty does.’”

  “Well, mine probably would’ve, too, so don’t worry, she’s not going to become your… boss-in-law.”

  Jennifer waited a second, then said, “You aren’t asking me about Dakota.”

  “Nope. I’ve always kinda prided myself on my judgment, for some crazy reason.”

  “Maybe because it’s made you an estimated six hundred twenty-five million dollars as of the end of last year?”

  “That could be it. Must you be so crass?”

  “Apparently I must.” She looked at her phone. “Almost time for your four-thirty. You want me?”

  “No.” The humor was gone. “I’ve got this.”

  He jumped down from the Explorer ten minutes later and headed into the office block in a handsome historic building on Main Street, then up the stairs and on into Suite 201. Sawyer must have been listening for him, because he came out of the back office before Blake had even checked in with the receptionist, a smile and a handshake at the ready.

  “Good to see you,” he told Blake. Come on back.”

  Blake had considered doing this at the resort. Home-field advantage was always best. But he wanted to get Sawyer’s cooperation, and doing it here would make that
more likely to happen.

  “Now,” Sawyer said when they were sitting in his office. He eased back in his oversized leather desk chair and asked, “What can I do for you? Glad to see that we’ve gotten over that misunderstanding out at the resort.” When Blake didn’t answer immediately, he laughed and said, “Hey, I’m a direct guy. Anyway, you can’t hold grudges in business. You got another job you need my help with, I’m your man.”

  He looked like what he was—an ex-jock who’d kept himself in shape. He’d been his own high school’s quarterback and gone on to play some college ball, a fact he’d shared with Blake pretty quickly. He had the confident, friendly small-town manner, too, but Blake was starting to wonder about what lay beneath.

  “That’s true,” Blake said. “Glad to hear you say so. I’ll be direct myself. Since I’ve been in town, I’ve been hearing about Russell Matthews’s accident on my Sundays site. I have a few questions about that.” He set the OSHA report on the desk—the one he’d been sent after last week’s conversation with his Chief Operating Officer. “If you’ll indulge me a minute here, go through a few of these spots with me.”

  Sawyer’s blue eyes lost some of their warmth. “There was a full investigation. It’s all in there, the case is closed, and I don’t have anything else to say about it. Matthews got his payout, and he’s still getting it. It’s workers’ comp, which means no-fault, no matter what lame-ass thing the ‘worker’ does to cause it.”

  “Uh-huh. He’s pretty bad off. Who set up the scaffolding, exactly? Just run me through it.”

  “A few people. Including him. It’s in there. Accidents happen. You want to talk about ‘bad off,’ maybe you’d like to compensate me for the major hike in my workers’ comp insurance afterwards for something that was the guy’s own fault. Where are you getting this?”

  Blake rubbed the spot behind his ear with a thumb and stared thoughtfully at Sawyer. “Hmm. See, now, he says that wasn’t true, that he didn’t help rig that scaffolding. Says it in the report, and said it to me. His partner says the same thing. They both say Matthews questioned the scaffolding at the time, that he had concerns. Seems like he was a pretty experienced guy. Pretty competent, too. Thirty years painting, and never had an accident? Makes my nose twitch, and when my nose twitches, I check it out.”

  “When he was doing all that telling, did he tell you that he was a drunk?” Sawyer had lost the good-buddy ease.

  “He told me he was an alcoholic, yes. If he’d never had an accident, I’d guess he did his drinking after work. Anyway, seems he’s been sober for quite a while. Not even taking his pain pills, and trust me—if a guy’s looking for a crutch, he’s not going to turn that one down.”

  “Hey. I followed every one of your candyass regulations to the letter on that job.” Sawyer’s finger was jabbing at the report now, ratcheting straight up to “losing control” as soon as he was challenged, which was illuminating in itself. “You got the town drunk whining to you six months after the fact, and you’re going to believe him over me? And then do what, smear my name some more, like what happened out at the resort wasn’t enough? I’ve got a reputation in this town myself, and it’s not for being a drunk. And don’t tell me about Evan O’Donnell,” he went on fast, even though Blake hadn’t spoken, just folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Evan O’Donnell can’t wipe his ass without asking for permission from Matthews or Dakota. About half retarded. He’d say anything they told him to.”

  “You done?” Blake asked.

  “Hell, no, I’m not done.” Sawyer stood up, bracing his fists on the desk and leaning forward, the threat posture familiar to every silverback gorilla. “If I hear you’re telling people that I was at fault on that project, if I get a hint that you’re trying to mess with me like that and damage my reputation, I’ll sue you for slander so fast, it’ll make your head spin.”

  “You know,” Blake said, “I have a feeling you can damage your reputation all by yourself.” He didn’t move. Instead, he focused on relaxing, gathering his energy into himself. Partly because it was the best place from which to launch, and partly because it drove bullies like Sawyer crazy.

  He was right. Sawyer was flushing now, a vein throbbing in his temple. “Let me guess. Dakota Savage. I heard you hadn’t gotten enough of her out at the resort, and now she’s painting your house. Can’t believe nobody’s explained to you yet that you don’t have to go out of your way for Dakota. She knows where she stands around here. Her stepdad was the town drunk, and her mom was the town whore. Bet she didn’t tell you that. And her dad? He was a real piece of work.”

  He paused like he expected Blake to say something, and when he didn’t, went on, “Bet Dakota didn’t give you the rundown on him, either. Full-blood Indian, and he let you know it, headband and all, according to my dad. Ex-con, prison tats, the whole nine yards. My dad gave him a chance as a roofer, and that’s all he was good for, except he wasn’t even good enough for that. Came to work high one too many times, got fired, and skipped town with Dakota’s mom—knocked up, of course—and the other kid. And ol’ Russell didn’t even get up from his barstool to watch ’em go. That’s your Dakota. She’s got so much bad blood running through her, she bleeds black. I’m guessing she didn’t tell you she was a half-breed, huh? Dakota Savage, and that’s just about right.”

  He was on a roll now, his mouth running away with him. Trash talking, but Blake was familiar with trash talking. “I hear you’re taking out Beth Schaefer, too. One on your arm and one on the side. You’re probably worried about that, small town like this. Well, don’t be. Dakota’s used to being that side piece. You could say it’s her specialty. So don’t be thinking you got to do something special to get some of that. There are girls you fuck and girls you marry, and she knows which one she is.”

  Blake stood up. He did it slowly, and Sawyer smirked and said, “Sorry if I got you all disappointed.”

  “You done?” Blake asked, his voice low and cold.

  “Hell, yeah, I’m done. Done with this BS, and done with you.”

  Blake’s hand shot out so fast, Sawyer didn’t even have time to blink. His fist closed around the other man’s collar, and he was hauling him across the desk, watching his sincere blue eyes bug out and his smug mouth gasp for breath.

  “Say any of that again to anybody,” Blake said, the words still measured, “and I’ll personally come to your house and beat the shit out of you.”

  He let the other man go, and Sawyer shoved himself back, stumbled over his desk chair, and nearly fell. He regained his balance and hauled himself upright, his eyes blazing. “You try it. Just try it. You want to hit me, NFL?” He beckoned with both hands toward his face. “Go on. Hit me. I’d love you to do it. You’ve got a squeaky-clean reputation and a liquor license to lose. My uncle’s the mayor. My second cousin’s the sheriff. See how good you run your company when you’re in a six by eight cell with a bunk and a toilet. This is my town.”

  “Maybe so,” Blake said. “But you forget one thing.”

  He let the moment stretch out until Sawyer asked it, as he’d known he would. He was a bully, and bullies never had self-control worth a damn. “What’s that?”

  “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’s my country.”

  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 she wanted to say was, “Cowboy, take me away.” What she actually said 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.