“And those things hanging on the wall are kayaks,” Dakota said. “Which is an Inuit design. They have exactly the kind of patterning in the inlay that you’d see in an Indian basket, too. They’re not paintings, and they’re not sculptures. And yet they sell.”
“How do you know they sell?”
“Because they’re beautifully crafted. Because they’re unique. And because you chose them.”
Another barely-there smile. “You don’t lack confidence, do you?”
You’ll never know.
The seconds stretched out, and Elizabeth said, “Your work is exceptional.” And Dakota heard the but.
Which was when an older couple, two of the five or six customers who’d been wandering around the gallery on this Monday morning, came forward. The woman said, “Excuse me. Can you answer a question?” and Dakota knew her moment had passed.
That was why, though, she was watching when the front door opened and somebody made his stiff-legged way into the building. Somebody in a white button-down dress shirt of an Egyptian cotton so silky-soft you wanted to stroke it, a black suit coat that had probably cost as much as Dakota’s pickup, dark Levi’s, cowboy boots, and a whole extra person’s worth of magnetism. Somebody a whole lot like Blake Orbison.
He didn’t make any kind of beeline for her. He wandered around, looking at various pieces, like an art gallery was exactly where an ex-quarterback tycoon with a banged-up knee wanted to be on Monday morning, and worked his way closer to where she stood. A man on a mission, if a sneaky one.
The male half of the couple talking to Elizabeth said, “I like this, honey.” He was looking at her frilled orchid. Fuchsia, with a nub of yellow in the middle of the pink.
“A flower?” his wife, a well-preserved woman in silk trousers and a platinum bob, asked doubtfully. “Are you sure? Flowers are so… decorative.”
A certain quarterback was standing near the couple now, asking, “Anybody know who’s in charge here? I can’t find anybody with a name tag.”
Elizabeth said, “I’m the owner. We don’t wear name tags here.”
“Huh,” Blake said, scratching at his stubbled cheek and looking doubtful. “Excuse my saying it, but how does anybody know who the clerks are, then? When you go to Home Depot, they’ve got an apron on, so you can spot ’em.” He asked the older man, “Know what I mean?”
“You’re right about that,” the man said. “Come to think of it.”
“May I help you with something?” Elizabeth asked, her tone icier by the moment.
“Yes, ma’am,” Blake said. “I was wondering if this bird’s for sale.” He pointed to the eagle. The one he’d already bought. “That’s right nice. Saw it all the way across the room.”
“I’m in the process of deciding on this piece,” Elizabeth said. “If you’d like to leave your name…” She looked at his jeans and the dark stubble on his jaw, and then she looked at his jacket, as if she weren’t sure which to believe.
“Now, that’s just inefficient, if you’ll pardon my saying so.” Blake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his leather-bound checkbook. “Here I am, here it is, and I’m a busy man. I need something to hang up in my living room, and this looks good to me. I’m ready to buy it off of somebody.”
“Actually,’ Dakota said, “I’m the artist. I’d be happy to sell it to you.”
Elizabeth’s expression cracked just a fraction. Her mouth opened, then closed.
“That so?” Blake asked. “Well, this is my lucky day, darlin’. What’s the damage?”
He lifted a dark brow at her as if he were telling her, Don’t move the number down. I can hear you doing it. “Three thousand dollars,” she said, and about fainted dead away saying it.
“Hmm,” he said. “On the other hand, you’re not payin’ any overhead here, are you, if this lady isn’t getting her cut? You could call it wholesale.”
“Or you could call it the price,” she said sweetly, and saw the gleam in his eye, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “The wholesale price. If you wait until it’s hung in a gallery, you’ll have to pay the markup. If you get it at all. My pieces are all one of a kind.”
“Guess I’d better buy it, then, else I’ll be stuck with a hummingbird.”
“I don’t do hummingbirds.”
“Wait a minute.” That was the male half of the couple, who were still standing around listening. “Aren’t you Blake Orbison?”
“Afraid so,” Blake said.
“The Devils quarterback,” the man told his wife.
“Ex-quarterback,” Blake said. “How you doin’. Now, this thing here…” He took a couple more awkward steps over to the iris. “Usually, I’m not much of a flower guy, if you know what I mean,” he told his new fan. “Doesn’t quite send the image you’re going for when you invite a lady over, if you catch my drift. But this thing here… yeah, I think I’m going to need to buy this one, too. And… whoa, Nellie.” He was looking at the orchid, then at Dakota. “Darlin’, I think you took some liberties. I know what that’s a picture of, and it’s not a flower. I need one of these for sure. Hang that sucker right in the bedroom, and I just got luckier.”
“I was interested in this piece myself,” the man said.
“That so? Did you buy it?”
“Not yet, no. I was about to make an offer, though.”
Blake shook his head. “Now, see, that’s where you went wrong. Got to make your move. You stand in the pocket too long, you’re just asking to take the sack. How about this one?” he asked Dakota.
“Two thousand,” she said. “For each of the flowers.”
He sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, darlin’. Tell you what. I’m just going to go wild and buy the bird and that… what’s the other flower there?”
“That’s an iris,” Dakota said.
“I’ll buy that, leave the pus— ah, the other flower for my buddy here, ‘cause I can tell he’s got his heart set on it, and I know why. Gotta help a brother out. I’ll take that pink shell there, too. Now, that is one sexy shell, and I’ve got this new place in Hawaii. Real nice place, great view, but the walls are still bare-naked. Kinda like a beautiful woman late at night, if you know what I mean. Of course, bare’s good, but sometimes you want to dress her up, you know? How about if I write you a check for six thousand right now, sweetheart?” he asked Dakota.
“How about if you write me a check for seven?” she asked.
Blake shook his head. “Now, see,” he told the man, “this is why I’m not married. Women are just too expensive.”
“John,” the man’s wife said, “I think you should buy me this one. What is this?” she asked Dakota.
“A sego lily,” she said. “It’s a mountain wildflower.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “I thought I recognized it. It would be perfect up at the cabin, John, and it’s not as… explicit.”
“As long as I can get this other thing,” John said stubbornly. “We could put it in that big window in the master bath. Nobody else would see it then.” And Dakota bit her lip and ignored the sardonic gleam in Blake’s eye.
Three minutes later, Dakota somehow had two checks in her purse for eleven thousand dollars. Of course, seven thousand of that she’d have to give back, but still. Blake pulled his phone out of the pocket of his snug-fitting Levi’s, which John’s wife, Dakota couldn’t help but notice, had checked out, and said to Dakota, “I tell you what, darlin’. I’ve got a bunch of guys sitting around a boardroom looking at their watches right now. I’m going to hope that I can leave my bird and those other two things with this lady here and come back for ’em this afternoon. What do you say?” he asked Elizabeth.
She looked a little stiff at being called “this lady,” but she said, “Of course.”
“Good enough. And no offense intended,” he told John, putting out his hand. “When I want something, I can be a little bit ruthless. At least that’s what they say.”
“No offense taken,” John said, shaking hand
s. “I suppose it comes with the territory. Besides, you left me the one I really wanted. Can’t argue with that.”
Blake nodded and said, “Thanks again, honey,” to Dakota. “And I tell you what—how about leaving your card along with my purchases? I might just need to get hold of you.” And then he winked at her. Pushing his luck.
He lurched off and out the door, and Elizabeth asked, “Who was that?”
“Blake Orbison,” John said. “Quarterback of the Portland Devils. Super Bowl MVP two years ago. I wouldn’t have taken him for an art collector, but I guess he can afford it.”
“I didn’t get the impression that art was what he was most interested in,” his wife said dryly.
“Well, you know,” her husband said, “young single guy like that, with that much money? He’s going to be cocky. He’s on top of the world. His girlfriend was on the cover of the swimsuit calendar last year. Ah—so I heard.”
His wife looked like she’d have words for him later, but she didn’t say anything.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “Football?”
“Yep,” John said. “Super Bowl MVP’s about as ‘football’ as they come.”
He and his wife waited for Dakota to finish boxing up their flowers, and left with John carrying them, refusing Dakota’s offer to ship them, and then it was just Dakota and Elizabeth again, standing in front of three pieces of glass that Dakota had now sold twice.
Elizabeth said, “I’d like ten pieces. I’ll hang them for a month, and we’ll see how it goes. And I’d like that to be exclusive in Portland.”
Dakota resisted the urge to jump up, click her heels, and shout, Yippee! Instead, she said, “If you want an exclusive, you’ll have to do better than that.”
Elizabeth studied her for a long moment, and Dakota tried not to hold her breath. Finally, the older woman said, “Three months’ exclusivity. And you’ll replace pieces as I sell them.”
“I set my prices,” Dakota said. “Whatever you mark up is on top of that.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. And that was it. Dakota had done it.
With a little help from her friends.
It wasn’t easy to stay cool and collected, but Dakota managed it until she was out of the gallery, pulling her hand truck behind her. She headed over to Tenth, then got her phone out once she was safely out of sight and texted Blake.
Are you really headed to a meeting?
She got back, Yep. How’d it go?
I’m in. Was that cheating?
She waited a few seconds for the words to appear on her screen.
Only if they don’t sell. Got to go. Sending car back for you.
She laughed out loud. They would sell. She knew they would, at least she knew it in this moment. And when she didn’t, when she doubted…
Your work is exceptional. That’s what Elizabeth had said.
Every day is a gift. Every minute. That’s what she’d said. That was what mattered.
She didn’t see Blake again until five o’clock. Until he walked in the front door of another enormous house, this one in Portland’s Northwest district, home to more singles per capita than anyplace else in the world, or maybe that was just how it seemed. Another house made of wood and glass, with floor-to-ceiling windows, a whole lot of deck, and mountain views to die for. Not to mention a master bedroom with a bed that…
Well. In any case, when Blake walked through the front door and into his living room, she had a glass of red wine in her hand and another one on the coffee table. She was also lying back on a much nicer leather couch than the one in his Idaho house. And wearing his silk robe.
She waved her glass at him. “Hi, hot shot. How was your day? Did you make a million dollars?”
His eyes were gleaming, a grin forming on his absolutely bitable lips. “Well, yeah, wild thing. Probably so.” He set his laptop bag down on a chair, then took his jacket off and tossed it, too.
“Because I only go out with very rich men,” she informed him. “I’m a successful artist.”
He was getting rid of his boots and socks. “That so.”
“Sadly,” she said with a sigh, “I had to tear up this check I got today. It was a really big one, too. I deposited another one, though. I bought a very expensive bottle of wine with it. I just need somebody to drink it with me.”
“I think I could oblige.” He was crossing the floor toward her now across all that expanse of living room. Limping, but not as badly as he had a couple days ago.
“Also,” she said, “I borrowed this robe. I need to return it.” She put a hand on either side of the silk robe and slowly pulled it open, making the moment last.
Blake stopped walking.
She stood up, let the robe fall off her shoulders, and tossed it onto the coffee table. “There’s your robe. And here’s your wine.” Then she sank back down onto the couch, leaned back against the arm, and took another sip. “Why don’t you come have a drink?”
They didn’t go out to dinner.
Blake was wearing the robe now. He’d had to put something on when the pizza guy came. He had his leg up on the coffee table, icing his knee again. He’d put a little too much strain on it, but what a way to go.
Dakota, on the other hand…
Dakota was wearing one absolutely devastating pair of black lace panties with a scallop-edged back, a tiny cluster of pearls nestled at the bottom of the v-shaped front, and, best of all, a black seam running down the middle. A seam that Blake had traced all the way around, rubbed into her, and generally had just way too much fun with before he’d taken that scrap of black lace off her and showed her what he was there for.
Yeah. Dakota was dressed for dinner. Because that was all she was wearing. And if there was anything sexier than a nearly naked Dakota, all long dark hair and bronzed skin, silver winking from her navel and her toenails painted red, eating cheesy pizza and drinking a little too much red wine on his couch, he couldn’t imagine what it would be.
She was saying something, though, so he did his best to focus. “What if Elizabeth finds out you were, I mean we were sleeping together? There goes my beautiful showing. Did you think of that before you dropped by?”
He took another bite of pizza. Damn, that was good. Kale salad was fine, but pizza was better. And if it came from Lovely’s Fifty Fifty, it was the best. “Nope. And it doesn’t matter. If she does—when she does—she’ll think about how I looked at you and what a horn dog I was, and think I tracked you down and went after you. Which would be about right. She’ll think she set us up. What a mismatch, she’ll say. The artist and the roughneck.”
“You are not a roughneck.”
He looked at her and grinned, and she said, “All right. Maybe you do a good job of pretending. A little over the top, wouldn’t you say? ‘At Home Depot, they wear aprons, so you can tell who’s a clerk?’ Not to mention, ‘Bare’s good, but sometimes you want to dress her up a little?’ You sounded like a barbarian. And you do not have a house in Hawaii. Plus, you called my orchid a pussy.”
“I did not. I carefully broke off. Besides, I meant in a good way. And sorry, darlin’, but I do so have a house in Hawaii. On Kauai, if you want to know. It’s got bare walls, too. Good bones and great skin, just as pretty as it can be, and it looks fine naked, exactly like somebody I know. But it’d sure be fun to dress her up a little, and I intend to do it. Which reminds me—pay attention, sugar, because this is a segue—that I’d like to take you shopping tomorrow.”
“I already bought my glass. I had to celebrate somehow. I mean, besides the wine and this little item from La Perla, which I notice you appreciate.”
“Oh, yeah. I thought I made that clear. I plan to appreciate you some more later on, too. My bed’s a four-poster. You notice that?”
“I’m trying to have a conversation here.” But her nipples had pebbled. That was the beauty of having dinner with a naked woman. You got all your signals straight-up. “I went wild,” she went on determinedly. “At Bullseye. That’s the glass place
, and oh, Blake.” She sighed. “It’s so good when you can have exactly what you want.”
“I noticed.” He dipped his finger into his glass of wine, painted one taut brown peak with it, then did the other. He did some tasting, and oh, yeah. She was lying back, her fingers in his hair, and he had her going again.
“Wait,” she gasped after a couple very nice minutes. “Wait. I need to tell you this.” Which meant he had to sit up.
Well, damn. She had some beard burn going on, and it was a good look on her. He wanted to give her some more.
She said, “Elizabeth wants a dozen pieces to start, and if they sell, I’ll need more. I only have eight flowers left, and no shells. No birds, either. I have to get to work. What if I can’t deliver on time? She wants them in three months. Even if I only did shells… And I still have to paint your house, too. Maybe I should just fly back tomorrow morning. I could get your house done fast, before your parents come, even, if I worked enough hours, and then I could focus for a while. If Evan doesn’t need me, I could take a couple weeks, just work straight through, and—”
He was laughing, and he had his hand over her mouth. “Darlin’, stop.”
He took his hand away, and she said, “Excuse me? Are you shutting me up?” Some sparks were flying from those brown eyes, and that wasn’t bad, either.
“Well, yeah.” He shook his head and took another drink of wine. “If I’d known this would happen, I wouldn’t have helped. Tell you what—and here I go, bargaining again—you can just stop doing my house. Stop it altogether. If you stay with me tomorrow, because otherwise, I’ll get too lonesome. I didn’t sleep with you last night, and my tree-trunk bed scares me. I could have more bad dreams. So how about this. You keep those dreams away tonight, give yourself that break the doctor ordered—” He held up a hand again. “Nope. I heard him. You fly back with me tomorrow night, help me get past my fear of trees, and after that? You take off for a week or two and work on your glass. Get yourself started, so you stop worrying. And after that, you can come back and do my house, slow as you want. Use my hot tub after work, because, baby—next time you’re in there like that, I’m coming in. I thought I was going to rupture something that night, holding back.”
Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1) Page 29
