No Kind of Hero (Portland Devils Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  “Mm. And it’s great. So you did a lot to your house yourself? I’d like to see more of it.”

  “Well, you know,” he said, starting to smile. “I did. Maybe I want you to see more of it too. Maybe tonight.” He needed to get a move on. He needed to put a move on. That was the point, except that his stubborn mind kept getting confused.

  She gave him a smile, and it was nothing like the brittle, sharp edges he’d seen that first day at the beach. She smiled at him like a woman with a whole lot of soft places in her soul for a man to fall into, and like a woman who knew that the man she wanted couldn’t wait to love her. It was a good look. “Thank you for taking me to see dragonflies again,” she said. “Thank you for taking me in the boat. You said you wanted to make tonight special for me. I want you to know—you already did.”

  Evan started up the boat again at last, and she was sorry, but she was glad. Nothing about any of this fling of theirs had gone the way she’d expected, least of all tonight. She’d hoped he’d like the way she looked. She hadn’t counted on him touching that scrunched-up mess that was her heart, loosening the kinks in it with those patient hands.

  It wasn’t easy to talk over the noise of the motor, so they didn’t. But she thought she knew where they were going. And when the low white building came into view with its groupings of blue umbrellas on two levels of patio, she knew for sure. By the time Evan pulled the little bowrider up to an empty mooring amidst the cruisers and speedboats and deck boats and leaned over to slip the mooring line over a stanchion, her heart was doing a dance.

  “Remember,” she asked him as he helped her out of the boat, then kept her hand as they walked along the dock, “that day in Robinson’s when I told you I’d been out with a doctor?”

  “Anderson St. Clair? Nah. Don’t remember.”

  She laughed, then kicked up a foot behind her and pretended to have to adjust her shoe, just so she’d have to take his arm. “This was where we went.” Tiny lights were twined around the railings that lined the path from the dock to the restaurant’s broad patios. As the two of them got closer, the lights winked on. Nearly sunset, and candles were already lit on the white-clad tables, soft music was playing from invisible speakers set all over the place, because she could hear it just fine down here, and Evan’s arm was solid and strong under her hand. “This is a lot better,” she told him. “Being with you. I have a surprise for you later on, too. Just because I like you so much.”

  He looked down at her, his ice-blue gaze at its most intent, his face at its most unreadable. “Do you?” he asked. “Could be I have a surprise or two for you, too. We’ll see.”

  That didn’t heat her up much. They’d reached the hostess stand, and Evan said, “Two, please,” to the hostess.

  The woman looked around, checked her seating chart, then picked up two menus and said, “Right this way.”

  Evan stepped back to let Beth go first. But as he waited, one hand resting lightly at the small of her back, he murmured in her ear, “Want to tell me about your surprise?”

  She smiled back over her shoulder, felt the copper ribbons around her ankles, knew he was smelling her perfume, and said, “Nope. I’ll make you wait for it.” And then walked ahead of him like a woman with a secret. A woman who’d spent three hours at the salon and another two shopping today, and who was letting her inner Marilyn fly free.

  “So where’s Henry tonight?” Evan asked as the hostess left them and he spread his napkin across his lap.

  “Henry,” she said with deliberation, “is staying with my parents. Just in case.”

  She wanted to look at Evan, but she had to look at the lake, too, the azure and sapphire of sky and water, the pink tinge of those fluffy clouds. Maybe it was that she felt exactly like those pink clouds, light as air and floating free.

  “What good news,” Evan said. “I think we might need a bottle of wine for this. White wine, maybe, since it’s warm out and we’ve got candles burning and the sun’s setting. Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, or Pinot Gris? What do you say?”

  “I didn’t think you liked wine,” she said.

  He gave her that lopsided smile. “Every once in a while, a man might need some wine. And you might need it more. So which?”

  “Sauvignon Blanc, then. Please. But I’m thinking . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe you could come sit by me,” she said. The table was square, and he was too far away. “If tonight is about giving the lady what she wants.” Then she looked at him sidelong, a little smile on her face, going full Marilyn. And it worked.

  That was why, when her mother’s best friend Candy Farnsworth, the town’s leading realtor, walked up with her husband Rob, president of the Wild Horse branch of First National Bank, Beth was sitting back with a glass to her lips, savoring the aroma of passionfruit and peach, and in no hurry at all for her dinner to arrive. And also why her bare toes were brushing against the denim of Evan’s jeans, then retreating as she swung her crossed leg lazily back and forth. And why those eyes of his were locked on hers.

  “Beth,” Candy said, and Beth jumped. She hadn’t even noticed them. “How nice to see you out and about at last. It’s a beautiful night to eat dinner outdoors, isn’t it?”

  Evan had already risen, his expression all the way back to wooden. Beth stood too, and Candy pulled her close and kissed her cheek, then stood back and said, “Darling hair. Is that new?”

  “Yes,” Beth said. “Just today. Thank you. Do you—”

  She didn’t finish, because Rob was kissing her cheek now, and Candy was looking her up and down, her eagle eye not missing a thing as she went on to say, “Your mother told me you were lying low, or I’d have invited you out on the boat. Or better yet, you should give Melody a call. She’d love to see you, and she’s a lot more fun than we are.”

  “Thanks,” Beth said, thinking, Yeah, right. Because there aren’t enough two-faced shark-women at Kentworth, Docherty and Valentino. I need to hang out with them on my breakdown, too. That’ll help. She asked, “You know Evan O’Donnell, don’t you?”

  Were they just going to ignore him? She could have waited to see how long it would take, as an interesting experiment in the sociology of small towns, except that it was making her furious. She could feel the heat creeping up into her cheeks as Rob shook hands with Evan and Candy finally turned her attention to him. They would think she was blushing because she was embarrassed to be with him, and that made her even madder. She took a step closer to Evan, put a hand on his arm, and said, “We came over on Evan’s boat. It was beautiful out on the lake.”

  “Of course I know Evan,” Candy said after the briefest of pauses. “You’ve painted for some of my clients, haven’t you?” she asked him. “Though I don’t know if you’ve met my husband Rob before. Evan paints houses, honey. With Dakota Savage.”

  Evan had gone into Full Wooden mode. “We haven’t met socially before, no,” he said. “How are you.”

  “Honey,” Candy said to Rob, smiling brightly, “why don’t you get our table, and I’ll take Beth with me to the ladies’ room. You know how girls hate to go alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said, “but I think our dinner is about to arrive.” No way was she leaving Evan here by himself. No way.

  “Oh, come on,” Candy said, taking her arm and picking up Beth’s lacy cropped cardigan, which had been hanging over the arm of her chair. “Keep me company.”

  Short of making a scene, there was no way out. “I’ll be right back,” Beth told Evan. If Candy hadn’t had her arm in a death grip, she swore she’d have kissed him goodbye. The blood was roaring in her head in a way it never did. Not ever. Except now.

  Candy dropped her arm once they were inside the restaurant and led the way through the swinging door of the two-stall ladies’ room, then went to the mirror, pulled out her purse, and made a face as she restored her hair to brunette perfection. “Do you think men know that we don’t really need to go, that it’s just an excuse?”

&n
bsp; “I’m pretty sure they do,” Beth said. “That was fairly obvious.”

  Candy’s blue eyes widened a fraction in the mirror, and Beth knew why. Beth had only stopped calling her “Mrs. Farnsworth” ten years ago.

  Well, tough. If you were going to drag a woman away from the best date she’d had in nine years, you deserved what you got.

  “I can see you think I’m interfering,” Candy said after a moment. “And it isn’t my business who you see while you’re visiting. That isn’t why I brought you in here.”

  “Oh?” Beth crossed her arms. Defensive posture, she immediately realized, and on the thought’s heels came the next one. Damn straight.

  “Honey,” Candy said, turning from the mirror, “you need a slip with that dress. I wouldn’t say it to anybody I didn’t love as well as you. When the light’s behind you . . .” She laughed. “Well. You can see everything. I’m sure you just didn’t realize, but it’s really not appropriate. That’s why I sneaked a little bit and brought your sweater for you. I can’t do anything about the lower half except tell you not to stand up, but at least this will help up top.”

  She offered the sweater, and Beth took it, but she didn’t put it on. “Thanks for thinking of me,” she said. “But actually, I’m aware of how I look.”

  That stopped Candy for a minute. “All right,” she finally said. “Time for the tough talk. We’ve all had our moments on the wild side. I won’t tell you how much I’ve worried about Melody, just like your mom worries about you. And I know girls now do cut loose and have a fling now and then, and I won’t say anything at all about that. You’re careful in Portland. I know that, because your mom’s told me so. Well, be careful here, too. It’s just too easy to get a reputation. I’ll tell you a little secret. That’s what they make Mexico for.”

  Beth couldn’t be rude. Except it seemed that she could, because the words coming out of her mouth were, “Or what? I’ll get a reputation like—oh, say . . . Dakota’s?”

  “Of course not.” Another laugh. “You couldn’t. Just a teeny bit of care, that’s all, with how you look, and who you . . .”

  Beth didn’t wait for it. “Dakota seems to be doing all right,” she said. “Maybe you should look at it another way. Maybe I’m moving up in the world. If Dakota becomes Mrs. Blake Orbison—which I can’t imagine, because even if she marries Blake, I’ll bet she stays ‘Dakota Savage’ all the way—I’ll be in the best seat, won’t I, snuggling up in public to Evan like I am? Dakota’s best friend? Her partner? He’s doing a high-end job right now painting the theater downtown for . . .” She wished she remembered the Viking’s name. “A big Portland Devils star. Big star.” She hoped the Viking didn’t turn out to be on the practice team or whatever you called it. “Evan’s doing an over-the-top job for him that’s going to knock this town’s socks off. I’d say he’s running in the best circles, and that he’s doing fine. So maybe it’s all part of my clever plan.”

  “I’ve upset you,” Candy said, “and that isn’t what I meant to do at all. I was thinking of your parents, too, to tell you the truth. I know you don’t want to embarrass them, especially after what happened before and how much it upset your mother. But I probably jumped in too fast. I hope you’re thinking, that’s all. I hope you’re not burning any bridges. And,” she said with a smile, “I really hope you’ll wear that sweater. It’s a small town, honey, and this is a public place.”

  Beth didn’t put it on. “The problem is,” she told Candy, “I want to burn my bridges. I want to burn them down.”

  Beth came out of the building looking nothing like herself. Or maybe looking like that New Beth. Chin up, shoulders back, her sweater swinging from her hand and sparks practically flying from her eyes. It must have been her heels, though, that changed her walk. Despite her fire, or maybe because of it, there was a sway to her hips he hadn’t seen before, and he liked it.

  And that dress. That dress was some serious sexy. It wasn’t any kind of low-cut deal, and that soft yellow sure was pretty, but it didn’t have any sleeves, and it fit her plenty tight enough through the top all the way down to her waist, while the unfastened buttons at the bottom of the swirling skirt showed a good four inches of peekaboo thigh with every step she took. And those shoes. Those shoes were giving him bad ideas.

  And, he discovered as he watched her move, there was no way she was wearing a bra under there. That was about when he realized that he could see right through her skirt, too. She passed in front of the lights illuminating the back of the restaurant, and there her legs were, showing through the gauzy material absolutely all the way up to the top. Like she was wearing just about nothing at all.

  Oh, hell.

  He stood up when she came over, partly because he did have the occasional attack of manners and partly because he wanted to touch her. She tossed all that hair, and he put a hand semi-casually on the small of her back, felt her lean into him the tiniest bit, and asked, “Did she stage an intervention?”

  “Ha!” That surprised bark of laughter again. That was different, too.

  He grinned. “Did I get it right?”

  She sat down beside him, picked up her wine glass, tossed off a fair amount of it, and said, “Don’t get me started.”

  “I’m not good enough for you, huh? Yeah, well, screw ’em.”

  “That’s right.” She reached for the wine bottle in its pewter bucket, but he got it first and refilled her glass. He had a feeling she was about to surprise him again, and he couldn’t wait. The waitress showed up and delivered their dinners, and Beth thanked her, picked up her fork . . . and didn’t start eating.

  “What?” Evan asked her when the waitress had left. “Got some nice trout there,” he prompted.

  “I know,” she said. “You should go on and eat. What I want to know is, why? Why aren’t you good enough?”

  “Don’t have to wear one of those . . . crown things to be a princess,” he said, waiting fairly patiently for her to start eating. He wanted his steak, but he wanted whatever this was, too.

  “Tiara,” she said absently. “I’m no princess. My dad’s good at business. He makes money. He has a house. You have a house. He employs people. You employ people. So what?”

  “Three people,” he felt compelled to point out.

  “Still.” She finally took a stab at her trout, lying crispy-brown across her plate in tempting perfection. “There’s a reason women think that men who work with their hands are hot. You know what it really is. They’re all jealous.”

  “Ah . . . that would be because . . .”

  She took another good drink of wine, and there that second glass was, gone. He refilled it and topped up his own, and she said, “You want to know what I really thought of Dr. Anderson St. Clair?”

  “You know,” he said, “I think I do.” The Farnsworths weren’t sitting all that far away, and Candy had her eye on the two of them. Which suited him fine. Watch this, he told her silently. Watch your princess toss her crown right down and walk on over to me.

  “I thought,” Beth said with deliberation, “that he was too thin. And that he wasn’t quiet enough, or strong enough. That he didn’t have shoulders that made me want to hold onto him, or eyes that burned all the way into me. If the plane had crashed, I didn’t think he could’ve saved me, and if my tire had blown, I didn’t think he could’ve changed it. He didn’t make me wish there was a dance floor so I could find out what it would feel like when he pulled me up close. He didn’t make me catch my breath when I thought about him taking me home. Because he also didn’t have hands that know exactly how a woman wants to be touched. And he didn’t have a mouth I wanted all over me.”

  He dragged it out a little longer. Foreplay was underrated. “What kind of doctor was he?”

  “Gynecologist.”

  He smiled. He had to. “Well, baby,” he said, feeling those copper-painted toes grazing the leg of his jeans, a whisper of secret sensation there under the table, “I can change your tire, and I can carry you out of
that plane. I have those hands, and I sure as hell have that mouth.”

  She took another bite of trout, and this time, she lingered over it as if she were tasting it for the first time. He could almost taste it himself. Crispy on the surface, flaky-white underneath, caught that day and delicately delicious. She took a sip of wine, and he watched the movement of that slim throat as she swallowed it down and wanted his lips there, his fingers brushing down that column of neck, his hand circling it ever-so-gently, but sending a message all the same. He took a bite of steak himself, but he wasn’t exactly paying attention, because she was twirling the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, looking at him from under her lashes and from behind that curtain of hair, and saying, “I bought this dress today.”

  Her voice was breathy, barely there. As if all of this was giving her a thrill, and as if she was right out there. He said, “Yeah?” and held her gaze. The way she liked. The way that burned all the way through her.

  “And,” she said, “I didn’t buy anything else.” Another bite of trout. Another long, slow sip of wine. “Because I wanted to come out with you and tell you what you wanted to hear.”

  “And what’s that?” One careful step after the other, inch by delicious inch right up to the edge of that cliff.

  “That underneath this dress, I’ve been scrubbed down with salt, I’ve been waxed all the way home, and I’m wearing absolutely nothing but some very soft, very silky body butter. And you know what butter’s good for.”

  The candle flame was a ribbon of white dancing in the evening breeze, but it wasn’t as hot as what was burning between them. The night was closing in, but it wasn’t as dark as the fire twisting down low in his gut. “No,” he said. “I don’t know what butter’s good for.”

  She dropped her eyes again, then raised them to him and gave him a slow, secret smile that pulled him right into her web. Her toes were stroking down his calf, and her copper-tipped fingers were playing with her fork. “It’s good,” she said, “for easing your way in.”