Dirty Deeds Read online

  “Ice cream?” she repeated inanely. Not exactly the decadent treat she had in mind, which indicated how far she’d gone out of her mind with lust. She never turned down ice cream. But the possibility of licking Nathan LeBeau? The sugary confection definitely plunged to last place.

  “Yeah, ice cream,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling. “I love swirling my tongue around those incredibly sweet, creamy mounds. Lapping up every inch until I’ve had my fill.” His scorching gaze descended to her cleavage, dawdled, then took the long way back up to meet her eyes. “What do you say?”

  Tate licked her lips. “What time?”

  “Oh God, that was sooo good.” Tate stretched languidly, arching her arms above her head with utter abandon.

  “Can you handle some more?” Nathan inched closer to drag one blunt fingertip down her cheek.

  “No.” She shivered when his breath tickled her collarbone. “Two is plenty for one night, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. I liked watching you enjoy it with unrestrained gusto.” His hot mouth brushed her ear. “It was sexy as hell.”

  Tate purred, “Is it that obvious?”

  “That you love ice cream?” Using the callused pad of his thumb, he cleaned a chocolate smudge from her chin. “In some places more than others.”

  “So what now?”

  “Want to go for a walk?” He pushed up from the park bench and held out his hand to help her to her feet. “It’s a nice night.”

  It was perfect—warm, balmy summer air with the faint twinkle of stars. The only things missing from the romantic moonlit evening was the sweet scent of jasmine and a strolling violinist.

  And a super-size box of condoms.

  Lord. What was happening to her? She’d never ever ever in her adult life had crazy, strictly sexual thoughts like this. Unless… Her older friends had warned her sex drive would change dramatically when she hit the big three-oh, but that was more than five months away.

  “Tate?” He tilted her face up to meet his quizzical gaze. “Would you rather go home?”

  “Sorry. The sugar high must’ve affected my brain. I’d love to go for a walk.” She placed her hand in his, pressing her face against his sleek biceps. Fantasized about running her tongue between his thick fingers up to his massive shoulder.

  Take a deep breath and get your mental mouth off his body.

  They strolled companionably through the deserted park. The dichotomy surprised her. They’d attained a level of comfort in such a short amount of time, and yet a casual brush of his skin across hers made her burn. Made her ache to know the intense side of Nathan that showed no comfort whatsoever.

  No time like the present to find out.

  Tate’s clever yawn had the effect she’d intended; he took her home immediately.

  Beneath the arbor at the front gate, she asked, “Want to come in for a nightcap?” Or to see my nightgown?

  “I can’t. I’ve got an early day.” When her disappointment showed, he promptly backtracked. “Although I can’t start any dirt work until the weekend, we still can see each other.”

  “Anxious to get started on those art lessons?”

  “Soon.” He rested his shoulder on the porch pillar. “Would you like to go out tomorrow night?”

  “Is this some of that ‘getting to know you’ stuff you were talking about earlier?” Tate asked suspiciously.

  “Yep.”

  This wasn’t going the direction she’d hoped, but she was adaptable. “Where, when and what time?”

  Nathan grinned. “Impatient little thing, aren’t you? Tell you what. I’ll swing by the night after next. It’ll be a surprise.”

  “Will you at least give me a hint?”

  “Sure.” He kissed her chastely on the forehead before his lips nibbled a seductive path to her ear. “I guarantee after I’m done with you, your head will be spinning. Until then,” he whispered, “sweet dreams.”

  As Tate watched him disappear into the darkness, she knew there wouldn’t be one sweet thing about her dreams tonight.

  Tate watched as her friend Grace Fitzgerald shoved aside the chips and salsa to make room on the table for her briefcase. Grace popped the locks and rummaged around until she unearthed the spiral notebook.

  “Aren’t you having a margarita?” Tate asked.

  “No.” Grace shut the briefcase and set it on the floor.

  “Why not? Because this is an official meeting?”

  “Partially. But the main reason is because I’m tired. I need something to perk me up, not help me slide under the table. Sorry I had to push this meeting back three hours.”

  Tate sighed and put the menu behind the condiments, glancing around the mostly empty Mexican restaurant. “I understand. But I’d like to point out between Val being pregnant and you officially being my boss, I’ve got no drinking buddies while I’m here.”

  Grace withheld a laugh. “Leave it to you, Tate, to get right to the point. I promise I’ll knock back some shots of Cuervo with you before you head back to Denver, okay?”

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  The waitress brought two glasses of iced tea and took their order.

  Tate slapped a sketchbook next to the silverware. “Okay. I’ve come up with a couple of variations on curriculums depending on the age groups. Remind me again how many classes I’ll be teaching?”

  Grace squeezed lemon into her iced tea. “Five per week, which roughly translates to one class a day.”

  “That’s not too bad.”

  “The problem is the girls range in age from four to fourteen.”

  Tate reached for a chip and dipped it in the salsa. “I’m guessing the teens are at the ‘this is so lame’ stage.”

  “Yep. Don’t you remember that summer we met at camp when we were teenagers? Now that I think back on how much grief we gave the arts and crafts teacher…I literally cringe. Probably gave her a complex.”

  Tate laughed and brushed salt from her fingers. “You and Val were the older bad girls, cutting out pictures of half-naked guys from Cosmo for the decoupage project. My stuff was innocent and sickeningly sweet.”

  “We had to do something outrageous because we couldn’t compete with your artistic skills.”

  Tate still blushed whenever someone singled her out for praise.

  Grace smiled. “I think Val and I would’ve gotten kicked out if you hadn’t bullied the teacher with the ‘freedom of creative expression’ argument. I’m surprised you didn’t become a lawyer.”

  Tate’s gaze turned thoughtful as she stared at the velvet painting above the table depicting haciendas painted in vivid tones of orange and pink. “I’d totally forgotten about that. I guess I have stood up to authority before, but I still run from confrontations most of the time.” She didn’t bring up the problems she’d suffered through with her job in Denver. Being in limbo about the status of her career made her crazypants if she dwelled on it. She was determined to put her limited time in Spearfish to good use.

  “Since I’m the authority figure this time around, I hope we can talk about any problems you’re having before it turns into a confrontation.”

  “I’ll defer to you. You’re the boss.”

  “And on that note… Show me what you’ve got.”

  “Here goes.” Tate flipped open the sketchbook. “For the younger girls I thought I’d start out creating abstract work with crayons. Mixing it up with colored paper and 3D objects. Multimedia-type things. Then we’d move on to painting simple subjects like apples and flowers so they get a feel for realism.”

  “Sounds good. What’s up for the next age group?”

  Tate nervously twirled a section of hair by her ear. “Ceramic painting using tiles and plates and mugs. Then if that goes well and if we have time, I might try to teach them how to make clay pots.” She glanced up uneasily when Grace didn’t immediately react. “Do you think they’d like that?”

  “Anything that involves getting dirty and flinging paint is always a
big hit.” Grace placed her hand over Tate’s restless fingers drumming on the table. “I’m not like your last boss. I’m not going to shoot any of your ideas down just because I can. Remember I’m your friend first. And I’m thrilled you agreed to do this at all.”

  Relief sang through Tate’s system. “Good. I’m afraid pitching ideas isn’t my strong suit.”

  “You’re doing fine. So whatcha got planned for the terrible teens?”

  “No decoupage.” Tate grinned. “The main problem is everything is black and white to girls at this age. If they don’t think they’re good at art, they don’t want to try. Especially anything new. So instead of having them all work on the same project, I thought I’d divide them into groups. Those who want to work on improving their skills with charcoal or acrylics or watercolors. And those who’d rather create something that involves less…”

  “Talent?”

  Tate winced. “I hate even thinking along those lines, but yeah. Making papier-mâché masks. Maybe even painting on tiles like the middle-grade girls.”

  Grace didn’t say anything. Normally she didn’t have a problem voicing her opinion, so Tate knew something was up. Finally Tate said, “What?”

  “Okay. The mask thing sounds a little juvenile. The first thing that popped into my head were pipe cleaners, buttons and glued on feathers. I’m not sure group B would be into that. Especially if the other girls are commanding most of your attention for ‘real’ art.”

  “I see your point.”

  “I like the tile idea though. Any chance you can expand on that?”

  “Probably. Let me think about it for a sec.”

  Mariachi music blared from the speaker above them.

  Grace sipped her tea and waited patiently.

  Tate snapped her fingers. “I know. How about mosaics instead of tiles? There are some pretty cool things like beads and glass we could incorporate into the designs.” She frowned. “However I didn’t consider that type of project and don’t have a detailed lesson plan.”

  “No problem. You have time to work something up. Come to the office in the next couple of days when you’ve figured it out.”

  “Whew. Had me worried there for a second, boss.”

  “You’re paranoid. I’m a pussycat.” Grace uncapped a pen and opened her notebook. “But since I’m also such a type-A personality I’ll need a weekly breakdown. Mostly so I don’t forget what’s on the agenda, but also I’ll need to order the supplies ahead of time.”

  They’d just finished diagramming the schedule when their food arrived. Tate noticed Grace scowling at the tortilla strips and sliced tomatoes atop her iceberg lettuce and staring longingly at Tate’s fried chimichanga covered in guacamole and sour cream.

  “You can have some if you’d like,” Tate offered.

  “Thanks. Problem is I’ll get indigestion if I take even one bite. Then I’ll toss and turn all night.”

  “Bet Luke loves that. What’s he doing tonight?”

  Grace glanced at her watch. “Probably cursing my name. Neither of us has been home much this week.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  Grace’s smile was completely fake. “Fine.”

  Tate gave her a dubious look.

  Without missing a beat Grace unrolled her silverware from her napkin and poured dressing on her salad. “So. How did the meeting with Nathan LeBeau go?”

  For the next twenty minutes Tate filled the void in the discussion. She couldn’t help but notice the little bit of salad Grace had managed to eat looked as if it might come up any second. Something was bothering Grace, but Grace wasn’t ready to share. Tate let it slide and feigned exhaustion so Grace didn’t have to keep up the pretense of enjoying her meal and the conversation.

  They paused at the front door. Despite the fact Tate barely reached Grace’s chin, Tate wrapped Grace in a bear hug and said, “I know you don’t want to talk about it. But if you change your mind, call me. Day or night.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tate drove home in her little VW Bug. She left the radio off and rolled down the window in her car, hoping the sweet night air would soothe her. The streets were quiet. Seemed everyone was tucked in bed. No wonder. It was almost eleven o’clock.

  Not a single light shone inside her house. She trudged up the sidewalk, inserted her key in the lock, quietly opened and closed the door. The place was quiet as a grave. A shiver broke free.

  Even if Grace and Luke were having marital difficulties, at least Grace didn’t have to face an empty house. Sometimes the loneliness of single life hit Tate like a sledgehammer.

  She sighed, knowing sleep would be elusive. After popping a bag of microwave popcorn, she opened her sketchbook and got to work.

  The following night, Nathan parked in the gravel lot and turned to look at his date.

  Tate was squinting through the bug-splattered window of his truck, gaping at the neon lights flashing across the midway. “You brought me to a carnival?”

  Nathan shifted in his seat. Was he idiotic to think city girl Tate would get a kick out of this slice of rural living? Did she prefer trendy art openings and smoky jazz clubs? “It was just an idea. If you don’t want to go—”

  “Are you kidding?” She wheeled around and granted him a sexy grin. “This is great. I haven’t been to a fair since high school.” Something caught her attention. She gasped and tugged insistently on his sleeve. “Omigod! There’s a double Ferris wheel!”

  Tate bounded out of the truck and practically dragged him to the ticket booth. When she dug in the pockets of her jean shorts for cash, Nathan gently but firmly moved her aside. He slid two twenties through the half-circle hole in the bottom of the plastic partition.

  “I can pay my own way,” she said.

  “I know.” He folded the ride tickets before tucking them into his shirt pocket. “But this was my idea, so it’s my treat.”

  She seemed ready to debate the issue. When he held out his hand to forestall another argument, she grabbed it and brought his knuckles to her lips for a swift, surprising kiss. “Then thank you. Speaking of treats…what should we eat first?”

  Her impulsive affection made his heart skip. How sad that he had precious little spontaneity in his life. “I thought you were hot to try the rides?”

  “After we check out the vendor stands. I’m starved.”

  Nathan frowned. “But won’t you get sick if you eat first?”

  “Isn’t that the point? Ooh, look.” She yanked him toward a small camper. “Indian tacos.” She stopped and faced him with a horrified look. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. Did that offend you?”

  “No.”

  Relief crossed her face. “Good. Let’s split one, then we’ll have room for corn dogs.”

  He found himself swept up in her enthusiasm and added a beer to their order. They sat side by side on a sticky picnic table facing the fairgrounds and soaked up the fair’s ambiance.

  Scents and sounds carried through the warm night air: fried foods and candied apples mixed with the smells of livestock and exhaust fumes from the rides. Exhilarated shrieks blended with the booming voices of the carnival barkers. The whoosh of machinery competed with the rock music blaring from the loudspeakers. Through it all, babies cried from strollers, couples laughed—old and young alike—as the crowd shuffled through the discarded food wrappers and flyers on the way to the rodeo arena.

  With a pang of self-awareness, Nathan realized it had been a long time since he’d actively pursued fun. As he relaxed, sipping the beer, he stole a glance at Tate. Her wide-eyed gaze darted everywhere.

  Although her tousled short blonde hair and pink cheeks cried wholesome, Nathan had a sneaking suspicion a wild woman lurked beneath that innocent persona. He was equally afraid she had every intention of showing it to him up close and personal. Tonight. He squashed the rush of anticipation, strengthening his resolve to keep the evening lighthearted with physical contact at a minimum. He mustn’t forget his future hinged on nailing this pr
oject—not nailing her.

  Tate finished her portion of the taco and rested her chin on her palm. “That was wonderful. So, what next?”

  “Bumper cars?”

  She took a drink of beer, licking the foam from her upper lip with a lingering sweep of her delicate pink tongue. “Nah. Let’s