Dying to Please

by Linda Howard

  “You. You're neat, domesticated, intelligent—”

  “Keep going,” he said.

  “—good-looking, sense of humor, sexy—”

  “And yours.”

  She stopped, her stomach suddenly flip-flopping. “Are you?” she whispered.

  He put the milk in the refrigerator and gave her a wry smile. “Oh, yeah.”

  She took a deep breath. “Wow.”

  “That's kind of the way it takes me, too.” He refilled their coffee cups and sat down. “So that's what we need to talk about. I want more than what we have now. If you do, too, then we need to figure out how to work this.”

  She nodded.

  “Sarah. Let me hear you say it.”

  “I want more,” she managed. She couldn't believe this was happening, so fast, and at the breakfast table on a sunny Sunday morning.

  “Okay. Your job—for now—requires you to live on-site. My hours right now are longer than usual. If weekends are all we can manage, then we'll deal with that, but . . . how long are you on duty at night?”

  “Until they're ready to go to bed or tell me they won't need me for anything else that night. So far, they usually tell me to call it a day right after dinner. I think they like to have their evenings alone, unless they're entertaining.”

  “Are you allowed to have visitors? God, this sounds like Victorian England.”

  She laughed. “Of course I can have visitors during my own time. I wouldn't feel comfortable with you sleeping over—”

  He waved that away. “Sex is secondary. Well, almost secondary. The point is we need to see more of each other than we have since you started work there. It's been driving me crazy, not seeing you. Let's just handle this right now, and later on we'll handle your world tour. Somehow. I won't ask you to give it up, because you really want to do it. I'll just whine a lot.”

  She did really want to have her year of travel, but she really wanted Cahill, too. “I'm a reasonable woman,” she said. “I know how to compromise.” She had always remained heart-whole and free because she'd never before met anyone who was important enough to her to get in the way of her plans. Cahill was that important. She would travel some, but a whole year away from him? No way. She wasn't willing to do that.

  He cleared his throat. “We—uh . . . we'll probably get married.”

  “Ya think?” she asked, then started laughing. She couldn't help it. If the man got any more unromantic, the people in charge of Valentine's Day would put a bounty on him.

  He grabbed her and hauled her into his lap. “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “You haven't asked a question. You stated a probability.”

  “Well, then, do you agree with the probability?”

  She might never hear the question, she thought, amused. She'd have to work on him. She intended to be married only once in her life, so she wanted to hear that question. “I agree with the probability.” She gave him a serene smile and kissed him on the cheek. “When you're thinking in more black-and-white terms, we'll talk about it again.”

  He groaned and dropped his head onto her shoulder. “You're going to put me through the wringer, aren't you?”

  “Of course, sweetheart. That's what women are for.”

  He didn't know where Sarah was. When he'd checked early Sunday morning, her SUV was gone, and she hadn't been back to the Lankfords' house since. At the party, casual questions had elicited the information from Merilyn that Sarah's weekends were normally free, but when they entertained on the weekend, she would take a different day off. In this case, when the party ended, she wouldn't be back on duty until Tuesday morning.

  Thinking she might go somewhere, he'd gotten up early and driven by the monstrosity; having already checked, he knew her usual parking spot was visible from the street—just the rear quarter panel, but enough to tell the vehicle was hers. But she must have gotten a very early start, because when he drove by right after dawn, she had already left.

  Did she have family in the area? He kicked himself for not asking. Of course, her family didn't have to be in the area; she could have flown to visit them, and taken the first flight of the morning.

  For a brief moment he entertained the unpleasant idea that she might have a boyfriend—juvenile term—but, no, Sarah had too much class to spend the weekend with some local yokel. The times he'd followed her before, she had shopped and run errands, but never had she met a man anywhere. The problem was, there had been long stretches when he hadn't been able to find her, so he didn't know whom she might know in the area. She was likely visiting family or friends, but he would have liked to have known exactlywhere; he hated not knowing.

  After he took care of Roberts, for instance, he hadn't stayed to watch the excitement because he knew criminals often couldn't resist watching the show and police these days routinely filmed the spectators. When he had driven by the next morning, after the hullabaloo had died down, the driveway had been barricaded and the house sealed off with yellow tape. He had no idea where she had gone. A friend's house, a hotel? The Wynfrey was the most likely hotel, so he'd gone straight there but hadn't seen her SUV. It had been raining, anyway, and he disliked driving in the rain, so he'd gone home.

  After the funeral, she had gone back to the house. She had then stayed there almost all day, every day, so he had relaxed and stopped driving by so often. According to the grapevine, she was getting the house ready to close, packing everything up for the family. Then one night he happened to check, and she wasn't there; there were no lights on at the house. Where had she gone?

  The problem was, there was no place in the neighborhood where he could park and watch for her. If an unfamiliar car stopped, it was immediately noticed. Nor could he continually drive by; he had business to attend to, meetings, phone calls. He had to do all the monitoring himself to avoid the risk of bringing in a stranger who might talk, so he eventually had to accept that he simply wouldn't be able to keep track of her all the time. He didn't like it, but he was a reasonable, patient man; he could wait.

  The most important thing was that he knew she wasn't supposed to be back until Tuesday morning.

  The other time had worked like a charm, so Sunday night he followed the same routine. He drove to the Galleria in the dark blue Ford he had bought only a little over a month before; after all, the Jaguar was so noticeable. The Ford was so ordinary as to be almost invisible. It didn't compare to the Jaguar, of course, but it was perfect for its purpose. But when he called there was no answer. Frustrated, he tried several more times before giving up in disgust.

  The next night, though, he knew the Lankfords were at home, because he'd checked, and there weren't any extra cars in the driveway, either. They were alone. He made the call, and of course Sonny was glad to see him. Sonny was always willing to talk business, and when one owned a bank . . . well, people liked to see him. Sonny was too stupid to see anything unusual in his coming to him, rather than the other way around. The fool was probably flattered.

  The silenced pistol was tucked in his waistband at the small of his back, covered by his jacket, when Sonny let him into the house. The man hadn't even bothered to put on a jacket, he saw with contempt. He was dressed in slacks and pullover knit shirt, and he was wearing house slippers, for God's sake. Totally classless.

  “Where's Merilyn?” he asked easily. People talked to him, told him things. They trusted him. Why shouldn't they?

  “Upstairs. She'll be down in a minute. You said you wanted to talk to both of us?”

  “Yes. Thank you for seeing me tonight. I won't take up much of your time.” Sonny still didn't see the ludicrousness of that statement.

  “Nonsense, it's a pleasure. Would you like something to drink? We have hard, soft, and everything in between.” Sonny led the way into the den; thank God he hadn't taken him into that horrible room with the gargantuan television. There was a television in the den, of course, but it was normal-sized.

  “A glass of wine would be nice.” He had no intention of drinkin
g it, but the pretense of accepting his hospitality would keep Sonny relaxed.

  They made small talk, and still Merilyn didn't appear. He began to get a little concerned. He didn't want to spend a lot of time here; the longer he waited, the more likely it was someone would notice the car, as bland as it was, or the phone would ring and Sonny—or Merilyn—would say, sorry, we can't talk, our banker is visiting. Wouldn't that be just lovely.

  He glanced at his watch, and Sonny said, “I don't know what's keeping Merilyn. I'll go check—”

  “No, don't bother,” he said, getting to his feet. In a smooth motion he reached behind his back, took out the pistol, and pointed it at Sonny's head. He was so close that Sonny could have reached out and swatted it away—if he'd had time, but he was slow to react. Pity.

  Calmly he pulled the trigger.

  The bullet entered Sonny's head just above his left eyebrow, angling back and to the right, taking out both hemispheres of his brain. He was always amazed at how small and neat the entry wound was; when the bullet exited, however, it had flattened, and it took a huge chunk of skull and brain with it. Amazing.

  The sound of the shot was just a little cough; it wouldn't even have been heard in the next room.

  He turned to go in search of Merilyn, and froze. She stood just outside the doorway, her face drained of color, her eyes wide and horrified. He lifted the pistol once more, and she ran.

  He didn't have time to get off another shot. Grimly he ran after her; he couldn't afford to let her escape, even briefly. She might run screaming from the house, which would attract attention. But, no, the dear ran into another room and slammed the door; he heard the lock click.

  He shook his head and put a bullet in the lock; the door swung uselessly open. Merilyn whirled, the phone in her hand. He shook his head again. “Bad girl,” he said softly, and pulled the trigger.

  She slumped to the carpet, eyes popped out from the force of the bullet that had entered right between them. He stepped over to her and removed the cordless phone from her hand. He listened, but there was no one on the line; either she hadn't had time to dial 911 or she'd been too flustered to think. He calmly wiped the phone with his handkerchief and replaced it on the charger.

  Merilyn's hand lay outstretched, as if she were reaching for him. The canary diamond glittered at him, and he had an idea—a brilliant one, if he did say so himself. If he took the ring, it would look as if a burglary had occurred. The ring had to be worth a small fortune; he had investigated the cost of jewelry more closely today and discovered that a good stone was hideously expensive. This ring, for instance, had probably set Sonny back close to a quarter of a million dollars. Really.

  He was embarrassed that he'd given Sarah such a small token in comparison. This was a particularly fine stone, and the color would look wonderful on her, with her warm skin tones. Not in this setting, of course; she wouldn't like such gaudiness. But after a certain amount of time had passed, when the police weren't actively looking for a large yellow diamond ring, he could remove the stone from the setting and take it to a jeweler in, say, Atlanta, and have a wonderful piece fashioned for her, with the canary diamond as the center stone. Yes, he could just see it now.

  He leaned down and tugged the ring from Merilyn's finger. It was a tight fit; the dear must have gained a little weight. He'd saved her from having to have the ring resized.

  Pleased with himself, he carefully retraced his steps through the house and wiped everything he might have touched. After he let himself out the front door, he wiped the door handle and the doorbell button. As he drove away, he smiled.

  That had gone very nicely.

  CHAPTER 22

  ON MONDAY MORNING AFTER CAHILL WENT TO WORK, SARAH worked out, booked herself a manicure and pedicure for that afternoon, then spent a few blissful hours doing absolutely nothing. After visiting the salon to get her nails done, she bought groceries and cooked a spaghetti supper. Cahill had just eaten his third slice of butter-dripping garlic bread when his phone rang. He squinted at the number in the little window, and sighed.

  “Yeah. Cahill.” He listened for a minute, then said, “I'm on my way.”

  He sighed as he got up. He was still wearing his holster, so all he had to do was knot his tie and slip on his jacket. “I gotta go,” he said unnecessarily.

  “I know.” She got up and kissed him. “Is it something that you can finish fast, or will it take a while?”

  He sighed again. “I'll probably be a few hours, maybe longer.”

  “Okay. I'll be here when you get back.”

  He looked down at her, blue eyes heavy-lidded and sensual. “I like hearing that,” he said, bending down to give her a long, slow kiss that made her heart begin pounding. Damn, the man knew how to kiss.

  After he left, she cleaned up the kitchen, then watched television for a while. An ad for a fast-food joint showed a picture- perfect banana split, and her saliva buds started working overtime. She didn't need a banana split; it was something like six weeks worth of calories. She'd have to run a hundred miles to work it off.

  She told herself all that. Usually she was very good about resisting cravings, because usually she didn't have cravings. She ate a healthy, well-balanced diet, and didn't think about food all that much. It was almost time for her period, though—and when it was that time of the month, she craved ice cream.

  She resisted the craving for over an hour, then surrendered.

  She got up and looked in the freezer section of the refrigerator. Aha! There was a half-gallon carton of Breyers Natural Vanilla with flecks of real vanilla bean. She reached in to get it, and her heart sank. The carton was way too light. She pried off the top and groaned; there was barely a tablespoon of ice cream left. Why on earth hadn't he eaten that last tablespoon and thrown the carton away? Or better yet, remembered to buy more?

  Growling to herself, she got her purse and drove back to the supermarket. If she had known she was going to start craving ice cream, she could have bought it while she was there earlier.

  She decided that if she was going to indulge, she might as well do it right and make the mother of all banana splits. Then the craving would be gone, and she could return to eating nice, sensible, healthy foods. Besides, when you added the bananas, that made the ice cream more healthy, right?

  She did it right. She picked out the best-looking bananas she could find. She bought maraschino cherries. She bought pineapple sauce. Chocolate syrup. Chopped pecans in caramel sauce, and, while she was at it, caramel sauce. She bought vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate ice cream, because a real banana split had all three flavors. What else? Oh, yeah, whipped cream. And vanilla wafers to hold it all together.

  Man, she could hardly wait.

  To her surprise, Cahill was home when she got back. She carried in her haul. “What are you doing back so soon? I thought you wouldn't be back until ten or later.”

  He shrugged. “Things just went faster than I thought. Where have you been?”

  “The grocery store. I would have left a note, but I didn't think you'd be here to read it, so there didn't seem much point.”

  He leaned against the cabinet and watched as she unloaded the bags. “What's going on? Are we having an ice cream party?”

  “Banana split. I saw one on television and my mouth started watering. You didn't even have any ice cream,” she said accusingly.

  “I did, too.”

  “One spoonful that's almost dehydrated does not count as having ice cream.”

  He eyed the three cartons. “Well, I certainly have ice cream now.”

  “You certainly do.”

  He waited a minute. “May I have some, too?”

  “You want in on this banana split lovefest?”

  “You betcha. If it's a lovefest, I'm interested. I bet I can think of more things to do with this chocolate syrup than you can.”

  “You can keep your hands off my chocolate syrup. I have plans for it.”

  “All of it?”

&
nbsp; She winked at him. “Maybe not.”

  She got two shallow bowls from the cabinet, lined up all her ingredients, and set to work peeling and slicing the bananas lengthwise. She put the slices in the bowls, and shored them up with vanilla wafers. Next came the ice cream.

  “Just vanilla in mine,” Cahill said, watching in fascination. “I don't get fancy with my ice cream.”

  “You're missing out on a great culinary experience.”

  “I'll taste you afterward.”

  Three scoops of vanilla for him, one each of the vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate for her. “Pineapple and pecans?” she asked, holding out the little jars, and he nodded. She added liberal helpings to both bowls. Next came the caramel sauce, then the chocolate syrup. She topped the growing mound with generous globs of whipped cream, and crowned it all with maraschino cherries. She put two cherries on hers, just because she liked them.

  “Holy shit,” Cahill said when he took the bowl. “This weighs at least two pounds.”

  “Enjoy,” she said, taking hers to the table and digging in.

  “My God,” he groaned half an hour later. “I can't believe you ate all of that.”

  “You ate all of yours,” she replied, looking pointedly at his empty bowl.

  “I'm bigger than you. And I'm stuffed.”

  “So am I,” she admitted. “But it was good, and that took care of my craving.” She carried the bowls to the sink and rinsed them out, then put them in the dishwasher. She was so full she thought she might burst, and she didn't want to see ice cream again for another millennium . . . or at least another month.

  “Now,” he said. “About that chocolate syrup . . .”

  “Don't even think it.”

  He did think it, of course, and say it as well. What's more, after a couple of hours, they ended up trying it. Chocolate syrup on her, chocolate syrup on him . . . It was a shame she'd wasted so much on the banana splits. It boggled her mind, what they could have done with a full bottle.

  She was still smiling early the next morning when she drove back to the Lankford house. It was not quite six o'clock, but she wanted to be there bright and early and get started on the day. She stopped at the gate and retrieved the morning newspaper from the box, then keyed in the code, and the gates swung smoothly open. She drove in and parked as usual beside the little bungalow. After carrying in her things, she hurriedly changed clothes and walked across the courtyard to the main house, letting herself in with her key.