by Linda Howard
Merilyn was everywhere, chatting and laughing. She was one of those hostesses who loved a party, and her pleasure was infectious. At one point she was standing with a group of men— flirting, actually—when she spied Sarah and beckoned her over. Sighing inside, because it looked as if she were going to be put on display, Sarah put on her bland, professional expression and approached.
“Sarah, I just found out both of these gentlemen also tried to hire you after the awful thing that happened to Judge Roberts,” Merilyn said. “Carl Barnes, Trevor Densmore, this is Sarah Stevens, domestic organization specialist.”
“How do you do?” she murmured with a modified bow. She didn't offer to shake hands; that was usually a woman's prerogative, but not a butler's. If someone offered to shake her hand, she would, but she waited on their preference.
Trevor Densmore was a tall, slim man with gray hair and a shy smile; he actually blushed when she gave him a slight smile. Carl Barnes, however, a blond man with harsh features and cold eyes, looked at her with hooded speculation, as if he was wondering if Sonny Lankford found his way out to the little bungalow at night. She recognized both names; Trevor Densmore was the man who had sent her two letters offering employment. Carl Barnes's offer had been so high she'd had to wonder exactly what duties he expected her to perform in addition to running the household. Probably he'd thought his offer was preemptive; instead it had made her suspicious.
“I'm pleased to meet you,” Mr. Densmore said in a voice as soft and shy as his smile. He blushed again and looked down at his shoes.
“If I were you, Merilyn, I'd keep an eye on Sonny,” Carl Barnes said in a voice that was just a little too loud. “With a woman who looks like this around, a man might get some ideas.”
Implying that she herself would go along with any such ideas, Sarah thought, hiding her temper. She shouldn't let herself respond, but when Merilyn looked startled and temporarily speechless, Sarah murmured, “A gentleman wouldn't.” She could make some implications of her own.
Mr. Barnes flushed, and his cold eyes glared at her. Merilyn recovered enough to slap him on the arm. “Carl, if you're going to be nasty, go stand somewhere alone so you won't bother the other guests. I didn't introduce Sarah just so you could insult her, as well as both Sonny and me.” She managed to make her tone just firm enough that he knew she was serious, without being nasty in return.
“I was just joking,” he muttered, taking refuge in the classic passive-aggressive response.
“I'm sure you were.” This time she patted his arm. “Come on, let's find Georgia; there's something I need to tell her.” She towed him away with her, in search of his wife. Watching them go, Sarah had to hide a smile. He thought everything was just fine, glossed over; instead Merilyn was remanding him into his wife's custody.
“I'm sorry,” Mr. Densmore said. “Carl can be crude when he's had too much to drink.”
“No offense taken,” Sarah said, lying without compunction. “It was so nice to meet you, Mr. Densmore. I remember your letters; your offer was very kind.”
“Thank you.” He smiled shyly. “I wasn't certain if I should . . . I mean, I didn't know how I should contact you. I hope you didn't mind.”
Mind a job offer? “I was flattered.” She glanced around. “Excuse me, Mr. Densmore, but I have duties I have to attend to.”
“I understand. It was nice meeting you, too, Miss Stevens.”
She was glad to escape and return to more familiar territory. She made certain to stay away from Carl Barnes, however.
She was beautiful. He'd wondered how she would dress, if she would wear pants, perhaps a feminine version of a tuxedo, though the Lankford party wasn't formal. Her choice was understated and severely elegant: a long, narrow black skirt, slim but not confining, teamed with a tailored white shirt and a short, fitted black jacket. The outfit looked vaguely military, though without the brass buttons or braid. Her thick dark hair was pulled back in a very neat bun, and she wore small gold hoops in her ears. She wasn't wearing the pendant.
At first he'd been a bit insulted, until he realized it would be out of place for the function she was performing. What had the Lankford woman called her? Oh, yes—a domestic organization specialist. She wouldn't be wearing diamonds and rubies in that capacity. The pendant was for when they were alone.
Though perhaps he'd been a bit stingy with the pendant. When compared with the monstrous canary diamond ring Merilyn Lankford wore, the pendant was insignificant. He wasn't in the habit of buying jewelry, so he might have erred. How humiliating, to think that perhaps Sarah wasn't wearing the pendant, not because it was inappropriate, but because it was paltry!
No, she'd never think anything like that. She was too much a lady. Why, look how she had handled that crass boor, Carl Barnes. Not by a flicker of an eyelid had she betrayed any expression, giving only that murmured reply about “a gentleman”—which, obviously, Barnes wasn't. He'd been so proud of her.
He had watched her all evening. She was unobtrusive, discreet, and paid excruciating attention to detail. Any mishap, no matter how small, was dealt with immediately and with a minimum amount of fuss and embarrassment. Her dedication to her job was heartwarming in this age when clerks acted as if it was an imposition to help customers.
Could Merilyn Lankford even begin to appreciate the honor Sarah did her by being there? Of course not. Merilyn had no idea what a jewel she had, or how briefly she would have her.
The situation was even more intolerable than he had supposed. His Sarah shouldn't be exposed to crude remarks such as the one Carl Barnes had made. When she was at his house, she would be shielded from that. He would protect her from the world. Things were almost ready to his satisfaction; a few more preparations, and then it would be time to bring Sarah home.
The party broke up around one-thirty, which wasn't all that late. These people were businesspeople, pillars of the community, and most of them were regular churchgoers; they couldn't sleep very late the next morning and still attend services.
Merilyn still looked as fresh as she had when the party started, her green eyes sparkling. “Well, that was a success!” she declared, looking around the wreck of her ballroom-size living room. Nothing was actually destroyed, but nothing seemed to be in the correct place, either. “No one threw up, no one set anything on fire, and no fights were started. That's pretty good, if I do say so myself!”
Sonny regarded his wife with fond, if weary, indulgence. He was a stocky man with graying dark hair and a collection of laugh lines. “You can say it on our way upstairs,” he said, spreading his arms and pretending to herd her in the direction of the stairs. “I'm bushed. Let's go to bed.”
“But there's still—”
“Nothing that Brenda and I can't handle,” Sarah said, smiling. “I'll lock up and set the alarm when I leave.”
Merilyn hated to go to bed when anyone else was still awake, afraid she might miss something, even if that something was cleaning and loading a multitude of plates and glassware. “But—”
“But, but, but,” Sonny said, no longer pretending to herd her but actually doing it, crowding her with his body and gradually forcing her toward the stairs. “No matter what you think of, there's nothing that won't wait until morning.”
She backed up, but she peeked around him like a child being torn away from the playground. When he succeeded in getting her started up the stairs, Sarah waved good night, then joined Brenda and her crew in the kitchen.
Things were well in hand, because Brenda had had someone washing dishes from the very beginning. As they were brought in soiled, they were washed. That way there was always a fresh supply if needed, and when the evening was over, there wasn't an avalanche of dirty dishware to be cleaned before it could be packed in the boxes and taken back to the shop. As a result, the last wave of dirty plates and glasses had already been washed, and the crew was busy packing up the chafing dishes and folding a small mountain of table linens.
With everything going well t
here, Sarah went on a tour of the house, righting a tipped-over potted plant here, picking up a dropped spoon there, gathering towels and—oops—someone's underwear. Either someone was very forgetful, or a tryst had occurred in the bathroom.
She threw away the underwear, emptied the trash cans, sprayed air freshener all through the rooms, and straightened cushions and chairs. Brenda came in to report they had everything loaded in the vans and were leaving. After seeing them off, Sarah did one more tour of the house, checking windows and doors. Finally, a little after three, she set the alarm, stepped out into the courtyard, locked the door behind her, and traipsed past the pool and down a short path to her little bungalow.
She was so tired she ached all over, but she was wide awake. She took a shower to freshen up; usually a warm shower relaxed her, but tonight she felt even more awake than she had before. She thought of sitting down to read, but Cahill had told her to come over no matter what time the party was over.
She was officially off-duty until Tuesday. She was freshly showered, wide awake, and a naked man whom she happened to be crazy about was just a short drive away.
“Decisions, decisions,” she said to herself. Sure. Like there was any doubt. She picked up the phone. She had a key, but only a fool would walk in unannounced on a sleeping man who happened to keep a loaded pistol on the bedside table.
“Cahill.”
She knew she'd woken him up, but his voice was clear and cool; since all the detectives were essentially on call twenty-four hours a day, he'd had his share of middle-of-the-night calls.
“The party's over. I'm on my way.”
“I'll be waiting.”
Humming, she quickly got the small bag she'd packed earlier, which contained a couple of changes of clothes and her makeup and toiletries, plus a book or two. Not that she had much time to read when she was with Cahill, but it might happen. She secured the bungalow, loaded her things in the TrailBlazer, and in twenty minutes was pulling into his driveway. The kitchen light was on.
She all but danced up the steps to the back door, which opened before she got there. Cahill stood outlined in the light, tall and broad-shouldered, and wearing only a pair of his sexy boxers, which he had put on solely because he knew he'd be opening the door.
“Hubba hubba,” she said in a growly tone; then she dropped her purse and overnight bag and hurled herself into his arms. He caught her, lifting her so her legs could curl around his waist, and they sank into a long, deep, hungry kiss.
When they surfaced, he licked his lower lip in that way he had of tasting her. “You didn't plan this right,” he said, nibbling at her mouth.
“I didn't?” She pulled back a little, frowning at him. “What did I do wrong?”
“For one thing, you're wearing jeans.” He kissed her again as he kicked her bags inside and shut the door, then fumbled with the lock. “If you'd been thinking straight, you'd have on a skirt but no panties.”
“Sounds breezy.” She went back for another kiss.
Gripping her hips, he moved her against his rock-hard erection as he carried her down the hall to the bedroom. “But if you had,” he whispered, “I'd already be inside you.”
“You're right; I was incredibly stupid.” She squirmed, rubbing herself up and down on him and making her own breath catch as the familiar hot rush began spreading through her.
“You can make it up to me.” He dumped her on the bed and unfastened her jeans, then began stripping them down her legs.
“Really? Got any ideas?”
“Plenty.”
“Are they legal in this state?”
“Nope.”
“I'm shocked,” she said. “Shocked. You're sworn to uphold the law.”
“You can make a citizen's arrest afterward.” He pulled her knit top off over her head and tossed it aside. Since she wasn't wearing a bra, she was naked. When it came to removing her clothes, he set world speed records.
“A citizen's arrest,” she mused. “Does this mean I get to handcuff you?”
“You mean you like the kinky stuff, too?” He shoved down his boxers and stepped out of them, pulled her to the edge of the bed and put his hands behind her thighs, pushing them up and apart. She held her breath as he made the connection and began wedging the broad head of his penis into her, past the tightness of her opening. Then he was in, leaning over her as he pushed slow and deep, and she began breathing again. She arched her hips, taking him in to the hilt.
The hall light was still on, silhouetting him as he leaned over her, his wide shoulders blocking out the light. They fell silent, concentrating on the rhythm and sensations, the heat and moisture, the fullness she felt, the tightness he felt. He wet his thumb and gently rubbed it over her clitoris, bringing her body up to him in a tight arch. Sarah gasped, reaching for him, wanting the heaviness of his weight on her. He gave her what she wanted, coming down on top of her and crushing her into the mattress with the force of his thrusts, his hands under her hips grinding her even harder on him. She came, bowing under him, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs while her nails sank into his shoulders. It was always fast the first time, fast and hard, raw in its intensity. He climaxed right after she did, and as they lay together in the aftermath, she felt herself begin to drift to sleep, so deeply content it went all the way down to a molecular level. This was where she belonged, right here with him. The “here” didn't matter; it could be anywhere, so long as she was with Cahill.
CHAPTER 21
SARAH AWOKE AT TEN TO THE SMELL OF FRESH COFFEE. SHE rolled over, stretching and yawning. She hadn't been sleeping all that well since moving into the bungalow, but she always slept like a rock at Cahill's . . . for what time he let her sleep, that is.
She'd missed him, both mentally and physically. It wasn't just the sex, though there was no “just” to sex with him; it was too raw and exciting. But more than that, she missed his physical presence beside her in bed, the heat and weight and comfort. As often as not she had slept with her head pillowed on his shoulder, or pressed against his back. If she wasn't touching him, then he was touching her, a subconscious signal even in sleep that they weren't alone.
He came into the bedroom wearing only jeans and carrying a cup of coffee. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. “If that's for me, I'll be your sex slave forever.”
“It's yours, so I guess we need to talk terms of servitude.” He handed her the cup, and she sipped, half-closing her eyes in delight at the first taste. The mattress dipped as he sat down beside her.
She took another sip. “For starters, I don't get time off for good behavior.”
“Definitely not,” he agreed, stroking her arm. “No parole, though I guess you could get . . . special privileges for sucking up to the warden.”
“In more ways than one,” she murmured, rubbing one finger over the bulge in his jeans. “When do I start?”
The corners of his mouth were kicking up at her boldness. “I think you already have. And if you don't stop that and get your butt out of bed, your breakfast will get cold.”
“You have breakfast ready? Great, I'm starving.” Dropping the sex-kitten act, she balanced the coffee cup as she climbed out of the nest of covers and headed for the bathroom. “What am I having?”
“Cereal.”
“You jerk! That's already cold!” she called after him. She could hear him laughing softly as he went toward the kitchen.
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn't that of a woman who had worked most of the night and was still a few hours short of the recommended eight hours of sleep. Her hair was tousled, her eyelids a little swollen, but she looked rested . . . and glowing. Sex with Cahill could do that for a woman, she thought, smiling as she brushed her hair.
Cahill had brought in her overnight bag and purse. She washed her face, brushed her teeth and got dressed. Dressed much as he had been, barefoot and in jeans—though she did pull on a shirt—she and her coffee cup made their way to the kitchen.
Breakf
ast was cereal, but he had also sliced some fresh peaches and put a cup of her favorite vanilla yogurt beside the bowl. He'd prepared the same thing for himself, but doubled the amounts. “Yum,” she said, sitting down. “But it's so late, you shouldn't have waited for me, you could have already eaten. You must be even hungrier than I am.”
“I had a bagel about eight o'clock.”
“What time did you get up?”
“Almost seven. I went for a run, ate the bagel, read the paper, twiddled my thumbs.”
“Poor baby.” She picked up her spoon and dug in. “What else did you do?”
“You still weren't awake, so I had sex with your unconscious body—”
“Did not.”
“Did, too.”
“Okay, so you dozed off and were dreaming. What time did you wake up?”
“Nine-thirty.” He forked a slice of juicy peach into his mouth. “I was tired. My sleep got interrupted last night.”
“How are you feeling now?”
“Rarin' to go.”
“Good, because I feel great.” She stopped eating to stretch, raising her arms high over her head. Cahill's gaze followed the movement of her breasts. “After breakfast settles, I think I'll go for a run, too. Are you up for another one?”
“I'm up for several things. I think I can fit in another run.”
She eyed him appreciatively as they finished breakfast. He'd told her he'd started working out a lot when he and his wife split up; physical exercise was a great stress-reliever. He'd been in good shape before, but not like he was now. His abs and pecs were like rocks. He was a big man, but he hadn't bulked up all that much, just hardened and defined. Touching him was a tactile marvel—smooth, warm skin covering muscles so hard there was almost no give to his flesh.
He got up to carry his empty dishes to the sink. Sarah propped her chin on her hand to watch him, her eyes half closed and a tiny smile on her face. “Your ex-wife has to be the biggest idiot walking the earth.”
He gave her a startled look, then shrugged. “Make that a two-timing, vindictive idiot. What made you think of her?”