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 there, 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, con centrating 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.
Breakfast 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 twotiming, vindictive idiot. What made you think of her?"
"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 SW 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 exactly where; 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 SW. 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?