Dying to Please Read online

  There weren't any dirty dishes in the sink. The counter surface held a block of knives, a microwave, and a coffeemaker, but that was it. The breakfast nook at the other end of the kitchen held a white table with a ceramic tile top in a yellow-and-blue pattern, and the four chairs grouped around the table were painted the same shade of yellow, while the rug underneath was blue.

  “Are you sure you weren't in the Navy?” she asked, looking around at the spotless kitchen. Navy people learned to put everything in its assigned place, because there wasn't any spare room aboard a ship.

  He grinned. “What did you expect, a pigsty? The laundry may pile up, but I'm fairly neat. I do have someone who comes in every other week and does the basic cleaning, because I don't think of things like dusting. C'mon, I'll show you the rest of the house.”

  The rest of the house was a half-bath next to the kitchen, two good-sized bedrooms at the front of the house, separated by a nice large bathroom, and the master bedroom and bathroom suite at the back. His bed was king-sized, but then she would have put money on that. And it was made up. The room was neat, but it wasn't spotless; one of his shirts hung over the back of a chair, and a coffee cup with an inch of cold coffee in it sat on the dresser. “So that's where I left it,” he said, picking up the cup. “I looked all over for the damn thing this morning.”

  She liked it that he hadn't straightened up the place, not that it needed much. He didn't have to have things perfect, and he wasn't trying to impress her. Perversely, she was impressed anyway, with his confidence and sense of self.

  “I don't know about you,” he said, “but I'm hungry. Let's fire up the grill and get those steaks on.”

  The steaks were filets, two inches thick and so tender she almost didn't need a knife. While the steaks were cooking, she microwaved two potatoes, tossed the salad, and heated the rolls. Instead of wine, he produced a jug of iced tea.

  If he had put on some soft, gauzy, romantic music, she might have had a chance, but instead he turned on the television to Fox News Channel and had the news playing in the background. Maybe he wasn't trying to seduce her—at least not actively trying—but he was succeeding anyway.

  After they had cleaned up the few dishes and put the kitchen to rights, working quickly and easily together, he said, “I want to show you the basement. I think you'll like it.”

  He led the way down the stairs and turned on the bright overhead lights.

  The first thing she noticed was that the walls were very utilitarian, with bare pipes against the brick. The second was that he did some serious workouts down here.

  To her left was an impressive set of free weights, and a punching bag hung motionless from a beam. There was a weight machine, the type that converted to accommodate all types of exercises, and a treadmill.

  He stayed by the door while she wandered over to the free weights and ran her fingers over the cold metal of the dumbbells, then examined the weight machine and the computerized treadmill. He put a good deal of effort and money into staying in shape, though she bet the treadmill was used only during really nasty weather. A little rain wouldn't keep this man indoors; it probably took a downpour with a lot of lightning to do the trick. Idly she wondered how many miles a day he ran, but what interested her the most was the large exercise mat that covered a full half of the basement floor. There was only one use for a mat like that.

  She knew he'd studied karate from the way he had leveled the robber with a kick, but he'd never mentioned it again, and with everything that had happened since then, she'd forgotten about it. She wondered why he hadn't brought up the subject, since he knew she studied karate. His silence couldn't be because he was at a lower level than she; Tom Cahill didn't have a fragile ego. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “You do your karate workouts here?”

  He was leaning against the doorframe, one ankle hooked over the other, his arms crossed; his eyes were lazy and hooded as he watched her. He lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “It isn't karate so much as a mixture of a lot of stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “I've studied karate, judo, dim mak, silat. What works best in the real world, though, is a combination of wrestling and good old dirty street fighting.”

  He was probably very good at fighting dirty, she thought, her heart kicking into a slightly faster beat. Why on earth would she find that sexy? But, damn it, everything about him was sexy, from the sleek, muscled power of his body to that unnerving stillness he was using to such good effect. It was like being watched by a great cat; his motionlessness only served to underline the sense of tension, as if he was preparing to pounce.

  The mood between them while they ate had been light, teasing, but now she could feel that molten attraction throbbing between them. The air was thick and heavy, as if a storm were building—not outside, but in here. She wasn't naive; she knew exactly what kind of storm it was, and if she intended to escape, she needed to move now. “Well,” she said briskly, swinging toward the door and, unfortunately, toward him, “it's getting late, and I should be—”

  “Stay,” he said.

  Stay. His voice was low, the single word slow and dark, like velvet rubbing against her skin. She froze, held motionless by the promise of his tone, the temptation contained in that single word. There was no teasing now, no lightness.

  Sex with him would be good. Better than good—better even than ice cream. It would be mind-emptying. She was very much afraid it would be shattering.

  She swung around yet again, facing away from him. She stared at the punching bag, feeling her heart thumping against her breastbone, sending her blood racing and making her feel hot, jittery . . . excited. Involuntarily her loins clenched as if she already held him inside her. She wanted that, wanted it with an intensity that almost swamped her common sense. Desperately she tried to think of all the reasons why he wasn't a good bet for any kind of relationship except a sexual one, but, my God, the sex . . . The physical chemistry between them had grown even stronger, stronger than she had ever imagined it could be, like an electrical field she could sense through every pore of her skin.

  She didn't dare turn around, didn't dare look at him or let him look at her. He would know at a glance, if he didn't already, how close to the edge she was. And she didn't want to see the open sexual hunger that was certain to be in his gaze, didn't want to read the signs of arousal in his face and body.

  Stay . . . not just for coffee, or for more talk. He meant stay the night, in his bed.

  “No,” she said, and almost wept at the effort it took to say that one word.

  His hand closed lightly, gently over the nape of her neck, his fingers sliding under the thick fall of her hair. She hadn't heard him move, hadn't known he was so close, and her nerves skittered wildly. He wasn't trying to hold her; his touch was more of a caress than a grip. She could move away if she really wanted to. And that was the problem, because what she really wanted was him. Her skin tingled from his warm, hard hand, the slight rasp of his roughened fingers on the sensitive cords of her neck. Involuntarily she imagined how those rough hands would feel on the rest of her body, and a shiver ran down her spine.

  He was big, dwarfing her with his size, her head tucked neatly under his chin. His furnacelike heat wrapped around her. He would be heavy, and probably dominating, but she could also imagine him lying back and letting her set the pace—

  “Stay,” he said again, as if she hadn't refused.

  She hung on to her sanity, barely. “That wouldn't be smart.”

  “Fuck smart.” His hot breath stirred over the fine hairs on the back of her neck, making her shiver again. His low voice made the word a weapon to be used, a deeper level of intimacy between them. “It would sure as hell be good.” He stroked her neck where his breath had warmed her skin. “If you like it slow, I'll be slow. If you like it hard and fast, then that's the way you'll get it.” His mouth replaced his fingers, his tongue slowly licking, and the shiver became a fine tremor that shook he