Dying to Please Read online

  “Not too much, dear. You've been very sick.”

  She was still very sick if she was paralyzed, but maybe this man didn't know she couldn't move. She closed her eyes, fighting for strength, but, dear God, she didn't have any. She was so weak that she felt almost boneless.

  “I'll bring you some soup in a little while. You need to eat something. I didn't realize you hadn't eaten, and I'm afraid I accidentally made you ill.”

  The softness of the voice clicked, and memory crept back. “Mr. Densmore?”

  “Yes, dear, I'm right here.”

  “I feel so sick,” she whispered, opening her eyes and blinking. This time she found her vision had cleared a little, and she could plainly see his face, full of concern.

  “I know, and I'm sorry for that.”

  “I can't move.”

  “Of course not. I couldn't have you hurting yourself, now could I?”

  “H-hurting myself?” She was winning the battle against the fog; with every passing second she felt less confused, more aware of her surroundings. She felt as if she were surfacing from anesthesia, which she remembered well from when she broke her left arm when she was six years old, and she'd been put under general anesthesia when it was set. She'd hated the anesthesia a lot more than she'd hated the cast.

  “If you tried to leave,” Mr. Densmore explained, but that didn't make any sense.

  “I can't. I haven't.” Tried to leave? She had tried to get up from the table, and that was the last thing she remembered.

  “I know, I know. Don't get upset. Just stay calm, and everything will be all right.” The brush moved slowly through her hair. “You have such lovely hair, Sarah. Overall I'm very pleased with you, though your indecisiveness was an unpleasant surprise. Still, you've been through a lot of upset. I'm sure you'll settle down with time.”

  He wasn't making any sense. Settle down? She frowned, her brow wrinkling, and he smoothed the creases with his fingertip. “Don't frown, you'll wrinkle your pretty skin. I was right about how lovely a ruby would look against your skin. But I've looked all through your things, and I can't find the pendant. Why aren't you wearing it?”

  Pendant?

  A chill ran through her, and she went very still as an awful suspicion seized her. Her stomach heaved again, but this time with fear.

  “Why aren't you wearing the pendant I sent to you?” he asked, sounding a little petulant.

  He was the one. He was the stalker, the weirdo whose presence she'd sensed, like a hidden cancer. He'd waited, and seized his chance. She wasn't sick at all, she realized; the bastard had drugged her, and since she hadn't eaten anything in over a day, the drug had hit her hard.

  She had to answer him. Don't annoy him, she thought. Don't do anything to make him wary. Think. She needed an excuse that wasn't her fault. Think! “Allergic,” she whispered.

  The brush paused in its motion. “My dear, I'm so sorry,” he said contritely. “I had no idea. Of course you shouldn't wear something that will give you a rash. But where is it? Perhaps you could put it on for just a moment, so I could see you wearing it.”

  “Jewelry box,” she whispered. “Could I have more water?”

  “Of course, dear, since the first has stayed down.” He lifted her head and held the glass to her lips again, and she gulped as much as she could. “There,” he said as he let her head rest on the pillow again. “Where's your jewelry box?”

  “At the bungalow. Lankford estate. Crime scene . . . police have it sealed. I can't get in.”

  He made an exasperated noise. “I should have realized. Don't worry, dear, I'll take care of collecting the rest of your things. You'll feel so much more comfortable with your own possessions around you.”

  Sarah tried once again to move her arms, and this time she felt something wrapped around her wrists. The truth occurred to her in a sickening rush: she was tied to the bed. She fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn't give in to it, she had to think, she had to concentrate. If she panicked she was helpless, but if she kept her wits, she might outsmart him.

  She had one big advantage: she knew he was dangerous, but he didn't know she was.

  Cahill. He knew she was here. Sooner or later he would call and want to see her, talk to her. All she had to do was keep things calm and under control until then. She didn't want to do anything to agitate Densmore, prod him into violence. He was a stalker, obsessed with her; he was happy now because she was here, under his control. So long as he believed that, she was safe. She hoped she was safe. But if he thought she was trying to escape from him, he was likely to explode into violence. If that happened, if she couldn't make a clean escape, then she had to make certain she was ready to handle him.

  But there was no telling how long it would take Cahill to try to contact her. He knew she was here, but all the cops were working almost around the clock trying to find the killer. He would try her cell phone first, and if she didn't answer, he would try again later. “Later,” however, could be days later.

  No, Cahill wouldn't wait that long. He was too tenacious.

  But in the meantime she had to help herself. The first order of business was to convince Densmore to untie her.

  She made her voice weaker than it truly was. If he wanted her sweet and helpless, she'd give him sweet and helpless, at least until she could kick his ass. “Mr. Densmore?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I . . . I'm so embarrassed to say this.”

  “You don't have to be embarrassed about anything. I'm here to take care of you.”

  “I need to use the bathroom,” she whispered, and she had the benefit of that being so true she was on the verge of really embarrassing herself. Add in the fact that she was having her menstrual period, and the situation was not good.

  “Dear me. That does present a problem.”

  “I—I think I'm paralyzed,” she said, and let her voice wobble. It was better that he thought she was more incapacitated than she really was. Not that she would be able to fight or run even if she was untied, at this point, but she wanted him to think she was recovering very slowly.

  “Of course you aren't,” he exclaimed, his voice warm with sympathy. “I just used restraints to keep you from harming yourself. Now, let me see, how can we work this?”

  She squirmed a little; her distress was becoming so acute that it was no problem to let a tear leak out of her eye. She needed to see if she could walk, or if too much of the drug he'd given her was still in her system.

  “Yes, that will work,” he murmured to himself, and folded back the covers. To her immense relief she saw that she was still wearing her clothes; he'd removed her shoes, but that was all. He worked diligently, untying her ankles and then refashioning the thin, woven nylon restraints into a sort of hobble, with an extra length attached to it and held in his hand. If she could walk at all, it would be in very short steps, and if she tried anything, all he had to do was jerk the rope in his hand and she'd fall flat on her face.

  She was truly crying by the time he got all that worked out and began releasing her hands.

  “I'm sorry, I know you have to be miserable,” he crooned. “Just a few more minutes, and I'll help you to the bathroom.”

  “Please hurry,” she croaked, squeezing her eyes shut.

  At last he was helping her to sit up, and she saw immediately that even if she were untied, she wouldn't be able to accomplish much. Better to do nothing to arouse his suspicions this time, and wait until she was in better shape. She had to remember that he was stronger than he looked, if he'd managed to get her upstairs all by himself. Unconscious people, since they were totally limp, were a bitch to move.

  She was so woozy that she could barely sit up; in fact, she couldn't, not without help, and she leaned heavily into him. It turned her stomach to touch him, but she had to concentrate on allaying his suspicions, and if that meant accepting his help, she'd grit her teeth and do it.

  He got her on her feet. Her knees immediately buckled, a