Dying to Please Read online

  “How long were you in?”

  “Eight years.”

  She digested that as she placed another target in the clip and sent it on its way. Eight years. Why had he left the service? She knew he had not been booted out, because he wouldn't be on the Mountain Brook force if he had a dishonorable discharge. Could he have received some injury, as her dad had, that made it too difficult to continue? She glanced at him, at that hard, fit body. Nope, she doubted that was the answer.

  She didn't know him well enough to ask, nor was she certain she wanted to get to know him that well. No, she was lying to herself; she definitely wanted to get to know him better, find out if there was any humor at all behind that sourpuss face and cop's eyes; but in this case, she would be better off not knowing. Something about him—and not just his body, though that was mouthwatering—elicited too strong a response from her. It was those darn chemicals, or hormones, or something, but she knew this man could get to her. He could suck her into a relationship, against her better judgment, that would interfere with both her job and her plans.

  That said, maybe she was a fool not to go after him. Maybe, sour disposition and all, he was a man she could love. Should she stick to her Plan, or go for the hunk?

  Decisions, decisions.

  She smothered a private laugh. Here she was going through all these mental gymnastics, and for all she knew, he didn't feel the tiniest scintilla of attraction for her. For all she knew, he was married with five kids.

  Just leave it alone, she advised herself. If he was single, and if he was interested enough to make a move, then she would decide what to do.

  At peace with that, she slipped her ear protectors into place, and he did the same. Taking the pistol in her left hand, she wrapped her right hand around her wrist to brace it, and calmly, methodically emptied the clip at the target. She was accustomed to a critical audience—namely her father and brothers—so Cahill's presence didn't bother her.

  He removed the protectors again as the automatic return sailed the target toward them. “You shot left-handed that time.”

  God, he noticed everything. “I practice left-handed at least half the time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I take my job seriously. In a crisis, if my right hand is injured, I should still be able to protect my charge.”

  He waited until the target reached them, and studied the pattern. She was almost as good with her left hand as she was her right. “You train hard for a threat that you don't really think will materialize.”

  She shrugged. “I'm not paid to play the percentages; I'm paid to be ready. Period.”

  “Hey, Doc!”

  He shifted his gaze down the line of shooters and lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “I think my buddy's ready to leave.”

  “‘Doc?'” She was startled by the nickname.

  “Long story.” And one he didn't seem inclined to relate. “Miss Stevens.” He nodded at her in good-bye and walked away before she could reply. He joined a husky guy in jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap, who showed him a sheaf of paper targets, shaking his head in evident disgust. Detective Cahill examined the pistol, deftly reloaded it, then walked to the line and clipped on a new target.

  Sarah didn't let herself watch. She had her own practicing to accomplish, so she burned three more clips left-handed, at different distances, before calling it a day. When she looked around, Detective Cahill and his buddy were gone.

  CHAPTER 5

  HAVING ESTABLISHED THAT RICK'S NEW PISTOL WAS INDEED a piece of shit, Cahill and his pal went to the gun shop where Rick had bought the pistol. Rick harangued the owner for almost an hour with no results: he had bought the pistol, it was registered in his name, the paperwork had been sent in the day he bought it, so his only recourse was with the manufacturer unless he wanted to resell the pistol to some other unsuspecting fool.

  They repaired to a bar and grill for an early supper and some liquid comfort. “Order me a beer, will you?” Rick said, and took off for the bathroom. Cahill slid onto a barstool and placed the orders. He was already sipping his coffee when Rick returned.

  “That was a sharp-looking woman you were talking to at the range.” Rick plopped onto the barstool beside him. “You banging her?”

  Cahill slowly turned his head and regarded his friend as coolly as if he had never before seen him. “Who the hell are you, and why the fuck would I care?”

  Rick grinned in appreciation. “That was good. Very good. You almost scared me. Mind if I use it sometimes?”

  “Feel free.”

  “So, are you banging her or not?”

  “Not.”

  “Why not? She married or something?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then I repeat: Why not?”

  “I haven't tried.”

  Rick shook his head and reached for his beer. “You gotta get over this, son. So you had a rough divorce; it's over. You're free now and you have to move on to the next flower.”

  Since Rick was a veteran of two divorces and was now looking for wife number three, Cahill sort of doubted the worth of any advice he gave concerning women. Rick was good at attracting them, but not at keeping them. But because he was also a good friend, Cahill didn't point out any of that. “Give me time,” he said mildly.

  “Hell, it's been a year!”

  “So maybe I need a year and a half. Besides, I date.”

  Rick snorted. “Yeah, and they go nowhere.”

  “I don't want them to go anywhere. I just want sex.” He stared morosely into his coffee. He definitely wanted sex, but getting it was a problem. The women who offered one-night, no-strings sex weren't the type of women he wanted. Sleaze had never appealed to him. The women who really attracted him were long-term types, and long term was exactly what he didn't need right now.

  It wasn't that he hadn't gotten over Shannon; he'd gotten over her the minute he found out she was screwing a doctor from the hospital where she worked. But the divorce had been a bitch, with her fighting for everything she could get, as if she had to punish him for daring to not want her any longer. He didn't understand women, or at least he didn't understand women like Shannon; if she hadn't wanted out, then why screw around? Had she really thought he wouldn't kick her ass out if he found out? He did, he had, and she had reacted with an almost insane sense of vengeance.

  He had tried to be fair. That said, he wasn't dumb; the first thing he'd done after finding out about her affair was take out half the money in their joint bank account and open an account in another bank under his name only. He had also removed her name from all his credit card accounts, which wasn't a hardship on her because she had her own credit cards, but damn if she hadn't gone ballistic when she found out. He figured she'd found out when she tried to charge something on one of his cards— after he kicked her out—so he'd made the right call on that.

  He'd beat her to the punch in filing for divorce, but she had counterfiled and asked for everything: house, car, furniture, for him to pay all the bills for said house, car, and furniture, even though she made more at her job in hospital administration than he did as a cop, and she wanted alimony.

  The attorney Shannon hired was a divorce shark known for his scorched-earth tactics. The only thing that had saved Cahill's ass was a sharp attorney and an even sharper female judge who had seen through Shannon like glass. He had thought he was sunk when he heard the judge was a woman, but his attorney had smiled and said, “This is going to be fun.”

  Cahill wouldn't classify divorce proceedings as fun, but in his case the results had been a relief. Since no children were involved, the judge had divided everything in direct proportion to their incomes. Neither of them wanted the house, so she ruled it would be sold, the mortgage paid off, and the profits, if any, split between them. Since Shannon made twice what he did, he would get twice as much of the profit as she because she was better able to afford another house. Cahill had glanced at Shannon when that decree came down, and saw her flush with rag