Dying to Please Read online

  Dear Miss Stevens:

  I would like to offer you a position in my household, in the same capacity you now fill. My estate is large and would benefit from your competent management, but I believe the benefit would be mutual. Whatever your salary is now, I will increase it by ten thousand dollars. Please call me with your decision.

  Hmm, that was interesting. She wasn't tempted, but it was interesting all the same. She checked the return address; it was a street in Mountain Brook. Judging from the date at the top of the letter, he must have sent it right after seeing the television spot.

  Somehow she hadn't expected other offers of employment. It was flattering, but she had no intention of leaving the Judge, no matter how much money was offered.

  The offer deserved immediate attention, though, so she picked up the phone and dialed the number on the letter. After two rings an answering machine picked up and a soft masculine recorded voice said, “You've reached 6785. Please leave a message.”

  Sarah hesitated. She didn't like leaving a message, but people who had answering machines usually intended them to be used. “This is Sarah Stevens. Thank you for your offer of employment, but I'm very happy in my present position and I don't foresee myself leaving. Again, thank you.”

  She disconnected and picked up her cup of tea, then remembered her bathwater. She hurried to the bathroom to find the water level high and steaming: just right. After turning off the taps, she turned on her Bose CD player, dropped the robe to the floor, and stepped into the water, sighing as she sank down in it to the level of her chin. The hot water went to work on her tired muscles; she could almost feel the tension oozing out of them. The soft strains of the meditation CD filled the bathroom with the sound of slow, relaxing piano and strings. After another sip of tea, she leaned back and closed her eyes, happy and content.

  “This is Sarah Stevens.” He stopped the recording, hit replay, and listened again.

  “This is Sarah Stevens.”

  Her voice sounded just as it had on television, low and warm. He had been standing beside the answering machine, listening, while she left the message.

  “This is Sarah Stevens.”

  He couldn't believe she had turned down his offer. Ten thousand dollars! But that proved her loyalty, and loyalty was a precious commodity. She would be just as loyal to him, once he had her in his house.

  “This is Sarah Stevens.”

  He had a talent for changing people's minds, arranging things to his own satisfaction. So she didn't foresee leaving her current position? He'd see about that.

  CHAPTER 6

  AS SHE SERVED HIS BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, SARAH told the Judge, “I got a letter yesterday offering me a job. He must have seen the television spot.”

  For some reason, Judge Roberts was regarding his French toast with definite suspicion. He had put on his glasses and leaned down to peer closely at it. “What are these red specks?” he demanded.

  “Cinnamon. That's how you get cinnamon French toast.”

  “Humph. The doctor says my cholesterol is down twenty points. Switching to fake bacon wouldn't have brought it down that much, so I know you're doing something to my food.”

  “What can you do to French toast?” she asked rhetorically.

  “Maybe it isn't the French toast. Maybe you're doctoring everything else.”

  She smiled as she placed a bowl of fresh sliced strawberries in front of him. “I'm not doing anything different,” she cheerfully lied.

  “Humph,” he said again. “Does this scum-sucking bottom-feeder who's trying to hire you away from me know he'd be bringing a tyrant into his home?”

  She stifled a laugh. “Scum-sucking bottom-feeder?” He was so old-school she wouldn't have been surprised if he had described someone as “dastardly.” Hearing slang from him was almost on a par with the idea of the Supreme Court justices doing a rap song on the steps of the Capitol.

  “Grandkids.”

  “Ah.” Barbara's two children were fifteen and nineteen; that explained everything. Sarah amused herself for a moment picturing fifteen-year-old Blair, with her pierced eyebrow, teaching the dignified old judge the top-ten teenage insults.

  “Next thing I know, you'll be feeding me tofu,” he grumbled, returning to his suspicions about his food. He began eating his French toast, red specks and all.

  Since the cook had been feeding him skillfully disguised tofu for several months now, Sarah had to hide a grin.

  “What exactly is tofu?”

  “Curds and whey, minus the whey. Soy curds, to be specific.”

  “That sounds revolting.” He studied his fake bacon. “My bacon isn't made from tofu, is it?”

  “I don't think so. I think it's just fake meat.”

  “Well, that's all right, then.”

  She would have kissed him on top of his white head if that hadn't been totally against all her training. He was such a dear, dutifully eating his fake meat while keeping a sharp eye out for encroaching tofu.

  “What did you tell the bottom-feeder?”

  “I thanked him for his offer, but told him I'm very happy in my present position.”

  His bright eyes twinkled through the lenses of his glasses. “You said he saw you on television?”

  “He must have, unless one of your friends told him my name.”

  “It wasn't one of them, was it?” he asked suspiciously.

  “No, I didn't recognize the name.”

  “Maybe he's a handsome young man who fell in love as soon as he saw you.”

  She barely restrained a snort of disbelief. “People who make job offers to someone without knowing her qualifications or getting references are idiots.”

  “Don't hold back, Sarah; tell me how you really feel.”

  This time she did laugh, because that line had to have come from Blair, too.

  “You should at least interview,” he surprised her by saying.

  She stopped in her tracks and stared at him. “Why?”

  “Because I'm old and won't be here many more years. This might be a good opportunity for you, and he might offer a higher salary.”

  “He did, but that doesn't matter. Unless you fire me, I intend to be here as long as you are.”

  “But more money would help you with your Plan.” She had told him of her intentions to take a sabbatical and travel the world, and he had been enthused by the idea, studying the world atlas and researching different countries for things he thought would interest her.

  “My Plan is in good shape, and people are more important than plans, anyway.”

  “Pardon an old man for getting personal, but you're a lovely young woman. What about marriage, a family?”

  “I hope to have those, too, just not yet. And if I never get married, I still enjoy my life and I'm pleased with my career choice. I'm happy with myself, which isn't a bad thing.”

  “No, it isn't. In fact, it's a rare gift.” His smile was gentle as he studied her. “When you do get married—and notice I say when, not if, because one day you'll meet a man who's too smart to let you get away—he should get down on his knees every day and thank God for his good luck.”

  She wanted to hug him. Instead she smiled and said, “That's a lovely compliment. Thank you. Do you suppose he'd still feel that way if I fed him tofu?”

  “He'll know you're doing it for his own good.” Despite that gallant reply, he eyed his empty plate again.

  “I promise: no tofu in your French toast.”

  He sighed in relief and began eating his bowl of strawberries, without pressing for a more extensive promise. He was sharp enough that the omission told her he suspected he had already been tofu-contaminated, and was submitting with good grace so long as his beloved French toast was safe.

  After lunch she received the half-expected call from one of her brothers. It was Daniel, calling from Texas. “Hey, sweetie. That was a nice piece of tape; showed you to advantage. None of the guys can believe you're my sister, and they all want me to fix them up