Read Online Dying to Please by Linda Howard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Linda Howard
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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
“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
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