Dying to Please Read Online Free Page A

had resumed her seat on the stairs and her conversation on the cell phone. “Take her statement while we get Rambo here into a unit.”
    “Be glad to,” Cahill murmured, and he meant it. The way she had moved when the robber tried to get away had piqued his interest. She hadn't screamed, hadn't scrambled to get out of the way; instead she had moved smoothly, totally balanced, her attention focused on the robber. If he himself hadn't stopped the guy, Cahill thought, she would have—or at least tried—which brought up a lot of questions he wanted to ask.
    He approached the stairs, the glare of the battery-operated lights behind him and the stark light full on her face. She continued talking on the cell phone, her expression calm and focused, though she held up one finger at his approach to tell him she'd be finished in a moment.
    He was a cop; he wasn't used to people telling him to wait. Faint irritation flashed through him, then instantly morphed into amusement. God, maybe he
was
an arrogant shithead, as his ex-wife had been fond of telling him. Besides, even if this woman was an old man's arm decoration, she was definitely easy on the eyes.
    Because looking at her was so easy, he did, automatically cataloging the details: dark hair, not quite shoulder length, and dark eyes. If he were taking down a description of her, he'd have to say “brown” and “brown,” but that didn't come close to the actual color. The lights glinted on her hair, making it look like dark, rich chocolate—and her eyes were darker.
    He pegged her age at late twenties, early thirties. Height . . . five-five, maybe five-six. He was tempted to give her another couple of inches but realized it was her almost military posture that gave the impression of her being taller than she actually was. Weight between one-twenty and one-thirty. Her skin was smooth and flawless, with a creamy texture that made him think of licking an ice-cream cone.
    She ended the call and extended her hand to him. “Thank you for waiting. I had waded through the phone company's computerized multiple-choice menu and didn't want to start over. I'm Sarah Stevens.”
    “Detective Cahill.” Her hand felt small and cool in his, but her grip was surprisingly strong. “Could you walk me through what happened here tonight?” Her accent wasn't southern; it wasn't anything that he could nail down. Yeah, that was it: it wasn't anything. She didn't have any kind of accent.
    “I'd be glad to.” She indicated the stairs. “Would you like to sit down?”
    He sure would, but then he'd be rubbing shoulders with her, and that wasn't a good idea while he was on the job. His thoughts since first seeing her had been way out of line, and that wasn't good. His mental brakes went on, and he pulled back from the edge, forcing himself to concentrate on the job. “No, thanks, I'll stand.” He took his notebook from the pocket of his jacket and flipped to an empty page. “How do you spell your name?”
    “
Sarah
with an
h, Stevens
with a
v.
”
    “Are you the one who discovered the break-in?”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “Do you know approximately what time it was?”
    “No, my bedside clock is electric, but I estimate it has been about thirty minutes since I woke.”
    “What woke you? Did you hear a noise?”
    “No. My quarters are over the garage; I can't hear anything from there. When they cut the power line, my ceiling fan stopped. That's what woke me.”
    “Then what happened?”
             
    Sarah related the course of events as concisely as possible, though she was acutely aware of her thin pajamas and bare feet. She wished she had taken the time to put on a robe and slippers, or pull a brush through her hair. Or maybe even do a full makeup job and slip into a negligee, spray herself with perfume, and hang an “I'm available” sign around her neck. Then she could take Detective Cahill to her quarters and sit on the side of the bed while she gave him her statement.
    She smiled