Mariah (MARIAH and SHANE Series Book 1)

by Carol Devine

  Mariah looked puzzled. "Tomorrow?"

  "Yes," Ana said, squeezing Mariah's shoulder. "Why don't you sleep in and we'll touch base in the afternoon?"

  Ana hurried away. Mariah slapped her hand on the table, as though delighted. "Isn't she ahhh-mazing?"

  "She is pretty special, yeah."

  Mariah popped a pickle in her mouth. "A while ago, I thought she had the hots for you."

  "Ana? I think she knows better."

  "Yes, she does. But I was jealous. It was right after we broke up."

  "I see."

  "She said you were high maintenance."

  "High maintenance?"

  "You wanna know why?"

  "No, but I think you're going to tell me."

  "Except I forgot."

  Shane pointed at her plate. "Eat the rest of your fries and I'll take you home."

  "No, I want new." She picked up the flyer on the table advertising the craft beer and drink specials. "See this menu? They have drinks for after dinner. Come after the meal. Like dessert. Kalua? Brandy? Grand Marnier?"

  He plucked the flyer from her hands. "Sorry, Doc. No more drinks for you."

  She set her elbows on the table and laced her fingers under her chin, prim and proper. "I have a confession to make."

  "I'm not your priest. Finish eating and I'll drive you home."

  "When Ana was in the bathroom, I sneaked another shot at the bar."

  "What did you do that for?"

  "I needed to be drunker. I need to open my letter."

  "You qualify. Open it."

  She saluted him, military-style. "Yes, sir." She whipped out the letter and ripped open the envelope, peering at the contents for all of five seconds. She handed Shane the letter. "They want me to come back. See?"

  Expressionless, Shane riffled through pages. "Looks pretty official."

  "Should I sell it on EBay?"

  "I'd hold off on that, at least until you are sober."

  "I am sober."

  "No, you're not. Your speech is slurred, you're flushed and sweaty and your eyes are bloodshot."

  Mariah shrugged in exaggerated fashion. "Details."

  Shane scanned the letter. "This should make you happy. Your testimony provided the evidence necessary to apprehend the perpetrators of the conspiracy. Further investigation has cleared you of any and all wrong-doing. Due to your exemplary performance in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee, sanctions against you have been withdrawn and your status as an FBI Special Agent has been restored with full pay and benefits, retroactive through the last two years."

  "Isn't that special?" She batted her eyelashes.

  "I think this is our official invitation to get you home." Shane signaled the waitress for the check, then returned the letter to the envelope and fitted it back into her purse.

  "Can we at least have one for the road?"

  "Nope."

  "You're such a party pooper." She pushed her wallet at him. "Take my money, pay the bill. I'm on the hook… for a round at the bar, too. You'll need it all."

  He counted her cash. "I should have gotten here earlier."

  "It's Ana's fault. She went to the bathroom. When you gotta go, you gotta go."

  Shane ushered Mariah to the bar to pay her tab. Settling her various transactions turned out to be a complicated process, involving his credit card and every bit of her cash. She wandered off and he found her bumming a shot of whiskey from a tray set in front of a bunch of hunters in camouflage, who appeared completely transfixed by her stylish appearance and indulgent of her inebriated performance. They chanted, spurring her on.

  "One, two, three, feel the burn!"

  Mariah tipped her head back, gulped the whiskey down and punched the air above her head in victory. Shane caught her outstretched arm and pulled her out of the restaurant to the cheers of the bar crowd.

  In the dark, she came to an abrupt stop. "You're ruining all my fun."

  "You're ruining all my fun," Shane said, tucking her hand under his arm and escorting her to the sidewalk. "Do you know how much that little party cost?

  "I'll pay you back."

  "You bet you will. What in the world got into you tonight?"

  She saluted again, doing it several times. "Shervice to my country."

  Realizing he couldn't just drop her off and leave her to fend for herself, Shane steered her down the street. "Are you sure you can walk?"

  She rubbed her head, trying to decide. "My brain and my ankles… aren't speaking to each other."

  "That's the alcohol talking. We're walking to my place and I'll drive you home."

  "No, my place. Clean sheets."

  "Your place is too far. Come on, let's walk. You need the fresh air." He wrapped his arm around her waist.

  Her knees and feet seemed determined to go in opposite directions. "You may have to carry me if I can't get this walking thing to work."

  "I'll carry you if you need it."

  She tucked her hand in the back pocket of his jeans and squinted at him. "I feel so weird. Is this when people throw up?"

  "Do you feel like throwing up?"

  "Not particularly. I'm definitely ready for bed, though." She burped, wrinkled her nose at the burning sensation in her throat and flung her arms around his neck. "Shane, will you carry me?"

  She sagged against him, for all intents and purposes, unconscious. Her eyes were closed, her breathing deepening. He could smell the whiskey on her breath.

  He disentangled himself from her arms, stuck one shoulder in her mid-section, lifted her off the ground, bent her over his back in a fireman's carry, and adjusted his shoulder position to the point where her head and arms hung down his back and he had a decent grip on her rear end. If she got sick, it would be the safest position for both of them.

  He labored up the street and after a ten minute walk, negotiated the stairs leading to his front porch. She stirred when he unlocked the door, banging on his legs to get his attention.

  "My home. I made my bed for once."

  "Sorry, darlin'. Your place is miles out of town. My house will have to do."

  "No, wait." She kicked her legs, forcing him to clamp down with his hands under her skirt. The edge of her panties tickled his fingertips. He could picture them, black lace and stretchy straps. "Put me down," she yelled.

  "Not yet." He crossed the foyer and headed up the stairs. The guest room was going to save his sanity.

  She sputtered in protest. "Stop. My brains are falling out."

  "Do me a favor and tell me if you're going to throw up."

  "I'm... dizzy and... dizzy."

  "First stop, toilet." He detoured into the big bathroom adjoining his bedroom and set her on her feet, grabbing her waist to keep her from flopping over.

  Her knees buckled. He guided her to the floor and put a bath towel under her head. She turned on her side and curled into the fetal position.

  "I'm asleep," she murmured.

  "I'll get you a blanket." He returned with a blanket and pillow and knelt beside her, changing out the towel for the pillow and throwing the blanket over her. He took off her high heels, lining them up in the corner.

  She spoke, eyes closed. "The room is spinning."

  "Yeah, that happens when you're drunk." He brushed her loose hair from her face. Usually she kept it back in a ponytail. Not tonight. It flowed around her like rippling gold ribbons.

  She gripped the pillow. "I've never been this drunk before."

  "Not even in high school or college?"

  "Just a beer or two. Didn't want to be sick. It's disgusting." She crawled to the toilet and heaved.

  He held back her hair. When she finished, he washed her face with a wet washcloth.

  She caught his arm, confused. "Why am I here?"

  "You need a friend right now."

  "You're not my friend."

  "I'm doing my best."

  She giggled. "You're my lover."

  "Hush, Mariah." He guided her to the floor. "Close your
eyes and go to sleep."

  She curled on her side. He covered her with the blanket. "I might be sick again," she murmured. "I'll try not to be."

  "Warn me next time."

  She kicked at the blanket. "It's too hot."

  He folded the blanket and set it aside. "Better?"

  She plucked at her blouse. "Can you take my clothes off?"

  "No, you're keeping your clothes on. If you're hot, here's a wet washcloth."

  He turned on the cold water and ran the washcloth under the faucet, soaked it and wrung it out. He laid it on her forehead and held it there.

  "Thanks," she whispered.

  "You're welcome."

  "I'm gonna be sick again."

  He helped her make it to the toilet in time. She heaved until she had nothing left, then reached to flush the toilet but kept missing the lever.

  "I'll do that." He flushed.

  She closed the toilet lid and rested her cheek against it. "You must hate me."

  He resisted the urge to rub her back in reassurance. "I don't hate you. Tonight you're definitely a mess, though."

  "Told you I was. Our first time together."

  "Yes, you did. Are you feeling any better?"

  "I think so. Take me to bed, will you?"

  He wiped her face with the wet washcloth again, took her by the arms and hauled her to her feet.

  She adjusted her skirt, untwisting it. "I can walk on my own."

  He watched her go. Since she was barefoot, she did pretty well shuffling into his bedroom. It wasn't worth arguing about since she'd be comatose in minutes. Whenever her legs got tangled, she paused and held onto the walls, getting her bearings. At the foot of the bed, she reached forward, set one knee on the mattress, then the other, and crawled over the bedspread, collapsing midway with her head turned to the side.

  She spoke without moving, hair mussed like a little girl's. "Why does Bird drink so much? I feel dry inside. I'm shrinking."

  "Are you thirsty?"

  She thought what he said was wildly funny, rolled over and laughed, holding her stomach.

  "No way. No more whiskey for me."

  "How about a glass of water?"

  "A glass of water," she echoed. "Sure."

  He went into the bathroom and returned with a glass filled with water. She had shimmied her skirt down around her ankles and she was busting open the buttons on her blouse. "Sorry, I'm hot. Can't stand it."

  He handed her the water and she drank with both hands, blouse hanging and thong crimping her hip.

  She drained the glass and handed it back. "Tastes great."

  "Let's get you under the covers."

  "Let's not." She shrugged the blouse off her shoulders but she was clumsy as the material draped her arms. "Help me. I can't get it off."

  Pinned by the blouse, her elbows were askew. The blouse was a lost cause. He pushed it down her arms and set it aside, folding it, along with her skirt. She worked on her bra, fumbling.

  He helped her with that, too, drawing it down her arms and adding it to her piled clothes. Thumbing her panties, she wiggled and writhed, and threw them at his face, giggling. He caught them. Her intimate scent was intoxicating. Grim-faced, he added them to the pile and quickly turned off the lights.

  She rested her head on her palm. The slant of bathroom light lined the nude curve of her waist and hip, shadowing the vee between her legs. "Make love to me, Shane."

  He cleared his throat. "I can't, darlin'."

  "Why not?"

  "It's just the way it has to be." He settled his weight on the doorjamb. "Get under the covers, okay?"

  "But you love me."

  "That's why I can't."

  She wrinkled her nose in confusion. "Does it help if I love you?"

  He sighed. "I figured you'd admit it sooner or later. Try and go to sleep, Mariah. You need to sleep."

  She patted the bedspread, her eyes sleepy, gleaming in the semi-dark. "I want you to come here."

  "Lay down your head first."

  Her head wilted, contacting the pillow.

  "Close your eyes."

  She closed her eyes and, moments later, rolled on her back and snored.

  Restless now, Shane stretched his arms above his head, releasing sexual and muscular tension. He looked down at her, naked and drunk and vulnerable, knowing she'd hate for him to see her like that. She didn't want anyone to see her like that.

  He went into the bathroom, returned with the blanket and covered her with it, tucking it around her shoulders and under her chin. One of her hands sneaked out and grabbed his wrist.

  "Don't leave me," she whispered.

  "I won't."

  Holding her hand, he dragged a nearby chair to the bed and seated himself, watching her face achieve a peace he'd seldom seen.

  She slept.

  * * * * *

  Mariah awakened abruptly. She knew where she was the moment she opened her eyes because Shane was sitting in a chair next to the bed, fully dressed but unshaven, smiling at her.

  "How are you feeling?" he asked.

  The pounding in her head answered him. She struggled to sit up, making the pounding worse. "Oh, my God." Collapsing, she put her arm across her eyes, shutting out the early sunlight streaming into the room.

  "I'll get you some aspirin."

  Realizing she was naked, she clutched the blanket to her chest. The inside of her mouth felt like cotton. Her knees hurt. She peered downward and saw they were scraped raw, like she'd fallen hard. Except she had no memory of it.

  Shane came back with a glass of water and two pills, and dropped them into her palm. Mariah flashed on a bartender handing her drinks. Beer in a tall mug rather than her customary bottle. Whiskey shots. Ana was there. Lime and tequila. Then Shane, out of the blue.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, popped the pills and gulped the water. It gurgled all the way down, burning her throat, her stomach. She returned the glass to him, afraid to ask the obvious question. But since she woke up here, she had no choice but to ask it. "What happened last night?"

  "Hate to tell you, darlin', but you tied one on."

  Mariah groaned and used the pillow to bury her face. The FBI letter. She'd brought it, waved it around, crowed about it in front of everybody, including Shane.

  He patted her hand. "It's okay."

  "No, it's not." She remembered a circle of young men, grouped around a table, in camouflage clothes. Hunters. One, two, three… Oh, fuck it to hell. She'd lost it, lost her fucking mind.

  "The important thing is you survived."

  "I'm thirty-four years old. Everybody saw me acting like…"

  "It happens to the best of us."

  She could argue that. She didn't because her head felt like it was bamming an African drum. "Are you the one who undressed me?"

  "Yep. We made mad, passionate love the entire night, then I decided to put yesterday's clothes on and watch you sleep."

  Mariah winced. "I made an absolute fool of myself, didn't I?"

  "Nope. I've done worse."

  "You hardly drink."

  "In my day, I did, after I joined the pro ranks."

  "Why don't you now?"

  He angled a shoulder, acknowledging the irony. "Quit before I developed a problem."

  Mariah rubbed her pounding head. "Smart man."

  "I try. I'm going downstairs to make us some breakfast."

  She put her hand on her queasy stomach. "I don't think I should eat anything."

  "It will help to have something in your stomach."

  She sniffed her wrist in disgust. "I smell like I rolled in vomit."

  "I made sure you didn't. But, if you want, feel free to take a shower. I'll call you when breakfast is ready."

  He left before she could answer, collecting some clean clothes for himself, moving in his usual spinning-on-a-dime way out the door. She, however, felt like a bloated cow.

  Pulling the blanket close around her, she staggered to her feet, saw her folded clothes, grabbed t
hem, then made a disgusted face.

  "Ugh."

  Gagging at the smelly clothes, she threw them in the trash. Clean rather than fashionable was the order of the day.

  She opened Shane's bureau and flipped through his undershirts until she found an old one. Inspecting his underwear, she snatched the longest pair of boxers, then rushed into the bathroom and closed and locked the door.

  Half an hour later, Mariah appeared at the doorway of the kitchen, where Shane was sipping coffee at the counter, scrolling through emails. He'd set out a carton of eggs, a cast iron skillet, butter and a loaf of bread. He raised his mug when he saw her.

  "Like some coffee?" he asked.

  "No, thanks." She fingered her shirt hem. "I trashed my clothes."

  "I noticed." He readied the bowl. "How do you want your eggs?"

  "Maybe some dry toast, like you said."

  "Coming right up." He plugged some toast in the toaster.

  He'd set two place settings on the table. She lowered her bottom onto the nearest chair and hid her nervous hands. Penance required it.

  She'd trained her whole life to be the one who stayed cool under pressure. Letting him see different was the worst sin of all.

  He placed a glass of water in front of her. "You're dehydrated. Drink this."

  "Yes, Brother Shane."

  That won her a smile. She obediently drank, watching him over the rim of the glass.

  What do I do? What do I say? I am an idiot in every possible way?

  Shakespeare.

  He slid a plate of dry toast in front of her. "You'll feel better after you eat."

  She bit into her toast, watching him cook while she demolished the entire piece, her headache fading. He flipped his eggs, then buttered his toast. "That smells heavenly," she said.

  He paused to look at her, knife poised. "Think you can eat some?"

  "I'll try a couple of bites."

  "Great." He dished up an egg and handed her the plate. She set it in front of her and put her napkin in her lap. Meanwhile, he slipped the rest of the fried eggs on his plate, stacked the toast and came round to sit cater-corner from her at the table.

  He'd misbuttoned his shirt. It was such a small thing but she weighed the meaning of it, hoping it was a sign. A sign from God, from Jesus, Mary and Joseph, from her own, long-dead mother. At this point in her life, she'd take a fly on the wall. As long as he might be affected, too, aware of their proximity, their past and this present, former lovers testing the waters, coming together again.