She hesitated.
"I'm a little sweaty," he apologized. "I'm sorry. There's not a lot I can do about that. Lock your legs around my waist."
"Maybe I should wait for the fire department."
"Put your legs around my waist," he said again. "Come on, Mariah. Just do it."
She did it.
Miller refused to think about anything but getting her down from there. Yes, she was soft, she was warm, and yes, she smelled delicious. Yes, she was everything he remembered from that night on her couch, but she was also in danger of falling and breaking her neck.
"Hold me tighter," he commanded as he tried to shift her up, one hand reaching behind her, searching for the stub of the branch that had hooked her tool belt and saved her and Janey's lives.
He found it. He found the wetness of blood, too – Mariah's blood – where the sharp edge of the branch had scratched and scraped and stabbed into her back. Her ragged intake of breath told him how much it hurt.
"Try to lift yourself up," he told her. "Help me get you free."
Her legs tightened around him as he pushed her up, every muscle straining. His head was pressed against the soft pillow of her breasts, but there was nothing he could do about that.
Finally, finally, with a strength he didn't even know he possessed, he got the tool belt free. His muscles tensed as he held Mariah's full weight. She clung to him now, more tightly than he'd ever dreamed she'd hold him.
"I'm not feeling very secure here," she told him.
"I've got you," he said. "I won't let go."
And he wouldn't. At least not until they reached the solidness of the ground.
He helped her find her footing, helped her down to the larger, sturdier branches, but still she held on to his hand.
Her face was still mere inches from his, and her eyes were swimming with unshed tears.
"I think I have to cry," she told him.
"Can you wait just a few minutes more?" he asked. "Until we get you down onto the ground?"
She forced a wavery smile. "Yeah."
One branch at a time, they moved slowly down the tree. When they got to the bottom, Miller knew he was going to have to let her go.
Sure enough, Renee and Thomas were there, reaching out to help her, along with the entire rest of the site crew.
But she still didn't cry. She smiled at them. She made light of her scrapes and scratches. She pooh-poohed the angry-looking cut on her back. And when Jane Ann and the other little girl, Emma, leaped at her, nearly knocking her over, she hugged them back, hiding the fact that she was wincing.
Miller approached Laronda, the site coordinator. "I want to take Mariah over to the hospital," he told her quietly. "I think she might've broken a rib and she'll probably need stitches for that cut on her back. Can someone give us a lift, or do you want to give me the keys to the van?"
"I was going to have Bobby take her over, but if you're thinking about going, too..."
"I am going. Definitely."
Laronda nodded. "Show me your driver's license, Mr. Mills, and I'll let you take the van."
Miller took out his wallet and within moments had the keys to the van in his pocket. He briefly went inside to get his T-shirt. Pulling it over his head, he intercepted Mariah. He took her arm and led her toward the van.
She protested. "I want to wash up."
"You can wash up at the hospital."
Mariah nodded. "All right."
The fact that she didn't protest further was not a good sign. She was hurt worse than she was letting on.
Miller helped her up onto the hot vinyl of the bench seat in the front of the van, then went around and climbed behind the wheel. He started the engine and pulled onto the street, moving carefully over the potholes so as not to jar Mariah.
He glanced at her as he pulled up to the stop sign at the end of the street. She was sitting very still, with her eyes closed, arms wrapped around herself.
"You can cry now," Miller said softly. "No one's here but me."
She opened her eyes and looked at him and he put the van in park. It was crazy and he knew he shouldn't do it, but he held out his arms and she reached for him as she burst into tears.
"I thought that little girl was going to fall," Mariah sobbed as she clung to him. "I was sure that I'd killed her – and myself, too."
"Shhh," Miller whispered into her hair, holding her as close and as tightly as he dared. "It's all right. It's all right now."
What was he doing? This was sheer insanity. Holding her this way, giving her this kind of comfort... His body responded instantly to the sensation of her in his arms, his wanting all but overpowering his sense of right and wrong.
He couldn't kiss her. He would not kiss her.
"I'm sorry," she said, half laughing, half crying as she lifted her head to look up at him. "I'm getting your shirt all wet."
He wanted to kiss her. Her mouth was right there, inches away from him. Her lips would taste so soft and sweet....
Miller clenched his teeth instead. "Don't worry about my shirt."
A new flood of tears welled in her eyes. "I don't think I've ever been so afraid. But I didn't drop her. Even when all the air was knocked out of me, even when it felt like that branch went into my back like a knife, I didn't let go."
Miller smoothed her hair back from her face, knowing that he shouldn't touch her more than was necessary. Except, this felt very necessary. "You did great," he told her. "You were amazing."
"I was stupid not to wait for the fire department."
"You were brave – and lucky."
She nodded. "I was lucky, wasn't I? Oh, God, when I think about what might've happened..."
She held him tighter, and he felt his arms closing around her, too.
Think about what might've happened... He couldn't think about anything else – except maybe how much he wanted to kiss this woman.
It was not the right thing to do. He knew that, but he did it anyway.
She met his lips eagerly as if she, too, was as starved for his kisses as he was for hers,
God, it was heaven.
And it was hell, because he knew it had to end.
He forced himself to lift his head. He made himself pull back as he gazed into Mariah's whiskey-colored eyes.
"I need to get you to the hospital." His voice didn't come out more than a whisper.
She nodded, a flare of embarrassment in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm...doing it again, aren't I?"
"Doing what?"
She pulled away, moving back to her side of the bench seat. "Kissing you," she told him with her usual blunt honesty. "I seem to be unable to keep myself from kissing you." She wiped her face with her hands, pushing away her tears. "Come on. The hospital's not far from here. I drove José over a few weeks ago when he stepped on a nail."
Miller put the van into gear, uncertain of how to respond. He'd made another mistake by kissing her, yet she seemed to think it was her mistake.
He took a left out onto the main road, wishing not only that he'd been strong enough to keep from kissing her again, but that he was weak enough to be kissing her still.
*
John was waiting for Mariah as she came out of X ray.
He looked sweaty and hot, and with that unshaved stubble and covered with the grime of a full morning's worth of construction work, he looked dangerously sexy. He also looked as worried as hell.
"I'm okay," she told him. "Nothing's broken. Not even cracked. Just bruised."
He smiled then, one of his crooked half smiles. "Good." He looked up at the nurse who was wheeling Mariah's chair. "What's next?"
"She's got a cut on her back that's going to need a stitch or two," the nurse told him. "Unfortunately, she's going to have to wait for the doctor."
"May I sit with her?" John asked.
"Of course."
"I mean, if she wants me to," he added, glancing down at Mariah.
"Thanks," Mariah said, feeling strangely shy as she briefly met hi
s eyes. "I'd like that."
The nurse brought them back into one of the emergency rooms. There were six beds in this one, each with a curtain on runners that could be pulled around to give them some privacy.
John helped Mariah up onto the bed. During her X ray, she'd taken off her athletic bra, and now she wore only a hospital gown over her shorts. It was tied loosely at her neck, and she could feel the coolness from the air conditioner blowing against her exposed back.
It was the front of the gown that made her self-conscious, though. The cotton was thin, and every time she moved, it seemed to cling provocatively to her breasts, outlining every detail, every curve. She pulled it up at her neck, wishing there was some way to ensure that it wouldn't fall off.
Her movement made the short sleeves of the gown ride up, and John reached for one of her arms, pushing the sleeve even further up. He turned her arm over, exposing the bruises she had there. There were five of them – little oval finger-and thumb-shaped bruises. She had a similar set on her other arm.
He looked into her eyes. "I'm so sorry about this."
"I know." She held his gaze. "What were you dreaming that night?"
He didn't look away, but he didn't speak for several long moments, as if he was deciding what to tell her. "Tony, my best friend, was...an officer of the law," he finally said. "He was executed by a drug runner's gang. Shot in the head."
"Oh, my God." Mariah couldn't believe what he was telling her. "Were the people who killed him caught?"
John nodded. "Yeah. They were caught. That doesn't keep me from dreaming about them, though. I see their faces and..." He broke off, turning away. "I shouldn't be telling you this. I must be insane."
"Did you know the men who did it?"
For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer. "One of the guys working for the drug lord went to high school with Tony and me." He shifted his weight, looking away from her. "I keep wondering if his bullet killed Tony. I keep thinking I should've beaten the hell out of him – and put the fear of God in him – in high school, when I had the chance."
"That's where you got Princess," she guessed. "Tony was the friend that you inherited her from."
He nodded. "Yeah. She still misses him." He glanced back at her. "I do, too."
"So you dream about him dying. Were you there when it happened? God, you didn't see it, did you?"
He shook his head, his voice bitter. "No. I got there too late." He changed the subject. "Mariah, I'm sorry that I hurt you."
He was talking about the bruises on her arms, but for a moment, she could have sworn he was talking about the way he'd treated her at Serena's party.
"And I'm sorry about your friend." She paused. "You knew him – Tony – since high school?"
Miller pulled a chair closer to her bed and sat down. God, why had he told her about Tony? Tony hadn't been friends with high-class Jonathan Mills. At age sixteen. Tony had befriended John Miller, the new kid in school – the poor kid, the foster kid, the troublemaker. Tony had accidentally broken a window, and Miller willingly took the fall. It hadn't been hard to fool everyone – everyone expected that the troublemaker in foster care was the kid who'd broken the glass, anyway.
He'd been living with his current foster family long enough to know that he would be preached-at to death, but he wouldn't be hit. Tony, on the other hand, had a brute of a stepfather who didn't care enough even to keep his blows from marking the boy's face.
Miller had stepped forward, confessed to a crime he hadn't committed, and in return had won Tony's undying loyalty. Not that Miller had wanted it. Not at first. But eventually, Tony had pushed his way past Miller's hardened shell and the two boys became friends.
There was no way in hell he could tell Mariah any of this – foster families and stepfathers with iron fists didn't fit in with Jonathan Mills's world of yacht clubs and tennis lessons and stock dividends.
"How many stitches do you think I'm going to need?" Mariah asked, changing the subject after his silence had dragged on and on and on.
Miller shook his head. "I don't know."
Silence again. Miller could feel her watching him. "How are you?" she finally asked. "In all the excitement, I forgot that just a few days ago you were feeling ill enough to faint on the beach. And here you are, suddenly building a house and climbing up and down a tree..." She was still gazing at him, her eyes questioning now. Wondering. "Carrying Janey. Carrying me. If you're this strong now, how strong did you used to be?"
"I'm feeling pretty tired," he said, hoping she wouldn't notice that he hadn't answered her question. He prayed that she wouldn't think too long or too hard about the fact that he had moved up and down that tree with the balance and strength of a man who couldn't possibly have just completed a crippling round of chemotherapy. He knew one way to get her mind off this topic and fast. "Mariah, about before...in the van...?"
She blushed, but she met his gaze steadily. "John, I'm really sorry about that. I know – you just want to be friends. It's taking a while to sink in, but I'm finally starting to get it and—"
"I wanted to apologize to you."
"To me? But—"
"I kissed you," he told her. "You didn't kiss me until after I kissed you, and I shouldn't have, so I'm sorry."
She was gazing at him, wide-eyed. It was all he could do not to kiss her again. "It wasn't me."
Miller shook his head. "I couldn't resist."
"I don't get it," she said. "If you can't resist kissing me, and I can't resist kissing you, then why aren't we doing a whole heck of a lot more kissing?"
The doctor came in, saving Miller from even attempting to answer her. He stood up, grateful for the escape. "I'll wait outside."
"John."
He stopped and looked back at her.
"Forget I ever said that, okay? We're friends. That's enough – it's okay with me."
Miller nodded and went out the door. He just wished he could close his eyes and fall asleep and wake up in a place where simply being friends with Mariah Robinson was okay with him, too.
*
He was seeing her, too.
He was still seeing her. They were gone all day, and she realized he must have gone to that silly house-building.
She found it amusing, but nothing to worry about. When it was time to make a choice, he would choose correctly. There was no doubt about it.
Chapter 7
Two stitches. Two tiny little stitches, and she had to stay out of the water and away from Foundations for Families for another unknown quantity of days.
It wouldn't be so bad if she knew precisely how long it was going to be before she could get back to her routine. Two days? Two weeks? Two months? Nobody would give her any definite answers, and meanwhile, her entire life was on hold.
All for two little stitches.
She was working hard to control her impatience. But Foundations for Families was counting on her. She'd already missed too many of her shifts. She needed to get back and...
Mariah did one of her breathing exercises. She sounded like Marie. This was not Mariah, with her no-worries, no-stress attitude. Mariah would take these imposed days off as a gift. A chance to lie on the beach and catch up on her reading. A chance to sleep late, to take the time to cook herself delicious, healthful dinners, to watch the sunset and see the stars come out at night.
The first few days actually had been fun. Jonathan Mills had dropped by once a day, bringing her things to eat and books to read, videotapes to watch and tacky little toys from the souvenir shop to amuse her. A goofy-looking duck made from seashells glued together. A Garden Isle coloring book and a thirty-six-pack of crayons. A booklet of Mad-Libs.
Funny things. Silly things. The kind of things one friend would give another.
John's visits were nothing but friendly. In fact, he seemed to take special care that they never touched – that they never got close enough even to brush against one another by accident.
Their conversations were safe, too. They ta
lked about books and movies and newspaper headlines. They talked about Foundations for Families and the best place on the island to get an omelet.
Mariah wasn't certain when John's latest medical test results would be coming in, but she was more than ready for him to receive a clean bill of health. From things he'd said, little hints he'd dropped, she had to believe that he'd be getting word soon. Maybe then he'd let himself give in to the attraction she still saw simmering in his eyes whenever he thought she wasn't looking.
Of course, it was entirely possible that when he wasn't looking at her, he was looking at Serena with the exact same heat in his eyes. Serena didn't come to visit, not even once, and Mariah couldn't bring herself to call her. She suspected, though, by John's noticeable absence at dinnertime, that the two of them were together. She suspected, but she hoped it was only her too-vivid imagination, fueled by jealousy, rearing its ugly little head.
She tried to stomp it back into place, but it peered at her from dark corners. She tried to bring it out into the light. So what if John was seeing Serena? He'd made it clear to Mariah that he and she were no more than friends. She could be happy with his friendship. She could be content to keep their relationship on that level.
And her Aunt Susan was the pope.
The truth was always there – a tiny voice that never failed to remind her of how she'd felt when John had kissed her. The voice reminded her of the way she'd been so ready to give herself to him in every way imaginable. The voice was always there to point out just how much she wanted this man, even despite his rejection.
She was a fool, yet every time he came to her door, she let him in. She knew damn well that in her case, being friends wasn't better than nothing, but she couldn't get past his illness.
What if she shut him out, what if she turned him away, refused his friendship, and he died?
He was comfortable with her. She could see him visibly relax as they sat and talked. How could she deny him that?
She was a sucker, too kind for her own good, but at least she knew it.
As of this morning, it had been nearly a day and a half since John had last stopped in.
Afraid to overstep the bounds of friendship, Mariah hadn't even called. She'd picked up the phone more than once. She'd even dialed the resort. She'd gone as far as inquiring if Mr. Jonathan Mills was still staying there. He was. But she didn't leave a message, fearful of her tendency to want too much where John was concerned.
LOVE WITH THE PROPER STRANGER Page 11
