He wasn't thinking. He was reacting. He was feeling. He was wanting. He was leading with a part of his anatomy that didn't have a very high IQ.
And that was how agents got themselves and their partners killed. And God help him, he may not give a damn about his own life, but he would not – would not – bury another partner.
He gazed out at the horizon, squinting to make out where the sky ended and the ocean began. A light haze obscured all but the brightest of the stars, and a steady breeze blew off the water, carrying with it a salty mist. It was almost cold.
He was exhausted, bone weary, yet he still couldn't sleep. He couldn't sleep because he was afraid to sleep. He was afraid to fall into his nightmare. Afraid to gaze down into Tony's sightless eyes. Afraid to hear Tony's voice, tight with fear. Afraid to face his own guilt.
Princess was halfway up the path that led to Mariah's, looking back at him with a quizzical expression on her fuzzy face. Aren't you coming?
"No," Miller said, softly but firmly. "Come back here, Princess. Now."
But the dog either couldn't hear him over the wind and the surf, or maybe she simply chose not to hear. She trotted steadily toward the shelter of Mariah's deck.
Miller went after her, breaking into a run, but she was too far ahead. As she started up the wooden steps of the deck, she barked sharply. Once. Twice.
Damn. That was all he needed – for Mariah to know he was here, skulking around outside her house, hoping for what? To get a glimpse of her? To talk to her? To kiss her? To fall back with her onto her bed? To lock her bedroom door and never come out?
All those things. Dammit, he wanted all those things.
"Princess, get your butt down here," he hissed, starting up the stairs after her.
The door slid open. "Hey, what are you doing here?" Mariah greeted his dog. Her voice was not so friendly when she turned and spotted him, frozen on his way up the stairs. "John?"
He climbed up the last few steps, silently cursing Princess, silently cursing himself. "Hi. Yeah, it's me. I'm sorry – I didn't mean to bother you, but the dog has a mind of her own."
Mariah looked incredible. She was wearing those same cutoffs she'd had on at lunchtime, the same clingy T-shirt. Her legs were long and tanned and looked as if they'd be deliciously smooth to touch. She'd pulled her hair up and off her neck, holding it in a messy bundle on top of her head with one of those giant bear-trap-type clips.
But she also looked tired – her normally sparkling eyes were shadowed. She looked wary and leery and not at all happy to see him.
As he watched, she took a breath, and the slight movement made her breasts strain against the cotton of her shirt. God, what he wouldn't have given to pull her into his arms.
She glanced back inside the house, twisting slightly to look at the clock on the wall. "It's after one. Couldn't you sleep?"
Miller shook his head. "No. I never can. Sleep, I mean. Except for that one time here..."
She was silent for several long moments, just gazing at him. He couldn't read her eyes, couldn't read her body language. He had absolutely no idea what she was thinking.
"It's cold tonight," she finally said. "Why don't you come inside?"
She turned and went in, not waiting for him to answer.
Miller knew he should take Princess and go. But he'd left everything he knew he should do behind a long time ago. And Princess was already curled up in the dry, protected corner of the deck. So instead, he followed Mariah into the house and closed the door tightly behind him.
It was outrageously bright in there after the darkness of the beach. Mariah had brought most of the lamps from other rooms over to the dining table near the sliding doors, and that part of the house seemed to glow. He stepped past the lights and into the dimness of the living room.
"How's your back?" he asked awkwardly, wishing that she would ask him to leave. It would make everything so much easier if she just kicked him out.
"It's fine." She was standing in the middle of the room, arms folded across her chest, watching him.
"What are you doing...you know, up so late?"
"I couldn't sleep, either," she admitted. "I thought I'd put some of my pictures in albums. I've been trying to organize them." She gestured back toward the dining-room table. Photos of all shapes and colors were spread across its surface, along with albums of all sizes.
Music was playing softly in the background. It wasn't soft music; it was just turned down low, as if she'd adjusted the volume when she heard Princess out on the deck. A slide guitar wailed over a heavy country backbeat. Vocalists in tight harmony came in – singing about a girl with a tattoo in the shape of Texas. Miller had to smile.
"You know, I always pictured you as being so serene, with your stress reduction exercises and your crystals," he told her. "I guess I always imagined that when you were alone you'd listen to New Age music – not kick-ass country."
She smiled very slightly. "Oh, please. I thought you knew me better than that. New Age music puts me to sleep."
"Maybe we should both try listening to it, then."
Mariah turned away from him and sat on the end of the couch, her legs underneath her, tailor-style. It was dim in the living room, with all the lights moved into the dining area. She looked mysterious sitting there, shadows falling across her face. "Tell me about the test results."
Miller stepped away from the table and farther into the darkness of the living room. He sat down in the rocking chair opposite her and cleared his throat before he told her a lie. Another lie. There had been so many, yet at the same time, he'd told her more about himself than he'd ever told anyone. All those memories of his mother...
"There's not much to tell. My blood tests show vast improvements. If it keeps going like this, I'm going to be considered in remission. If the cancer doesn't recur in five years, I'm going to be considered cured."
He sounded bitter. He was bitter. He knew so much about Hodgkin's disease and about the so-called survival rate because his mother had been one of the ones who hadn't survived. She'd been in remission. She'd even been pronounced cured. And still, she'd relapsed and the second time around, the cancer had won. She'd died.
"Five years...?" Mariah leaned forward. "John, you've got to stop worrying about it. You can't not sleep for five years." She sighed. "Have you considered going into therapy?"
He wanted to sit next to her on the couch. God, he wanted her so badly he could barely speak.
Why was he here? What was he doing here? There was nothing – absolutely nothing – good that could possibly come of this. Nothing but a few brief moments of comfort, a temporary respite from the hell his life had become. Mariah could give him that. But what about her? What about all that he'd be taking away from her in return?
"I know you don't think so, but I'm okay about the Hodgkin's. It's not even real to me." Miller stood up swiftly, aware that he was saying the wrong thing again. What was he telling her now? Damn right the cancer wasn't real to him, because it wasn't real. But it was real to Jonathan Mills.
Except he wasn't Jonathan Mills. He was John Miller. John Miller was the one who couldn't sleep, the one with the terrible nightmares. He was the one with all the guilt, all the suffocating blame. He was the one who had come here tonight, seeking her out.
Mariah stood, too, looking at him, her eyes wide. "John, are you all right?"
He shook his head. "No. I have to..." What? What did he have to do? Run away. God, he never thought he'd ever run away from anything. But here he was, forced to run from the one person who maybe could save him, given the chance.
But he couldn't give her – or himself – any kind of a chance.
She was moving toward him slowly, the way someone would approach a frightened animal. "John, when was the last time you slept?"
He shook his head. "I don't know." But that was another lie and he was tired of lying to her. He knew damn well when he'd last slept. "It was here," he said. "That time I was here."
Her
eyes widened. "That was over a week ago!"
"I've had some naps since then, but..." He shook his head.
"But you wake up with that nightmare, and then you can't – or won't – go back to sleep, right? My God, you're shaking!"
He was. He jammed his shaking hands into the front pockets of his jeans and turned toward the door. "I have to go."
Mariah blocked his path. "Let me call Daniel to come and get you."
"No, I'm fine."
"You are so not fine. Look, just sit down. On the couch."
Miller didn't move.
"Please? John?"
He sat.
She sat down next to him. All he could think about was how badly he'd wanted to sit next to her. Well, now here he was.
"Talk to me," she said quietly. "Tell me about Tony. Why do you blame yourself for his death? What really happened, John?"
Miller turned to look at her, and with a flash of clarity that nearly pushed him down onto the floor, he knew why he wanted to be here, why he wanted to be with Mariah so desperately.
Why do you blame yourself for his death?
He did. He blamed himself. And yet he knew that Mariah would forgive him. He knew that without a doubt. Mariah would tell him that even if it was his fault that Tony had died, even if he had been to blame, even if there was something he could have done to save his partner and best friend, she would still forgive him.
He should have gotten out of the van sooner. He should have known there would be a snafu with the backup. He should have anticipated the fact that the choppers wouldn't arrive. His list of recriminations went on and on, but regardless of its length and content, the bottom line was the same.
He'd failed.
But Mariah, with her gentle smile and warm eyes, would forgive him for failing. She would forgive him his mistakes, forgive him for being human.
God help him, he wanted that forgiveness. He wanted to hear her say it. And he knew with that same flash of clarity, brighter than all the lights gathered around the dining-room table, that he had to get out of here, and soon, or he'd break down in tears, crying like a baby. Crying for Tony, and crying for himself – for everything that he'd lost that awful night two years ago. Crying because the one time it had really mattered, the one time his reputation of never failing, of not accepting the word "impossible," of being "The Robot" with his superhuman ability to get the job done – the one time that would have really made a difference, reality had stepped in and Tony had died.
He knew he had to get out of there, but Mariah reached out and took his hand, and he couldn't move.
"I couldn't save him," he told her, his voice hoarse.
She touched his face. "But you tried, didn't you? You were there."
Miller had to close his eyes to keep his tears from escaping. "I didn't see it. But I heard them kill him. God, I heard him die!" He turned away as more than two years of pain and grief and rage erupted in an emotional cataclysm. His tears burned his face and his lungs ached for air and his body shook as he broke down and wept. "I was too late. I got there too late."
Miller felt Mariah's arms around him and he tried to pull away, tried to stop his tears, tried to shut himself off and push everything he felt back down inside him. He might've succeeded had she not held on to him so tightly.
"What if you'd gotten there earlier?" she asked, her voice as soothing as the gentleness of her hands in his hair. "How could you have stopped them from killing him? What would you have done?"
He knew the answer – and he knew that she knew it, too.
"You probably would've been killed, as well, wouldn't you?" she asked quietly.
"Yes." Not probably. Definitely. He would've died. It was only because he'd arrived after most of Domino's men had emptied their bullets into Tony's head that he'd managed to take them all out without being killed himself. If he'd shown up any sooner, he would've been lying on that concrete floor, just as dead as Tony.
"John, you've got to forgive yourself for not dying with your friend."
That was why he'd come here, wasn't it? For absolution. For the relief of his soul. But he wanted relief for his body, too. He wanted it so badly he was afraid he'd give in to the temptation. God, it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge.
He tried to pull free from her hands, well aware that her touch was giving him far more than comfort. Her touch was lighting him on fire, reminding him of the sweet oblivion that awaited him if only he gave in. He had to get out of here.
But she wouldn't let him go. "It's all right," she murmured, her hands in his hair, on his face, soothing his shoulders and back. "Let it out, John. Let it go. It's okay to feel angry and hurt. It's okay to grieve. If you don't, it'll poison you. Just let it all go."
Miller couldn't stop himself. Mariah held him even more tightly as he clung to her desperately. Please, God, don't let her kiss him. If she did, he'd be lost.
He closed his eyes as she began talking to him soothingly, softly, walking him through that same relaxation exercise she'd helped him with last week. And once again, like last week, his exhaustion crashed down upon him.
He was barely conscious as she pulled him back onto the couch with her, her arms tightly around him, his back pressed against her front.
"Forgive yourself," she murmured. "I'm sure Tony does."
*
Mariah couldn't sleep.
The couch wasn't meant to hold two people lying down – especially not two people her and John's size. But she wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, she liked the sensation of John's body pressed against hers, their legs intimately intertwined.
She liked it too much.
She listened to the steady, quiet rhythm of his breathing and cursed herself for being a fool.
At least she hadn't had sex with him. Although, that was really only because he hadn't asked. If he'd wanted to, she probably wouldn't have been able to turn him down.
God, what had happened to her since that first morning she'd set eyes on this man? Where on earth had Jonathan Mills gotten the power to transform her so totally into some kind of doormat?
He stirred slightly, and she took the opportunity to pull her arm out from underneath him.
It was the cancer thing. The idea that this man had faced – and was still facing – the very real possibility of his imminent death did her in. His plight reduced her to a quivering mass of emotions and reactions.
It had to be that. Because she'd fallen in love before without losing her sense of self, her strength and...
Fallen in love.
She looked down at John's face. He looked impossibly young, improbably innocent, his lips slightly parted in sleep.
She was in love with him.
Mariah knew in that instant that her doormat days were done. She was in love, and yet she was more unhappy than she'd ever been in her entire life. She hadn't felt this bad even while she was going through her divorce from Trevor.
She couldn't do this to herself anymore.
She wasn't crazy. And yet here she was, holding John while he slept when she knew for a fact that he'd been sharing more than meals with Serena. From now on, he was going to have to go to Serena for the comfort he needed to get him through the blackest hours of the night.
Mariah peeled herself away from him, climbing off the couch. He stirred again, but he didn't wake up as she stood there, looking down at him.
She should have felt better. Pushing him away from her like that should have been empowering.
But without his body next to hers, warming her, all Mariah felt was cold.
*
She came back to the hotel quite late. She'd closed the bar down, drinking and dancing.
Her dress smelled of smoke and sweat, and she peeled it off, letting it fall in a heap on the soft, expensive carpeting. She wouldn't take it with her when she left in the morning.
She was going to have to go back. She needed that negative. Except the stupid cow hadn't sounded as if she was going to go out of her way to g
et it back from...
Where was it she kept her negatives? B&W Photo Lab. Just over on the mainland from Garden Isle. It would be easy enough to find, easy enough to walk in there and get hold of her entire collection of negatives.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped for a moment to admire her body, her face.
She'd had plastic surgery to remove all but one of her scars. One she kept – a little one, just along the line of her left eyebrow.
The first one had done that to her. The first one had given her all her scars – at least all the scars that her father before him hadn't given her.
She closed her eyes, remembering the thrill she had felt when the policeman had come to her door, waking her in the middle of the night to tell her that the first one was dead. A car accident. He'd drunk himself into a stupor, and instead of coming home and beating her to a pulp, he'd driven his car into a tree.
The undertaker's wife, mistaking her round-the-clock vigilance at his coffin for grief, cut her a lock of his hair to remember him by.
But it hadn't been grief keeping her there – it had been fear. Fear that unless she watched him, unless she made damn sure he stayed right there in that wooden box until they nailed it shut, he might somehow escape. He might jump up and run away and come back to haunt her.
She'd nearly thrown the hair into the toilet, but on second thought, she'd kept it, wrapped in cellophane, at the bottom of her jewelry box.
The insurance money, along with a stash she'd found in a suitcase in the garage, had been enough to get her to St. Thomas. She'd picked herself a new name, afraid that whoever owned the money that had been in that suitcase would come looking for her.
That was when she'd met the second one.
He was rich and old and nearly as mean as the first one. Except the abuse he dished out wasn't physical. And when a piece of chicken caught in his throat during dinner, she had stood by and watched him choke.
She didn't call for help. She just watched – watched the look in his eyes as he knew she would do nothing to save him, watched as he realized he was, indeed, going to die. She'd liked it – liked the power, liked the feeling of control.
LOVE WITH THE PROPER STRANGER Page 13
