The third one she'd married with the intention of killing.
It had been laughably easy. She was so much smarter than all of them.
Smarter than Jonathan Mills, who wasn't really named Jonathan Mills.
She knew that sooner or later the police would try to trap her. She'd been watching for them. She'd been ready. And when she'd found their clumsily hidden microphones all over her house, she knew that Jonathan Mills had been sent to stop her.
Instead, she'd escaped.
She climbed between the crisp hotel sheets, feeling a flare of regret.
She would have liked pushing her knife blade into Jonathan Mills's heart.
Chapter 9
Miller opened his eyes to the sound of the telephone ringing.
It was daylight. Bright, gleaming morning. The sun had been up for at least an hour and he simply lay for a moment on the couch, staring up at the light playing across the ceiling, hazily wondering why that should seem such an amazing thing.
"Yes." He heard a soft voice from the other room. "Yes, he's here. I'll see if he's awake."
Then he heard the sound of footsteps coming into the living room, and he sat up, automatically raking his hair back with one hand, pushing it from his forehead. Except the hair his fingers connected with was shockingly short, and he remembered instantly both where he was and who he was supposed to be.
Dear God, he'd slept all night again. This time, without even a trace of his nightmare.
"Phone's for you," Mariah said quietly, handing him a cordless telephone.
She didn't meet his gaze. She hardly looked at him at all.
Miller quickly played back the previous evening in his mind. God knows he had plenty to be embarrassed about, what with breaking down and crying the way he'd done. But he couldn't recall a single thing Mariah had done that should make her so uncomfortable.
She hadn't even kissed him.
God help him – he'd somehow managed to spend all that time here last night without ever kissing Mariah. Although he had a very definite memory of falling asleep cradled in the softness of her arms.
He brought the telephone to his ear, still watching Mariah as she opened the sliders to let in the fresh morning air. Last night's coolness remained, but it wouldn't for long, not in the heat from the sun. She stayed for a moment, just looking out at the ocean, her fatigue evident in the way she stood, in the set of her shoulders.
He might have slept well last night, but she clearly hadn't.
"Yeah?" Miller said into the phone.
"John, it's Daniel. I'm sorry to have to call you there, but Serena appears to have gone for good."
Miller didn't move a muscle. He just sat and watched Mariah watch the ocean. "Based on...?"
"Based on the fact that yesterday she notified her rental agent that she was terminating her lease agreement. Her place is empty, John. All her things are cleared out. I went over there early this morning. All the surveillance microphones are still in place – it doesn't look as if she touched any of them, but that doesn't mean anything. I've got to believe she found 'em, got spooked and ran."
Miller swore sharply. Mariah glanced back at him, but quickly looked away. "Call Pat Blake," he told Daniel. "Advise him of the situation and then get back to me."
He should've proposed marriage to Serena yesterday at lunch, when he'd had the chance. But he'd hesitated, and now she was gone. And in his experience, when a suspect fled, that suspect was gone for good.
The case was over – at least this stage of it was – with the suspect still at large. But other than that first sharp flash of annoyance, all Miller felt was relief. Because, for the first time in his life, he had found something that he wanted even more than he wanted to solve this case.
He'd found Mariah.
He pushed the button to disconnect the phone, then set it on the end table. He stood up stiffly, stretching out his legs and back. "Mind if I use your bathroom?"
Mariah turned to face him. "No, of course I don't," she said stiffly, politely. "But afterward, I think you should leave."
He froze mid-stretch. Leave?
He'd found Mariah – who wanted him to leave.
She turned swiftly, disappearing into the kitchen.
It was too damned ironic. For the first time since he'd met her, Miller finally felt free. True, the case wasn't officially over. He couldn't tell her who he was or what he'd been up to – not yet anyway. But he could pull her into his arms and kiss her without knowing for damn sure that she was going to end up hurt.
Miller didn't believe in happily ever after. He had no misconceptions regarding his ability to make Mariah happy in the long run. He knew damn well that kind of future wasn't in his cards. But he was sure that he could make her smile in the short term. He was very sure of that.
He went into the bathroom, relieved himself, then washed up. As he splashed cold water on his face, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Despite the sleep he'd gotten, he still looked tired. For the first time in years, he found himself longing to crawl back into bed. For the first time in years, sleep beckoned invitingly instead of looming over him dangerously, like some snarling, vicious beast.
With Serena out of the picture, he had nothing to do, nowhere to go – at least not until Daniel contacted Pat Blake. Knowing Blake, he'd call a meeting, maybe even come down here himself to inspect the scene of the disaster firsthand. But that wouldn't be for hours, maybe even days.
Mariah wanted him to leave, but Miller wanted to stay. And for the first time, he could stay.
He took a deep breath before he opened the bathroom door. Mariah was in the kitchen. He could hear the sound of water running.
"I gave Princess some water," she told him without even looking up as he paused in the doorway.
"Thanks," he said. He hesitated, suddenly oddly embarrassed, a picture of the way he'd wept last night flashing into his head. "And thanks...for last night, too. I feel..." He smiled crookedly. "I feel okay."
Mariah turned to face him then. "You slept for a long time."
He nodded. "First time in over two years I've slept through the sunrise."
"You never let yourself grieve for him before, did you?" she asked quietly, talking about Tony.
Miller squinted slightly as he looked out the window at the brightness of the day. "No."
"It wasn't your fault that he died."
He shook his head very slightly. "No. No, it wasn't." He laughed very softly. "I know it wasn't. Logically. Rationally. I guess I just don't quite believe it wasn't." He paused, gazing at her, feeling that familiar ache of longing. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but she was sending out all kinds of signals warning him to keep his distance. "Maybe you could help me work on that."
"Gee, I'm sorry, but I can't." She took a deep breath. "I don't want to be your therapist anymore, John," she said bluntly. "What you're dealing with isn't going to be solved by breaking plates or silly little relaxation exercises. You need to find someone professional who can really help you. And I..." Her voice broke. "I need you to stay away from me. I can't pretend to be your friend anymore. Maybe that's petty of me, because I know you really need me as a friend, but I can't do this anymore. I respect myself too much to play this crazy game with you. Do you want me or don't you? Every time I think that you do, you back away. And just when I'm convinced that you don't, you look at me like...like...that. Don't look at me like that, dammit, because I'm not going to play anymore. I want you to leave."
He stepped toward her. "Mariah—"
Mariah lifted her chin, folding her arms across her chest, holding her ground despite the tears that filled her eyes. "The door's in the other direction."
John stopped moving toward her, but he didn't retreat, either. He just gazed at her. In spite of his long, quiet sleep, he still looked weary, his chiseled features in high relief. His chin was covered with dark stubble, making him look doubly dangerous. But it was the bright blue of his eyes that caught her and held her in pl
ace. Beneath the heat of desire that nearly always simmered there, his eyes were filled with apology and darkened with a haunting vulnerability.
"Whatever you do, don't think that I don't want you," he whispered. "Because I do. I've wanted you right from the start – and every minute from then till now."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She laughed, but it came out sounding more like a sob. "Then why have you been kissing Serena?"
He didn't seem surprised that she knew – and he didn't try to deny it. "I can't...I can't explain that."
"Try."
John just shook his head.
He was blocking the only way out of the room, but Mariah couldn't stand to be there a moment longer. She tried to push past him, but he caught her arm, his fingers locking around her wrist. "Mariah, wait—"
"Let go of me!"
Miller let go. No way was he going to risk hurting her again. Seeing those bruises on her arms had made him sick to his stomach. "I kissed her because I hoped it would make me stop wanting you." That was only part of the truth, but he hoped it would be enough.
She turned to look back at him, her eyes filled with anger, her lips tight with disgust. "You are so full of—"
Miller kissed her. He knew it wasn't playing fair, but he didn't give a damn. He knew kissing her would melt her anger and ignite her passion, leaving the arguments and harsh words far behind. He knew he was good at word games, but Mariah had told him point-blank that she didn't want to play games anymore.
This kiss would eliminate everything but the most basic of truths – that he wanted her and she wanted him.
And yes, she still wanted him.
He tasted it in the fire of her kiss, in the heat of her melting embrace. He kissed her harder, sweeping his tongue deeply into her mouth, and she met him with a fierceness that took his breath away. She pulled him closer, her hands gliding up his back, her fingers on his neck, in his hair, even as his own hands explored the softness of her body, cupping the fullness of her breasts.
"Make love to me, Mariah," he whispered, kissing her again. Her response was clear from the strength of her answering kiss.
She pulled back slightly, and he could see molten desire in her eyes. "If I do, I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" she said huskily.
"No," he said. "This is going to be too good to regret."
Her smile was tinged with sadness. "I just made up my mind to stay away from you, and now you go and totally mess me up. I mean, God! Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kick you out right here and now."
He couldn't. There was no reason, other than he wanted to stay, and she wanted him to stay, too. He leaned forward to kiss her again, but she stopped him with a finger against his lips.
"I don't know, maybe I haven't made this totally clear, but I'm emotionally involved here. Taking you into my bedroom and getting naked with you is going to be more than just great sex to me. It's going to be making love. Love, John – do you understand what I'm trying to say to you?" Mariah took a deep breath and let it all out in a rush. "In plain English, I'm in love with you. So if you're going to get all freaked out and scared about that, maybe you should just run away now – before you tear my heart out."
Miller couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. Mariah was in love with ... him?
He gazed down into her eyes, unable to look away, feeling an odd tightness in his chest. "That sounds like a good reason for me to stay," he whispered.
He wanted to be loved. God, how he wanted that. He was shaken by how badly he wanted that, wanted more than just lust, more than physical gratification. He wanted to be cared for, to be cherished. In the past, he'd run away from such emotions, but as he looked into Mariah's eyes, he only wanted to move closer. He wanted her to love him. He wanted her. And somehow she knew. He could see in her eyes that she knew.
Still, it wasn't quite enough.
"I need you to promise me something," she told him.
"Mariah, I can't promise much—"
"I'm not looking for any major commitment or anything like that," she countered. "Just..." She had to start again. "Don't sleep with Serena, okay?"
That was easy. "I won't," he said. "I promise."
That was all she needed. Taking his hand, she led him to her bedroom.
The morning sun shone through green curtains, giving the room a greenish tint. The ocean breeze made the curtains move, and the light seemed to shift and dance across the ceiling. It was like being underwater. Or maybe up in heaven.
Mariah's bed was in the center of the small room, the headboard pushed against the wall. It was rumpled, unmade, the white sheets exposed beneath a green spread. Miller knew that Mariah had spent much of the night in here, unable to rest while he'd been fast asleep on the couch.
Mariah kissed him, and he knew his second assessment was right. This was definitely heaven.
She kissed him slowly, deeply, shifting her body against his in a way that made him groan. He knew from the burst of heat in her eyes that she liked the involuntary sound of his desire.
Her hands slid up underneath his T-shirt, traveling slowly up his back, and Miller closed his eyes.
This was too good, too intense, and too damn slow. But if she wanted it like this, dammit, he was going to curb his raging impulses and make love to her slowly.
He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he'd go to superhuman degrees to give her anything she wanted, anything at all.
She tugged at his T-shirt and he helped her pull it up and over his head. But when he reached for her shirt, she stopped him.
"Have you noticed that when it comes to sex, guys don't like to get naked first?" she said, kissing his shoulders, his neck, his chest. Her fingers moved down to the waistband of his jeans, lightly brushing against his stomach as she unfastened the top button. "It's a dominance thing," she added, smiling up at him as she slowly unzipped his pants, "a power thing. It makes sense, doesn't it? The person still dressed has a certain amount of power over the person who's naked."
"Are you, um, into that?" Miller asked.
She pushed him back onto the bed, pulling his jeans down his thighs. "And then there's the female thing," she continued as if she hadn't heard his question. "Women tend to be afraid to take the lead for fear of coming on too strong. Socially, we're taught to lie back – let the man take off our clothes. Let him set the pace. Let him choose the time and place and position. Let him do the work. Hence the passive phrase 'to be made love to.' I much prefer 'making love with.'" She tossed his jeans onto the floor. "That's what I'm into."
He reached for her, pressing her back on the bed with the force of his kiss. But then he moved away, suddenly remembering. "Your back – is it all right?"
"It's fine." She pulled him toward her for another kiss, molding herself against him.
The sensation of the smoothness of her legs intertwined with his nearly overwhelmed him. He pulled her T-shirt up, over her head, and this time she didn't protest.
He gazed down at her and she smiled back at him, just letting him look. She was impossibly sexy, lying there like that. Her bra was white, covering her full breasts with some kind of stretchy lace material that allowed him tantalizing glimpses of dark pink nipples. He covered her breasts first with his hands, then with his mouth, suckling her through the lace of the bra, tugging on the desire-hardened tips with his lips, with his tongue.
She moaned, opening herself to him, cradling his swollen sex against the heat between her legs.
Miller reached for the button on her shorts, and she let him unfasten them and pull them down her legs. They soon joined his jeans on the floor.
Mariah closed her eyes. For all her liberated talk, she was lying there, letting him undress her. And cringing because she was nearly naked – and afraid he wouldn't like her because she didn't have the body of a Barbie doll.
She felt John's hands skimming her body. She knew he was looking at her.
"God, you're incredible," he breathed.
/> About to protest, she opened her eyes, but then she saw the fire in his gaze, the sheer admiration on his face. He was serious. He honestly liked what he saw.
He wasn't one of those men who went for boyishly figured women like Serena. He wasn't like Trevor, who had been forever trying to get her to go on a diet, to lose weight, to shrink herself down to his height.
No, John clearly liked women. Real women. And maybe especially women who were six feet tall, and generously – and appropriately – proportioned for their height.
As Mariah watched John's face, her shoulders were no longer too broad. Her thighs weren't too big, her legs too thickly muscled. Her hips weren't too wide, or her breasts too full.
Mariah sat up and unfastened the front clasp of her bra – for the first time in her life voluntarily exposing herself to the eyes of a man without hiding in the cover of the darkness of night.
The look in John's eyes was well worth the risk. He smiled, a short, hot smile that nearly scalded her, as he pulled her up toward him.
The sensation of the hard muscles of his chest pressed against her bare breasts and his rock-solid arousal against the softness of her stomach was dizzying as she knelt with him, there on her bed. His kiss made her sway, and she clung to him as he slipped one hand beneath the lace of her panties, his exploring fingers touching her lightly, intimately.
She reached between them, too, finding him hard and sleek and hot.
He groaned. "Mariah..."
She opened her eyes to find herself gazing directly into his. The connection was just as physical as his touch.
"You said you had protection," he said.
At just the same moment, she asked, "Will you put on a condom?"
They both laughed.
"I'll get one," Mariah said, pulling free from his grasp.
She rummaged through her bedside-table drawer, searching for the packet of condoms that her aunt had given her, complete with a note telling her to have a very good vacation. Mariah had rolled her eyes and tossed the box into her suitcase, hardly expecting to find call to use it. As she found the box, way down at the bottom of the drawer, John came to stand behind her, pressing himself intimately against her, covering her breasts with his hands and kissing her neck. It felt delicious – a hard promise of things to come.
LOVE WITH THE PROPER STRANGER Page 14
