LOVE WITH THE PROPER STRANGER

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "When?" he said into the phone. He glanced at the clock on the stove and swore softly. "That soon?" Another pause. "Yeah, all right. I'll be there."

  He ended the connection with a push of a button, and Mariah took the phone from him, pressing the condom packet into his hand.

  He swore again. "Mariah, I'm sorry, I have to go."

  "Daniel can wait five minutes, can't he?" She unbuttoned his pants.

  "Mariah—"

  She pulled down his zipper. "Three minutes...?"

  He groaned as she touched him, then crushed his mouth to hers. Before she could even blink, she found herself back up on the counter. She heard the tear of the wrapper, felt him pull back for just a second, and then she felt him fill her with a hard, fast thrust that took her breath away.

  He groaned, too, still kissing her as he drove himself into her again and again, setting a wild, delirious, feverish pace. It was raw, almost savage sex, and Mariah dug her fingernails into his back, urging him on, wanting more, even more.

  It was breathtakingly exhilarating. She had never been made love to like this before. She'd never had a man go so totally out of control over her before. It was more exciting than she'd ever dreamed. He was touching her everywhere, kissing her, caressing her in ways that filled her with fire, and she exploded almost instantly with pleasure, crying out his name.

  He followed her lead, and she felt the power of his release as it rocketed through him, shaking him, pushing her even higher to a place of even more pleasure.

  He held her tightly, his face buried in her neck as they both struggled to catch their breaths.

  "I know you have to go now," Mariah said, when she finally could speak. "But is there any chance I can bribe you with the promise of dinner so that you'll come back later and do that again?"

  He lifted his head and laughed. "The hell with dinner. I think we've discovered an entirely new use for the kitchen." His smile softened. "You know, I can go for days without a meal, but I don't think I can go for more than a few hours without making love to you."

  John gently touched the side of her face, tracing her lips lightly with his thumb, as if he could see from her eyes how much she melted inside when he said things like that. And why shouldn't he see? She wasn't trying to hide anything from him. She'd told him she loved him. It wasn't a secret.

  And for one heart-stopping moment, Mariah seemed almost sure that he was going to tell her that her feelings were mutual, that he loved her, too.

  But he only said, "I'll be back by seven at the latest."

  Still gazing into her eyes, John leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips, then pulled her forward and helped her down from the counter. He kissed her again before disappearing for a moment into the bathroom as she straightened her robe and tied her belt. When he came back down the hall, he was pulling on his T-shirt.

  "I've got to hurry now," John said, stopping to kiss her on the mouth – a quick brushing of the lips that turned into a much longer, lingering kiss. He groaned softly, forcing himself to pull away from her. "I'll see you later, okay?"

  "Seven o'clock," Mariah said.

  As he moved toward the sliding doors, past the dining-room table, he suddenly stopped short. "My God!"

  "What?"

  John picked up one of the pictures that were spread out on the table. It was a color photo she'd taken of Serena with that cheap, disposable camera. "Where did you get this?"

  "I took it – I think it was a few weeks ago. Why?"

  There was an intensity in his gaze that she'd never seen before. It made the blue of his eyes seem hard and flinty. He swore sharply, almost excitedly, adding, "This is good. This is very good. Do you have any other pictures of her?"

  Mariah gazed at him, her heart sinking like lead into the pit of her stomach. Why should John care if she had photographs of Serena? Unless he was still... No, she refused to think that way.

  "Yes," she said, moving toward the table and turning on several of the lights that were still positioned around that part of the room. "I managed to take four or five of them without her noticing. She's amazingly photogenic. Still, she doesn't like to have her picture taken. It's kind of strange."

  "Yeah, I know," he said. He looked down at the seemingly haphazard piles of pictures as if he wanted to search through them but was afraid to mess up her organizational system. "Where are the others? Do you still have them?"

  Unless he was still infatuated with Serena... This time she couldn't prevent the thought from coming through.

  "They're here somewhere," Mariah said, quickly flipping through one of the piles, again cutting off that errant thought. He didn't want Serena. He wanted her. He'd told her that – she knew it was true. How could he have made love to her the way he just had if it wasn't true? "Probably close to where you found the first one." She unearthed three more pictures of Serena.

  One photo caught the blond Englishwoman in nearly perfect profile. The three others were either three-quarter or full face.

  "May I have these?" John asked.

  Mariah laughed. "You're kidding."

  He suddenly seemed to realize the inappropriateness of his request. Just a short time ago – mere minutes ago – he'd been making love to Mariah, yet now he wanted her to give him pictures of the woman he'd last dated. Dated – and at the very least, kissed. Mariah didn't want to think about the possibility that John had made love to Serena, but it was far too easy to imagine the two of them together.

  John shook his head. "It's not what you think."

  "It's not? Then please, tell me. What exactly is it? I'd like to know. Why do you want these pictures?" She was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he did have some genuine reason for wanting those pictures.

  But John shook his head. "Look, I'm sorry. Never mind, all right?" He put the pictures back on top of the pile she'd found them in. "It's just...I was going to send one to a friend of mine up in New York. I think the two of them would really hit it off – she's just his type and..."

  He was lying through his teeth. He was standing there and telling her some lame lie as if he actually thought she would accept it. But she didn't buy it, and he knew it.

  He swore softly. "I can't tell you why I really need them, Mariah, but I promise you, my wanting those pictures doesn't have anything to do with you and me."

  "I really don't want you to take them," Mariah said. "I'm sorry. Serena didn't know I took them, and ... I don't want you to have them."

  "That's all right." He nodded. "That's okay. I understand. Just...trust me, please?"

  Mariah folded her arms. "You're going to be late," she said. "You better go."

  But he hesitated. "I'm going to tell you everything really soon, all right?"

  She tried to smile. "I'm not certain just what happened here, but sure. Whatever you want to tell me, whenever you want to tell it to me, would be nice."

  "I will." John gazed at her steadily, real consternation in his eyes. "I'll tell you soon." But then he squinted out the door, up at the hazy blueness of the sky. "Damn, I don't have any sunblock with me," he said, and when he turned to look back at her, she could see a hint of that same dishonesty in his eyes. "I'm going to fry without it. Do you have anything number fifteen or higher that I could use?"

  Mariah knew that if she left the room, he was going to pocket those pictures of Serena. He was going to steal them, even though she'd told him point-blank that she didn't want him to have them. Trust me, he'd said. Trust me.

  She cleared her throat. "Yeah, it's in the bedroom – in my beach bag. I'll get it." She turned away. What could she do? Short of accusing him of theft or denying him the use of her sunblock? Please let me be wrong.

  Miller watched Mariah walk down the hall and into her bedroom.

  Quickly, he took two pictures of Serena – the profile and the best of the full-face shots – and slipped them into the back pocket of his jeans. He hated the fact he had to do it this way – to take them without Mariah's permission
– but these photos would be invaluable in tracking down Serena Westford. With a photo of this quality on an APB sent to all law enforcement agencies, the FBI would actually have a chance of finding her again before she altered her appearance. It was a slim chance, but a chance just the same.

  And it wasn't going to be long until this part of the case was deemed over and done with, and he'd be able to tell Mariah everything. Surely if she knew the truth, she wouldn't deny him access to the photos.

  She returned with the sunblock, and he quickly spread it across his nose and cheekbones.

  He kissed her again, one last time, trying to tell her with his kiss the way she made him feel. Despite the wariness in her eyes, she kissed him warmly, sweetly.

  "I'll see you later," he said. He slipped out the door and onto the porch where Princess was napping in the shade. "Come on," he said to the dog. "We've gotta run. We're already late."

  He set off down the beach at an easy jog, Princess loping beside him. His legs felt weak, his body still buzzing from the pleasure he'd allowed himself to partake of only moments before.

  On impulse, he turned to look back at the cottage. Mariah was standing on the deck, watching him. He waved, lifting an arm, and she waved back.

  Picking up his speed, he smiled. Yes indeed, he was going to be late to this meeting with Pat Blake. When Daniel had called the second time, Blake's plane had already landed at the little airport on the mainland. His car would be pulling into the resort driveway in a matter of moments, and Miller would arrive a good five minutes after him – unshowered, unshaved and smelling distinctly like Mariah. Sweet, sexy Mariah. What a reason to be late...

  Blake would nearly swallow his teeth at the sight of him – Miller couldn't remember ever attending a meeting such as this one in anything other than a dark suit and tie. But all would be forgiven the moment he produced these photographs.

  Miller hoped Mariah would be as quick to forgive when he told her the truth. God, he wanted to tell her the truth soon. And maybe then she'd tell him why she was here on Garden Isle using a fake name.

  So Mariah was just a nickname. What did your parents call you? That's what he should have asked. He should've pushed the conversation in that direction, but he'd been waylaid by her kisses. He'd been overcome by the promise of ecstasy. All rational thought had simply ceased to exist.

  Damn, she drove him out of his mind.

  He turned to look back once more at Mariah's house, but this time she was gone.

  *

  Mariah watched in the dim darkroom light as the photos she took just that morning slowly developed. She was feeling that familiar gnawing of worry and upset that she'd worked so hard to eradicate over the past few months.

  Stress was making her shoulders tight and she rolled them, silently chanting her mantra: No worries. No problem.

  But she was lying to herself. She was worried. There was a problem.

  She was in love with a man who'd not only lied, but had stolen from her.

  As she rinsed the chemicals from the paper, Jonathan Mills smiled directly up at her from the photo, his eyes warm and flashing with amusement. Mariah looked more closely at his eyes, trying to see if maybe his dishonesty had been captured through the camera's lens. She wanted to know if he'd been lying right from the start. But all she could see was warmth and life.

  The pictures she'd taken in her kitchen were sharply in contrast to the shots she'd taken on the beach the day they'd met. Mariah had found that roll of film and developed it first. Those pictures now hung, drying. John's gaunt silhouette against the backdrop of a lightening sky. His profile – a face etched with pain. He looked cold and distant. But he didn't look deceptive.

  She wasn't exactly sure what she was looking for – perhaps a shiftiness in the eyes. Or a glint of malice. In reality, it was probably the case that the most deceptive people gave away nothing at all. Her stomach started to hurt and she rolled her shoulders again. No worries.

  Mariah carefully hung the more recent pictures of John next to the ones from the first roll of film. Someone glancing at them all would find it hard to believe this smiling man was the same person as in the others.

  Mariah looked again into John's laughing eyes. This was the man who'd come to her for comfort as he'd finally allowed himself to grieve for his friend's death. This was the man who had made love to her so passionately. This was the man who had told her he wanted her, not Serena. She found it hard to believe that this was the same man who lied to her, who had actually stolen from her.

  Mariah hadn't allowed herself to look through her piles of photos after he'd first left. And she'd hated herself for mistrusting him when she'd finally given in to the temptation. But she'd been right to mistrust him. Two pictures were missing. John had taken two of the photos of Serena even after Mariah had specifically said she didn't want him to have them.

  The phone rang, and Mariah picked up the cordless extension she'd brought downstairs with her, half hoping it was John and half hoping it was not. "Hello?"

  "Hey, girl, how's your back?" It was Laronda, the site coordinator from Foundations for Families.

  "It doesn't hurt at all anymore," Mariah told her. "And I just got the all clear from the doctor this morning. I'm allowed to go back to work."

  "God is truly watching over me," Laronda exclaimed melodramatically. "I'm in desperate need of roofers. Tropical storm Otto is heading on almost a direct path to the Washburtons' house. It wasn't supposed to rain – at least not hard – until the end of the week, and we gambled and took advantage of a local electrician who had some time off. We had the electrical work done before the roof was finished. But now the weather bureau is saying oops they made a big mistake. We're gonna get high winds and flooding rain. We need to get that baby sealed up tight before old Otto makes some bad voodoo by mixing water with those wires. Can you help? We're doing a blitz – round the clock from now until we're done. I'll take you for as long a shift as you can give me."

  As usual, Mariah wasn't wearing a watch. "What time is it?"

  "Nearly noon. Just say yes and I can have the van pick you up in fifteen minutes. Door-to-door service today."

  "I'll be ready. But, Laronda—"

  "Bless you, girl!"

  "I have to be home by seven."

  "We'll get you there."

  Mariah took one last look at her pictures of John before she turned off the light and went up the basement stairs. She'd be back by seven, all right. And then she was going to get some answers.

  Chapter 11

  Mariah's sliding glass door was open, the screen unlocked.

  "Mariah?" Miller called.

  No one answered. Nothing moved.

  Miller stepped into the house and closed the screen door behind him.

  Without Mariah to brighten the place up with her laughter and life, the room seemed almost shabby. Miller moved quietly to the dining-room table, intending to slip the two photographs he'd borrowed and had copied back into the pile. She'd never even know they were gone.

  In theory, it worked, but in theory, Mariah hadn't checked up on him. In reality, she had. The other pictures of Serena had been separated out from the stack. She knew he'd taken two of them. He set the two in question down on the table with the others.

  It didn't really matter. He'd had every intention of telling her the truth – and he could now. During his short meeting with Pat Blake, this portion of the case had been officially closed. Hanging around here and waiting for Serena to return had been deemed a waste of time and finances. Even at this moment, Daniel was back at the resort, packing up the equipment.

  Miller had been helping him, determined to get the work done and his report filed in time to meet Mariah for dinner at seven. But something Daniel had said during the meeting had started him thinking. Daniel had pointed out that in the past, Serena had always been so careful about having her picture taken. Was it possible that she knew about these pictures?

  Miller knew it damn well was possible tha
t she was on to him. She could have found the bugs in her house and correctly identified Miller as FBI. And if that was the case, she might've purposely left these pictures behind as part of some kind of weird game she was playing.

  But what exactly was that game?

  Had she left intending to alter her appearance so thoroughly that leaving photos behind didn't even matter? Was this possibly some kind of arrogant challenge?

  Or had she truly slipped up? Had she found the microphones in her house and run scared? And after she calmed down enough, would she realize that because Mariah was a photographer it was more than likely she had pictures of Serena, taken either intentionally or unintentionally? And if that was the case, would Serena come back? And if she did come back, would Mariah then be in danger?

  That thought had made Miller break out in a cold sweat, and he'd called Mariah, but she didn't pick up the phone. Thinking she might be on the beach enjoying the early-afternoon sunshine, Miller had left Daniel to deal with the equipment as he took the car and drove out to Mariah's cottage as quickly as he could.

  "Mariah?" he said again, moving into the kitchen.

  A jar of peanut butter was out and open on the kitchen counter. She'd told him the first time they'd met that leaving food out in the kitchen was an invitation to disaster. Ants or enormous American cockroaches would come in almost immediately and they were nearly impossible to get rid of.

  A plate with bread crumbs sat nearby – as if she'd made herself a sandwich there, then taken it with her as she'd left.

  Left to go where? Her bike was leaning up against the side of the house. He'd seen it when he'd arrived. There was no sign of her in the yard or out on the beach.

  Wherever she'd gone, she'd left in a hurry. Miller made a complete circuit of the house. There were signs in the bathroom that Mariah had taken a quick shower – a wet towel had been tossed onto the floor along with the robe she'd been wearing this morning. A tube of toothpaste was open and left out on the sink. In her bedroom, the bed was unmade, the sheets still rumpled from their lovemaking.