LOVE WITH THE PROPER STRANGER

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Miller sat down on the edge of the bed, letting himself lie back among the sheets. He closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of Mariah's perfume. Where had she gone in such a blessed hurry?

  Even with his eyes closed, he could picture the house and all its telltale signs of a hasty exit. He was known for his ability to take the clues he'd been given and hypothesize the most likely scenario. Only this time, he didn't much care for the scenario he'd almost instantly come up with.

  He had one Mariah Robinson living under an assumed name, telling him specifically that he could not have those pictures of Serena. He had Mariah go through the photos after he'd left, pulling out the shots of Serena and discovering that he had, in fact, taken two of those pictures with him. He had Mariah quickly take a shower, quickly make a sandwich and then leave the house in such a hurry that she didn't even lock the back door.

  Going where? To meet Serena? To warn her that Miller had those pictures?

  Miller could place Mariah – or Marie Carver, her real name – in Phoenix, Arizona, three years ago, during the time Serena had been there, too, preparing to off husband number five. The possibility that the two women had met at that time opened the door to all kinds of nasty questions, such as: Had Mariah/Marie come here to Garden Isle to act as some kind of accomplice or assistant? Was Mariah/Marie some kind of Black Widow killer-in-training?

  Miller sat up. Dammit! He'd obviously been working for the FBI for too long. How could he possibly think such things about Mariah? Sweet, gentle Mariah...

  He hadn't checked the basement because it was dark, but now he went down there anyway, hoping to find something that would tell him where Mariah had gone.

  He'd never been inside her darkroom, and he turned on the light as he pushed open the door. It was a small room, with built-in counters lining the walls. It had a sink and shelves for chemicals and other supplies – even a small refrigerator for storing film. Different kinds of equipment were set up on the counters, including something big that looked like an enlarger.

  Miller knew with just one glance that this room – combined with the beachfront property and the incredible view of the ocean – was the reason Mariah had rented this particular cottage. Dozens of places were more lavishly furnished or nicely decorated, but Mariah cared more about having a place with a darkroom.

  There were photos hanging from some kind of clothes-line assembly, curling slightly around the edges as they dried. Miller looked closer. The pictures were of him.

  They were black-and-white photographs, but they still managed to capture the beauty of the sunrise. He and Princess were just silhouettes in many of them, but in several, Mariah had used her zoom lens, and he could clearly see his face, etched with relentless fatigue. The pictures echoed his pain.

  But there, right in the middle of these pictures of his bleakly grim face, was a close-up. It was one of the pictures Mariah had taken just that morning. He was smiling at her, smiling into the camera.

  Miller stared at the picture. It was him. He knew it was him. He remembered her taking the picture. He remembered smiling. But he'd never seen himself looking quite like that before. His eyes were reflecting the morning light coming in through the window and they seemed to sparkle with warmth and life. His smile was wide and sincere.

  He looked nothing like a man who had been dubbed: "The Robot."

  And he wasn't, Miller realized. When he was with Mariah, he wasn't a robot. He was a real, live, flesh-and-blood man, capable of feeling – and releasing – deep emotions.

  He closed his eyes, remembering the way she had held him as he'd given in and cried for Tony for the first time in two years. He remembered the strength of the emotion he'd felt as he'd held her in his arms after making love.

  That man, that flesh-and-blood man would never have entertained such doubts about Mariah. It was only "The Robot" who could think that way – mistrusting everyone.

  God, he wanted Mariah to come back. He wanted her to transform him once again into that real man. He despised himself for being this way, for having all these doubts about her.

  With one last look back at Mariah's photographs, Miller turned off the darkroom light and went upstairs. As he locked the back door, he heard the crunch of tires in the gravel driveway and turned to look out the front window, hoping it was Mariah.

  It wasn't.

  It was Serena's car pulling into the driveway. It was Serena. My God, she'd come back. Miller's heart nearly stopped. Then it kicked back in, beating double time with a vengeance.

  As he watched, she parked next to his car and got out. She didn't seem perturbed by the fact that his car was there – she knew he and Mariah were friends. And Miller knew from the time he'd spent with her that Serena had complete confidence in her sexual allure. Miller had no doubt that Serena didn't view Maria as any kind of a rival.

  He moved to the front door, intending to step outside when Serena rang the bell. But she didn't ring, she just opened the screen and came in.

  "Mariah's not here," he told her.

  "I stopped by to see how she was doing. The back door was unlocked, and—"

  Serena kissed him. It was a kiss meant to curl his hair, to thoroughly numb him, to drop him – dizzy with passion and desire – to his knees.

  Instead, Miller had to fight to hide his revulsion. She'd caught him off guard, that much was true. He kept close track of her hands, suddenly keenly aware that this woman might very well have killed at least seven times by forcing a knife blade into her husbands' hearts. It was true that he was not her husband, but it was possible she knew he was FBI. Although if she did know that, this was one hell of a dangerous game she was playing by returning to Garden Isle.

  "Did you miss me?" she murmured.

  "Absolutely," he lied.

  As quickly as she'd started kissing him, she broke away, making a quick circuit around the room, stopping to look at the photos on the dining-room table. She picked up one of the pictures of herself.

  "Oh, good," she said. "Mariah must've set these aside to give to me. I'd asked her about them last week. She's a remarkable photographer, isn't she? I mean, for an amateur."

  "Yeah," he said. "She's pretty good."

  "For an amateur," Serena repeated.

  As Miller watched, she slipped all four of the pictures into her purse.

  "So where did our little Mariah – or should I say big Mariah – go off to?" Serena mused. "Her tool belt's not by the door. I'll wager she's off trying to save the world, one family at a time."

  Miller couldn't believe it. For all his highly touted skills as one of the FBI's top agents, he hadn't thought to check and see if Mariah's tool belt was missing. Sure enough. Her belt and her backpack were both gone.

  "I've never been down this hall past the loo," Serena said, disappearing down the hallway that led to Mariah's bedroom. "What's down here? Her bedroom probably."

  Miller followed her. "Serena, don't go back there."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you're invading Mariah's privacy."

  "She left the door unlocked, didn't she?" Serena said almost gaily, sitting down on Mariah's unmade bed, surveying the small bedroom. "I don't know why she lives in a little dumpy place like this. She has plenty of money, you know."

  Miller stood in the doorway. "We should leave."

  He would've had to be a fool not to catch the meaning of the glint in her eyes. She was coming on to him. She was attempting to seduce him right there in Mariah's room, on Mariah's bed.

  "I suppose we could go to your place." Serena leaned back on both elbows as she gazed up at him. "But I confess I like it here. Think of the excitement from knowing that Mariah could come home any moment and find us here together."

  God, the thought made him sick, but he couldn't deny that this was what he'd wanted for so long. He'd wanted an opportunity to be in a position where it would seem natural for him to propose marriage to this woman.

  But he hadn't wanted to do it like this.

&n
bsp; Not here in this room where he'd discovered such pleasures with Mariah.

  But he couldn't take Serena back to his room at the resort where Daniel was packing up crates of electronic equipment. They'd brought the gear into the resort in inconspicuous suitcases, but there had been no need to leave with it that way, so most of it was clearly labeled with its destination, Quantico – FBI headquarters – in big black, official-looking letters.

  "Why don't we take a walk on the beach?" Miller suggested.

  "In these shoes?" Serena reached for his hand, tugging him down so that he was sitting next to her on the bed.

  Mariah's bed.

  It took everything Miller had in him not to stand up, not to pull away. Apprehending Serena was his job. Catching a killer was never fun. He didn't have to like it, he just had to do it.

  He tried to convince himself that he wasn't betraying Mariah as he let Serena push him back onto the bed. He tried not to think about what Mariah would assume if she came home to find him here with Serena, entangled in an embrace in the very bed in which he'd made love to Mariah just mere hours earlier.

  This wasn't real. He felt distant, removed both physically and emotionally from this woman who was kissing him so passionately. That distance worried him – surely she'd be able to tell that she left him feeling cold. Surely she'd realize that he wanted to kiss her about as much as he wanted to kiss Daniel. Less.

  He'd made one hell of a mistake in assuming that Serena had gone for good. He'd messed things up royally. He'd made love to Mariah this morning, and this afternoon he was going to propose marriage to Serena.

  Serena ground herself against him, and, suddenly giddy, Miller knew the truth. He didn't want to do this. But what was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to tell both Daniel Tonaka and Patrick Blake that he was taking himself off the case? How could he do that after coming this far? The setup had worked after all – he had the suspect exactly where he wanted her.

  Or maybe she had him right where she wanted him.

  Daniel was sure to understand and forgive him. But Blake wouldn't. Not after getting to this point. Blake would send him in for that psych evaluation, assuming that Miller had finally snapped. The unit shrink was sure to find him crazy – crazy in love with Mariah.

  Miller was just about to push Serena off him when she spoke.

  "Please," she said, kissing his face and his neck as she sat straddling him, her head bent over him, her golden hair finding its way into his mouth. "Please, John. I know that you want me, darling, but please, can't we wait to do this until after we're married?"

  Miller was astonished. He nearly laughed aloud. She was on top of him. She was the seductress, yet her words sounded as if she were an innocent being seduced. She was overpowering, yet she was presenting him with the illusion of being the powerful one. The approach must've worked well for her in the past. He'd never once – in any of their conversations – mentioned marriage, yet she spoke of it as if they'd been discussing it for weeks.

  He spit her hair out of his mouth.

  "Please, darling," Serena whispered. "We can fly to Las Vegas – be married by tonight."

  It was too easy. He couldn't turn her down. He'd been after her for too long.

  Still, he hesitated. Mariah would be devastated.

  Yet to turn Serena down meant that when the photos of her next victim – and there was sure to be a next victim – crossed Miller's desk, he would know he could have prevented that death. And the next one, and the next one. He would know that he could have stopped her. And he wouldn't be able to bear that. He wouldn't be able to handle having failed. He could stop her, right now, right here.

  "I'll charter a flight," Miller said to Serena.

  He didn't want to do it, but he didn't have a choice.

  Chapter 12

  Mariah could hear the phone ringing and she took the stairs up to the deck two at a time.

  Maybe it was John. Maybe he was finally calling to tell her why he'd left a message canceling last night's dinner plans.

  His insomnia was contagious. She'd spent most of last night tossing and turning – sometimes feeling hurt, sometimes concerned, sometimes terrified that she'd been played for a fool.

  She scooped up the phone, praying she'd reached it before the answering machine kicked on. "Hello?" she said breathlessly.

  "Oh, good. You are there." It was Serena. "Can you come over and see my new place?"

  Mariah cursed silently. "Now's not a really good time because I've—"

  "I've rented that house right up the hill from you," Serena told her.

  "The big one?"

  "I suppose compared to your place, it might be considered big—"

  "Serena, that house is a palace. You've wanted to live there since you first came to the island. How on earth did you manage to arrange to move in there?"

  Serena lowered her voice. "Oh, I've only got it for a short time. There was a week-and-a-half block in between renters. It's expensive, but considering that this is my honeymoon—"

  "Your what?"

  "I flew out to Vegas last night and got married," Serena said with a silvery laugh. "It was rather unexpected."

  Married. Serena was married. Who did she know well enough to marry? Not Jonathan Mills? Dear God, had she gone and married John? Mariah felt a flash of disbelieving heat followed quickly by a blast of cold fear. "Who's the lucky man?" she managed to ask, somehow sounding casually nonchalant.

  Serena just laughed again. "That's my surprise. I want you to come over and meet him."

  Serena's new husband couldn't possibly be John. He wouldn't do that to her. Mariah refused to believe that he was capable of such a thing. He'd told her he wanted her, not Serena. He'd promised her he wouldn't sleep with Serena. Of course, she hadn't made him promise that he wouldn't marry Serena....

  "Serena, just tell me who he is."

  "If you ride your bike, it'll take you even less than three minutes to get up here," Serena said, laughter bubbling in her voice. "See you in a few."

  Mariah stared at the telephone receiver, listening to the buzz of the disconnected line. With a curse, she hung up the phone.

  She was going to have to go up there.

  Not to please Serena, who clearly wanted to show off the house, but to put her own mind at ease.

  She'd go up there, see for herself that the man Serena had married wasn't John. She'd see for herself that he was probably some older man with the ability to write million-dollar checks without blinking.

  This was good, Mariah told herself as she tied the laces of her sneakers and went out to where her bike was leaning against the side of her house. With Serena safely married, Mariah wouldn't have to worry about the blonde actively competing for John's time and attention.

  Provided, of course, he came back from wherever he'd gone. And provided he came equipped with a good explanation as to why he'd stolen those photographs.

  *

  "What are you looking at?"

  Miller turned to see Serena standing in the door to the elegantly high-ceilinged formal dining room. "Just ... checking out the view from the windows."

  She pointed through the treetops. "Look. There's the roof of Mariah's little cottage."

  Miller nodded. He knew. That's what he'd been looking at.

  He hadn't planned on living quite so close to Mariah. But Serena had rented this monstrously huge example of modern architecture on the morning before they were married and had insisted they return here for their "honeymoon."

  He'd intended for them to stay in Nevada. He'd planned to call Mariah from a pay phone in one of the casinos to tell her that he was sorry, but he'd been pulled out of town on business – he wouldn't be back for a few weeks. He'd hoped Mariah would never have to find out about his charade of a marriage to Serena.

  But...Serena hated Vegas.

  And when he'd offered to take her on a honeymoon anywhere, anywhere in the world, she chose Garden Isle. She was adamant about returning there, and although
Miller had put up a good fight, he'd eventually had to give in for fear she'd become suspicious.

  That, of course, was assuming she wasn't suspicious of him in the first place.

  "I love this room," Serena said, circling the banquet-sized table. "We ought to throw a dinner party."

  "Sounds good to me."

  She stepped closer to him and slipped her arms around his waist, embracing him from behind. "Or maybe we should just have our own private dinner party."

  He tried to sound sincere. "That sounds even better." Miller gently pulled free from her arms. "Look, Serena, I called my doctor this morning," he told her. "He said it could be a few months before I'm...back to normal." He cleared his throat tactfully. "You know..."

  He'd told her last night – their wedding night – that he was still suffering from the side effects of the chemotherapy he'd recently undergone. He'd informed her that one of those side effects was impotence. He'd told her it was a temporary condition, and he'd apologized for not telling her sooner.

  She'd offered to see what she could do to arouse him, but he'd quickly, made up some story about how he'd been advised not even to try since trying and failing could cycle into a more permanent psychological problem.

  She hadn't been too upset.

  They'd spent the night watching old movies on one of those classic-movie cable channels. Miller had stayed awake even when Serena had dozed off. He didn't much like the idea of waking up with a cold blade of steel in his chest. Or not waking up at all.

  He'd slept some on the plane back east, knowing that Daniel was awake and watching out for him.

  "I've decided what I want for a wedding gift," Serena told him.

  "You have?" This time, he encircled her in his arms, brushing his lips against her forehead. Her perfume was too strong, too floral, too cloying. He forced himself to smile down at her.

  "Yes," she said. "This house. It's on the market, you know."