Unstoppable: Love With The Proper Stranger / Letters To Kelly

Means to an end, he reminded himself. Mariah Robinson was merely the means to meeting—and catching—Serena Westford.

But Mariah smiled almost shyly into his eyes and he found himself comparing them to whiskey—smoky and light brown and intoxicatingly warming.

“Well, good. I leave early in the morning—the van picks me up at six. You could either meet me here or downtown in front of the library.” She looked away from him and glanced up at the sky. The high, dappled clouds were streaked with the pink of the setting sun. “Look at how pretty that is,” she breathed.

She was mostly turned away from him, and he was struck by the soft curve of her cheek. Her skin would feel so smooth beneath his fingers, beneath his lips. Her own lips were slightly parted as she gazed raptly out at the water, at the red-orange fingers of clouds extending nearly to the horizon, lit by the sun setting to the west, to their backs.

And then Miller followed her gaze and looked at the sky. The clouds were colored in every hue of pink and orange imaginable. It was beautiful. When was the last time he’d stopped to look at a sunset?

“My mother loved sunsets,” he said, before he even realized he was speaking. God, what was he telling her? About his mother…?

But she’d turned to look at him, her eyes still so warm. “Past tense,” she said. “Is she…?”

“She died when I was a kid,” he told her, pretending that he had only said that because he was looking for that flare of compassion he knew was going to appear in her eyes. Serena Westford, he reminded himself. Mariah was a means to an end.

Jackpot. Her eyes softened as he knew they would. She was an easy target. He was used to manipulating hardened, suspicious criminals. Compared to them, Mariah Robinson was laughably easy to control. One mention of his poor dead mother—never mind that it was true—and her eyes damn near became filled with tears.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. She actually reached for his hand and gently squeezed his fingers before she let him go.

“She always wanted to go to Key West,” Miller said, watching her eyes. “She thought it was really great that the people on Key West celebrate every single sunset—that they stop and watch and just sit quietly for a few minutes every evening. God, I haven’t thought about that in years.”

Mariah gave him another gentle smile, and he knew he was lying to himself. He was doing it again. This was his background, his history, not Jonathan Mills’s cover story. He was telling her about his mother because he wanted to tell her. He’d known Tony for nearly two decades, and the topic had never come up in their conversations. Not even once. He knew this girl, what? Two days? And he was telling her about his mother’s craziest dream.

They’d planned to rent a car and drive all the way from New Haven down to Key West. But then she’d gone and died.

Mariah was silent, just watching the sky as the last of the light slipped away. Who was controlling whom? Miller had to wonder.

“Do you have plans for this evening?” he asked.

She turned to scoop her T-shirt up off the sand. “A friend wanted me to go barhopping, but I turned her down. That’s not exactly my idea of fun. Besides, I’m beat. I’m going to have a shower, a quick dinner, and then sit down with a good book with my feet up.”

“I should go,” Miller murmured. He definitely had to go. Serena Westford was probably that friend, and if she was out, she probably wasn’t going to be dropping by tonight. He’d come back in the morning when the sun was up, when the soft dusk of early evening wasn’t throwing seductive shadows across everything.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mariah said. “I picked something up for you on the mainland this morning.”

She hurried back up the beach toward the backpack she’d left at the bottom of the stairs. Miller followed more slowly. She’d picked something up for him?

“Wait a sec,” she said, bounding up the stairs, carrying the heavy-looking backpack effortlessly. “I want to turn on the deck light.”

Princess followed her up the stairs.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he heard Mariah say to Princess. “You can’t go in there. My rental agreement distinctly says no dogs or cats. And I hate to break it to you, babe, but you’re definitely a dog. I know you don’t believe me....”

The light came on as Miller started up the stairs. It was one of those yellow bug lights, easy on the eyes. It cast a golden, almost fairy-tale-like glow on the deck.

Mariah had her backpack on the table as she unzipped one of the compartments. He stopped halfway up the stairs, afraid to get too close, fighting the pull that drew him toward her. Means to an end, he reminded himself.

“There’s a Native American craft shop on the mainland,” she told him as she drew a heavy tool belt out and set it on the table. “I love going in there—they’ve got some really beautiful jewelry and some fabulous artwork. But when I went past this morning, I was thinking about you and I went in and bought you this.” She pulled a bag out of her pack and something out of that bag.

It was round and crisscrossed with a delicate string of some kind, intricately woven as if it were a web. A feather was in the center, held in place by the string, and several other longer feathers hung down from the bottom of the circle.

Miller didn’t know what the hell it was, but whatever it was, Mariah had bought it for him. She’d actually bought him a gift.

“Wow,” he said. “Thanks.”

She grinned at him. “You don’t have a clue what this is, do you?”

“It’s, um, something to hang on the wall?”

“It’s something to hang on the wall by your bed,” she told him. “It’s a dream catcher. Certain Southwestern Native American tribes believed having one near while you slept would keep you from having nightmares.” She held it out to him. “Who knows? Maybe they’re right. Maybe if you hang it up, you’ll be able to sleep.”

Miller had to climb the last few steps to take the dream catcher from her hands. He wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had bought him anything. “Thank you,” he managed. She had been thinking about him today. They’d only met twice, and she had been thinking about him....

That was good for the case, he tried to tell himself, but he knew the real truth. It had nothing to do with Serena Westford and everything to do with this sudden ache of desire he couldn’t seem to ignore.

For the briefest, wildest moment, he actually considered following through on his urges to make his relationship with Mariah a sexual one. But even he couldn’t do that. Even he wasn’t enough of a son of a bitch to use her that way.

Still, when Miller opened his mouth to take his leave, he found himself saying something else entirely. “I haven’t had dinner yet. Can I talk you into joining me? There’s a fish place right down the road…?”

“I’m really not up to going out,” Mariah told him. “But I’ve got a swordfish steak in the fridge that I was going to throw on the grill. I’d love it if you’d join me.” She didn’t give him time to respond. “I’ve got to take a shower,” she said, pushing open the sliding door that led from the deck into the house. “I’ll be quick—help yourself to a beer or a soda from the kitchen.”

She was inside the house before he could come up with a good reason why he shouldn’t stay for dinner. But there were plenty of reasons. Because eating here, in the seclusion of her cottage, was too intimate. Because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to maintain this pretense of wanting to be only friends. Because the thought of her in the shower while he was out here waiting was far too provocative. Because he didn’t trust himself to keep his distance.

But Miller didn’t say anything.

Because, despite the fact he knew he was playing with fire, he wanted to stay here with Mariah Robinson more than he’d wanted anything in years.

“CAR ALARMS,” JOHN SAID as he helped Mariah carry the last of the dishes back into the kitchen. “The company makes car alarms, and in the late eighties the business boomed. I took over as CEO when my father retired. I’ve been gone too long—I need to get back to work in a month or two.”

Mariah leaned back against the sink. “How have the sales figures been since you’ve left?”

He shrugged. “Holding steady.”

“Then you don’t need to do anything,” she told him. “Particularly not throw yourself back into the rat race before you’re physically ready. Give yourself a break.”

He smiled very slightly. “I still look pretty awful, huh?”

“Actually, you look much better.” Over the past few days, his hair had grown in quite a bit more. Mariah figured he must be one of those men who needed a cut every two weeks or so because his hair grew so quickly. It was dark and thick and he now looked as if he’d intentionally gotten a crew cut rather than as if he’d been attacked by a mad barber with an electric razor.

His skin looked a whole lot less gray, too. He actually had some color, as if he’d been out in the sun for part of the day.

His eyes were a different story. Slightly bloodshot and bleary, he still looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Did you get a chance to look at that book I gave you?” she added.

“Yeah.” He couldn’t hide his smile. “It was…educational. Particularly the chapter about stress reduction through sex.”

Mariah felt her cheeks heat with a blush. “Oh, God,” she said. “I forgot all about that chapter. He does go into some detail, doesn’t he? I hope you didn’t think I was—”

“I didn’t think anything,” he interrupted her. “It’s all right. I was just teasing.”

She laughed giddily. “And I was just going to ask you into the living room to try out one of my favorite stress-relieving exercises, but now I’m not sure how you’ll take that invitation.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be the exercise called “Pressure Cooker Release,” by any chance?” he asked.

She knew exactly which one he was talking about, and she snorted, feeling her face turn an even brighter shade of red. “Not a chance.” But maybe after she got to know him quite a bit better…

He smiled as if he was following the direction of her thoughts. Jonathan Mills had the nicest smile. He didn’t use it very often, but when he did, it softened the harsh lines of his face and warmed the electric blue of his eyes.

She found herself smiling back at him almost foolishly.

He broke their gaze, glancing away from her as if he were afraid the heat that was building in both of their eyes had the potential to burn the house down.

Pressure cooker release indeed.

Mariah waited for a moment, but he didn’t look back at her. Instead, he poured himself another mug of decaf, adding just a touch of sugar, no milk.

The conversation had been heading in a dangerously flirtatious and sexually charged direction. John had started it, but then he’d just as definitely ended it. He’d stopped them cold instead of continuing on into an area peppered with lingering looks and hot sparks that could jolt to life a powerful lightning bolt between them.

Mariah didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

Jonathan Mills had proven himself to be the perfect dinner guest. He’d started the gas grill while she was in the shower and had even put together a salad from the fresh vegetables she’d had in the refrigerator.

He was clearly good at fending for himself in a kitchen. He had to be—he’d told her over dinner that he’d never been married. He’d told her quite a bit more about the successful business he’d inherited.

What she couldn’t figure out was why no woman had managed yet to get her hooks into such an attractive and well-to-do man.

Not that Mariah was looking to get involved on any kind of permanent basis. She wasn’t like Serena, eyeing every man who came her way for eligibility and holding a checklist of whatever characteristics she required in a husband. Money, Mariah thought. Serena wouldn’t want a man if he didn’t have plenty of money. John had that, but he also had cancer. Serena probably wouldn’t be very interested in acquiring a man who was fighting a potentially terminal illness.

Nobody would.

Who would want to risk becoming involved with a man who had Death, complete with black robe and sickle, hovering over him?

Mariah cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, “if you’re interested in giving it a try, the relaxation exercise I’m thinking about is one I found extremely effective and…”

He looked a little embarrassed. “I don’t know. I’ve never been very good at that kind of thing. I mean, it’s never worked for me in the past and—”

“What can it hurt to try?”

John met her eyes then. He laughed halfheartedly, sheepishly. “I really don’t have much patience for doing things like lying on your back and closing your eyes and having someone tell you to imagine you’re in some special place with a waterfall trickling and birds singing. I’ve never been to a place like that and I can’t relate at all and—”

Mariah held out her hand. “Just try it.”

He looked from her face to her hand and back, but didn’t move. “I should just go.”

She stepped closer and took his hand. “I promise it won’t hurt,” she said as she led him into the living room.

Miller knew he shouldn’t be doing this. This kind of touchy-feely stuff could lead to actual touching and feeling. And as much as he wanted that, it wasn’t on his agenda.

He was here to catch a killer, he reminded himself. Mariah was going to provide his introduction to that killer. Her role was to be that of a mutual friend. A friend, not a lover. A means to an end.

As Mariah passed a halogen lamp, she turned the switch, fading the light to an almost nonexistent glow. It was a typical rental beach house living room. Sturdy furniture with stain-resistant slipcovers. Low-pile, wall-to-wall carpeting. Generic pictures of lighthouses and seabirds on the walls. A rental TV and VCR all but chained to the floor. White walls and plain, easy-to-clean curtains.

But Mariah had been here for two months, and she’d added touches of her own personality to the room.

A wind chime near the sliding glass doors, moving slightly in the evening breeze. Books stacked on an end table—everything from romances to military nonfiction. A boom box and a pile of CDs on another end table. A crystal bird on a string in front of a window, sparkling even in the dim light. A batik-print throw across the couch. The bouquet of bright yellow flowers he’d brought her just a few mornings ago.

She released his hand. “Lie down.”

“On the floor?” God, he hated this already. But he did it, lying on his back. “And close my eyes, right?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

As he closed his eyes, he heard her sit on the couch, heard her sandals drop to the floor as she pulled her long legs up underneath her.

“Okay, are your eyes closed?”

Miller sighed. “Yeah.”

“Okay, now I want you to picture yourself lying in a special place. In a field with flowers growing and birds flying all around and a waterfall in the distance…”

Miller opened his eyes. She was laughing at him.

“You should see the look on your face.”

He sat up, rubbing his neck and shoulders with one hand. “I’m glad I entertained you. Of course, now my stress levels are so high I may never recover.”

Mariah laughed. It was a husky, musical sound that warmed him.

“Lie down here on the couch,” she said, moving out of his way and patting the cushions. “On your stomach this time. I’ll rub your back while we do this, get those stress levels back down to a more normal level—which for you is probably off the scale, right?” She stopped, suddenly uncertain. “What I meant to say was, I’ll rub your back if you want…”

Miller hesitated. Did he want…? God, yes. A back rub. Mariah’s fingers on his neck and shoulders… He moved up onto the couch. Surely he was strong enough to keep it from going any further.

“Thanks,” he said, resting his head on top of his folded arms.

“It’ll be easier if you take your shirt off,” she told him, “but you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she added quickly.

Miller turned to look up at her. “This is just a back rub, right?”

She nodded.

“You’re doing me a favor. Why wouldn’t I want to make it easier for you?”

Mariah was blunt. “Because people sometimes misinterpret removing clothes as a sign that something of a sexual nature is going to follow.”

He had to smile. “Yeah, well, that’s mostly true, isn’t it?”

She sat down next to him, on the very edge of the couch. “If I was going to come on to you, I would be honest about it. I would tell you, ‘Hey. John, I’m going to come on to you now, okay?’ But that’s not what I’m doing here. Really. We just met. And if that weren’t enough, you have issues. I have issues.”

“You have issues?” he asked. Did they have something to do with the reason why she’d traveled more than halfway across the country to live under an assumed name?

“Not like yours. But yeah. I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

“I guess.”

She was remarkably pretty, sitting there above him like that, her clean, shiny hair falling in curls and waves down to her shoulders.

She’d put on a pair of cutoff jeans and a tank top when she came out of the shower. She smelled like after-sun lotion, sweet and fresh.

Miller pulled his T-shirt over his head, rolling it into a ball and using it, along with his arms, as a pillow. As he shifted into position, he could feel Mariah’s leg pressed against him. It felt much too good, but she didn’t move away, and he was penned in by the back of the couch. He had nowhere to go.

But then she touched him, her fingers cool against the back of his neck, and he forgot about trying to move away from her. All he wanted was to move closer. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the sweet sensation.

“This is supposed to make you relax, not tighten up,” Mariah murmured.

“Sorry.”

“Make a fist,” she told him.

Miller opened his eyes, lifting his head to look back at her. “What?”

She gently pushed his head back down. “Are you right-or left-handed?”

“Right-handed.”

“Make a fist with your right hand,” she said. “Hold it tightly—don’t let go.”

“Am I allowed to ask why?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m telling you to. You agreed to do this exercise, and it won’t work unless you make a fist. So do it.”

“I never agreed to do anything,” he protested.

“You gave your unspoken consent when you lay down on this couch. Make a fist, Mills.” She paused. “Or I’ll stop rubbing your back.”

Miller quickly made a fist. “Now what?”

“Now relax every other muscle in your body—but keep that fist tight. Start with your toes, then your feet. You’ve surely done that exercise where you relax every muscle, first in your legs and then your arms and then all the way up to your neck?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t work,” he said flatly.

“Yes, it does. I’ll talk you through it. Start with your feet. Flex them, flex your toes, then relax them. Do it a couple of times.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, massaging the back of his head and even his temples. Christ, it felt heavenly.

“Okay, now do the same thing with your calves,” she told him. “Tighten, then relax. You know, this is actually an exercise from a Lamaze childbirthing class. The mothers-to-be learn to keep the rest of their bodies relaxed while one muscle is tensed and working hard. Of course they can’t practice with the actual muscle that’s going to be contracting, so they contract something else, like a fist.” Her voice was soft and as soothing as her hands. Despite himself, he felt his tension draining away. He actually felt himself start to relax. “Okay, tighten and relax the rest of your legs. Are you doing it? Are you loose?”

He felt her reach down with one hand and touch his legs, shaking them slightly.

“That’s pretty good, John. You’re doing great. Relax your hips and stomach…and your rear end. And don’t forget to breathe—slow it down, take your time. But keep that fist tight.”

Miller felt as if he were floating.

“Okay, now relax your shoulders and your arms. Relax your left hand—everything but that right fist. Keep holding that.”

He could feel her touching him, her hands light against his back, caressing his shoulders and arms.

“Relax the muscles in your face,” she told him softly. Her husky, musical voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Loosen your jaw. Let it drop open.

“Okay, now relax your right hand. Open it up as if you’re setting everything free—all of your tension and stress. Just let it go.”

Let it go.

Let it go.

Miller did as she commanded, and before he could stop himself, he sank into a deep, complete, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Four

MARIAH WOKE UP, heart pounding, sure she’d been dreaming.

But then she heard it again. A strangled, anguished cry from the living room. She nearly knocked over the lamp on her bedside table as she lunged for it, using both hands to flip the switch.

Four fifty-eight. It was 4:58 in the morning.

And that was Jonathan Mills making those noises out in her living room.

He’d fallen asleep on her couch. He’d lain there motionless, as thoroughly out cold as if he’d been hit over the head with a sledgehammer. Mariah had stayed up reading for as long as she could, but had finally given in to her own fatigue. She hadn’t had the heart to wake him and send him home.

She’d put an old blanket under the patio table for Princess to curl up on and covered John with a light sheet before she went to bed herself.

He cried out again, and she went out into the hall, turning on the light.

He was still asleep, still on the couch. He’d thrown off the sheet, shifting onto his back. Perspiration shone on his face and chest as he moved restlessly.

He was having a nightmare.

“John.” Mariah knelt next to him. “John, wake up.”

She touched him gently on the shoulder, but he didn’t seem to feel her. His eyes opened, but he didn’t even seem to see her. What he did see, she couldn’t imagine—the look of sheer horror on his face was awful. And then he cried out, a not quite human sounding “No!” that ripped from his throat. And then the horror turned to rage. “No!” he shouted again. “No!”

He grabbed her by the upper arms, and Mariah felt a flash of real fear as his fingers bit harshly into her. For one terrifying moment, she was sure he was going to fling her across the room. Whoever it was he saw here in her place, he was intending to hurt and hurt badly. She tried to pull away, but he only tightened his grip, making her squeal with pain.

“Ow! John! God! Wake up! It’s me, Mariah! Don’t—”

Recognition flared in his eyes. “Oh, God!”

He released her, and she fell back on the rug on her rear end and elbows. She pushed herself away from him, scooting back until she bumped into an easy chair.

She was breathing hard, and he was, too, as he sat, almost doubled over on the couch.

The shock in his eyes was unmistakable. “Mariah, I’m sorry,” he rasped. “What the hell happened? I was… God, I was dreaming about—” He cut himself off abruptly. “Did I hurt you? God, I didn’t mean to hurt you....”

Mariah rubbed her arms. Already she could see faint bruises where his fingers had pressed too hard in the soft underside of her upper arms. “You scared me,” she admitted. “You were so angry and—”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Oh, God.” He stood up. “I better go. I’m so sorry....”

As Mariah watched, he turned to search for his T-shirt. He couldn’t find it and he had to sit down on the couch again for a moment because he was shaking. He was actually physically shaking.

“You don’t ever let yourself get good and angry,” Mariah realized suddenly. “Do you?”