Love with the Proper Stranger (26 page)

Mariah searched through Daniel’s pockets and through his clothes. It wasn’t until she pushed him over and patted around his waist that she found what she was
looking for. A gun, in some kind of holster at the small of his back.

“I’m really sorry, but I think I need this,” Mariah said to the unconscious man, as with shaking hands, she pulled his shirt free from his pants and drew out the gun. It was small and deadly looking, and warm to the touch from Daniel’s body heat.

She pushed open the car door and stepped out into the driving rain, pushing the gun into the back pocket of her shorts, praying that it had some kind of safety attachment that would keep her from shooting herself in the butt by mistake.

She picked up her bike and pointed it back up the hill—away from town and the police. Her muscles strained as she started up the slight incline. She started to gather some real speed as she went past the still flaming ruins of her cottage.

The neighboring house that lay between hers and Serena’s was silent and empty, and the last of her hopes for getting help sank. There was no one home there. There was no way anyone could be home and not be out on the porch, or at least at the windows, watching the inferno next door.

Still, Mariah kept pedaling up the hill. She didn’t understand
half
of what was going on, but she knew one thing for damn sure. Serena wasn’t going to kill John. Not if
she
had anything to say about it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I
NEVER QUIT
,” T
ONY SAID
sternly. “I confess I did a stupid thing, I got myself into a situation that there was no getting out of, but I spit at Domino as his boys were squeezing the triggers of their guns to blow me away.”

Miller’s mouth was dry, his stomach queasy and his head felt as if it were floating a good twelve inches above his body. “Mariah’s dead,” he said. “She killed Mariah.”

“No talking,” Serena said sharply. “No more talking!”

Tony moved closer, lowering his voice. “You know, she’s having some kind of ritualistic meal, getting into some kind of sicko trance while she’s getting ready to skewer you, pal. And look at you. You’ve got your head on the table in a puddle of drool.”

“I don’t care,” Miller told him.

It was amazing, actually. He had a bullet in his left arm, but it didn’t hurt. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything. Nothing hurt. Nothing mattered. He honestly didn’t care.

“I can’t believe it,” Tony said. “This bitch killed Mariah, and you’re going to let her get away with it? You’re going to just quit? I don’t know what happened in the past two years, baby, but you’re not the John Miller
I
used to know.”

“I loved her,” Miller said.

“Yeah, right, maybe.” Tony didn’t sound convinced.

“I told you to shut up!” Serena snapped.

“I did,” Miller insisted. “I loved her more than anything.”

“Not more than you love yourself,” Tony pointed out. “If you did, you wouldn’t quit. But you’re scared because you know it’s going to hurt you more than you can bear to wake up tomorrow morning and still be alive while Mariah’s not. You
want
this bitch to shish-kebab you because Mariah’s dead, because you couldn’t save her, and because you can’t deal with that.”

“Damn right I can’t deal with that! God, every day for the rest of my life?”

Serena clapped her hands together and the noise seemed to thunder around him. “I’m warning you!”

Miller lifted his head, working hard to focus his eyes. “Go to hell,” he snarled.

“Attaboy,” Tony murmured. “Get mad. Fight back.”

Mariah was dead. Mariah was dead. Christ, Mariah was
dead
.

The pain of reality came stabbing through all of the layers of drug-induced numbness and apathy. Sweet, beautiful Mariah was gone forever, and Miller knew that Tony was right. As easy as it would be to quit, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just put his head down on the table and die.

Not without making Serena pay.

So instead, he put his head down on the table and waited for Serena to come closer.

With his eyes opened and focused, Tony was gone. He was on his own here, without even his dreams and hallucinations to back him up. He tried to formulate
a plan, tried to make his brain turn back into a brain again, rather than the soggy basket of wet laundry it had become.

She would come close, and he would use every bit of strength he had left in his jellolike muscles, and he would… do something.

No, no! He had to come up with something specific. He had to figure out the details. He was always so good with details, good with alternate plans. He was good at making plans for every variable, every difference in every detail.

But for now, he’d have to skip the little details. For now, he’d focus on an overall plan. His mind was too foggy for anything but the big picture. It was hard enough to concentrate on how exactly to get from where he was sitting right now to being the one in control of the gun.

Gun.

There was something about a gun that he should remember….

He had a gun. He could… shoot her with the gun that was still inside his boot! Yeah. That was a great idea.

Except his hands were cuffed behind his back and he couldn’t reach his gun.

Miller fought a wave of dizzying fatigue by calling to mind Mariah’s beautiful face, her gorgeous smile. He focused on the dimples that appeared in her cheeks, the flash of laughter that danced in her eyes. That was gone, all gone, forever gone. Serena had stolen Mariah from him. Serena had taken all his hopes and his dreams when she’d so casually snuffed out Mariah’s life.

He used the pain to bring himself back from the
edge, to push back the fog that threatened to overpower him.

Think. He had to
think
.

He had to figure out what he had to work with, his strengths as they were—not an easy task since he was finding it harder and harder to remember his name.

His legs.

His legs were free. They weren’t tied.

He could kick the dining table over on top of her. Crush her. Or, like she herself had suggested, he could put her in a leghold and snap her neck.

He had the chair. He could throw himself forward, chair and all, and use the chair he was cuffed to as a weapon.

And the morphine. He could take that which weakened him the most and use it to his advantage. He could break his legs from the force of the blow he intended to deliver, and he wouldn’t feel any pain.

Miller forced his eyes open. He could see Serena sitting way down at the other end of the table, eating her elegant dinner. She was halfway through the main course, and he knew that when the main course was through, she would take out her razor-sharp little knife.

And then she would come closer.

If he was lucky, he
would
break her neck. He’d take her out for good.

And if he was really lucky, she’d take him out with her and he wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow and know that Mariah was dead.

* * *

T
HE HOUSE WAS DARK
and quiet.

Mariah stood in the pouring rain, straining to listen for something,
anything
at all.

All she heard was the rain.

She’d rushed over here as fast as she could ride on her bike, but now that she was here, she wasn’t quite sure what to do.

Ring the bell? Knock on the door as she pushed it open, calling, “Yoo-hoo, Serena, did you just try to blow me into a million little bits by planting a bomb in the basement of my house, and are you about to murder your husband and my lover—who, in fact, seems to be some kind of federal agent?”

Stealthily, she tested the doorknob. The door was unlocked. She turned the knob slowly and just as slowly pushed the door open.

It was as dark inside as it was out.

Darker.

Mariah silently closed the door behind her and stood for a moment, letting her ears adjust to the now muted sound of the rain on the roof, hoping her eyes would adjust to the eerie, smothering darkness, as well.

She became aware of a new sound—the sound of water dripping from her clothes and onto the Mexican-tiled floor. And as she took a step farther into the entryway, her sneakers squished. Moving as quietly as she could, she stepped out of them.

Her eyes
were
starting to adjust to the dark. She could see a dim light coming from somewhere upstairs. She looked around for a place to hide her sneakers, but gave up as she realized she might be able to hide them, but there was no way she could hide the puddle of water she’d brought inside with her. She might as well leave them by the door and pray she found Serena before Serena realized she had uninvited company.

Mariah heard a voice speaking sharply, echoing from
an upstairs room. It was Serena. She couldn’t make out what the woman was saying, but she sure as heck didn’t sound happy.

Mariah went up the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could, reaching into her back pocket and wriggling free Daniel’s deadly little gun.

Dear God, she had no idea
what
she was going to do. She pictured herself leaping through the doorway, gun raised and held in both hands, like one of the cops on
NYPD Blue
, shouting for Serena to freeze.

And then what? What was she going to do if Serena had her own gun? Was she going to shoot Serena?

Now
there
was an unlikely scenario. Mariah had never fired a gun before, let alone fired one at a living, breathing human being.

As she drew closer to the top of the stairs, she saw that there was candlelight coming from the dining room—the room where all her dreams had come crashing down around her just this morning. It was the same room where she had found Serena and her new husband—Jonathan Mills.

She crept toward the door, careful to stay out of the light, pressing herself against the wall, gun raised. She held her breath and closed her eyes briefly, waiting for the trembling in her knees to stop, hoping that she would hear John’s voice, praying that he was still alive.

The next move was hers. It was totally up to her. She could stand here for another two minutes, or she could get ready and—

“My gun is aimed at Jonathan’s head.” Serena’s voice was crisp and clear, echoing in the silence. “I know you’re out there, and if you don’t step into the light with your hands held high, I’m going to kill him right now.”

The next move wasn’t Mariah’s after all. Dear God, Serena must have heard her coming up the stairs.

“Do it now!” the older woman said sharply, “or I swear, I’ll kill him.”

Mariah stuffed the gun back into her back pocket and stepped into the light, hands held up over her head.

“You?” Serena laughed. Sure enough, she held a gun trained with steady confidence directly at John’s head. “Well, well, look who’s come to rescue you, John. It’s Mariah, back from the dead.”

“Run!” John shouted. “Mariah, run!”

Mariah couldn’t move. It was as if she’d stepped into some scene from a horrific nightmare, and she couldn’t move an inch.

John was sitting behind the long dining table, his hands behind his back. His left arm was soaked with blood. It looked as if it was all he could do to hold his head up. And Serena was standing across the room, perfectly dressed as usual in an elegant black sheath dress, with pearls and a gun as accessories.

It was unreal. Mariah didn’t understand. What the hell was going on? Why was the FBI after Serena? What had she done? Why would she want to kill John and drug Daniel? Why would she put a bomb in Mariah’s basement? It didn’t make any sense.

But Serena held the gun calmly, confidently, as if she was accustomed to it. Clearly, she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot—obviously she’d shot John once tonight already. She swung the gun toward Mariah.

“No!” Miller was drowning. The shock of seeing Mariah whole and alive had transformed rapidly from near euphoric joy to screaming fear. She was alive—but
she wouldn’t be for long if she didn’t get the hell out of here.

“Well, isn’t
this
different,” Serena said. “You
are
a fool, aren’t you? He married
me
, and yet here you are, rushing to his rescue, empty-handed. You know, he was only using you to get closer to me. Did you know that Jonathan Mills isn’t even his real name? God, Mariah, I’m sure absolutely nothing he’s told you is true.”

Mariah took one step and then another and another toward Miller. “John, are you all right?” She was soaking wet, shivering slightly as she knelt next to him, as she touched his blood-soaked sleeve. He could smell her perfume, and reality shifted. For one incredible moment, he was back in her bed, making love to her and… He shook his head, trying to bring his focus back to here and now.

“Gun in my boot,” he whispered, praying that she would understand, knowing that he had to act, and act fast. As much as Serena was loath to kill him with a gun, she’d have no problem using a bullet to kill Mariah.

“Of course, Mariah was playing her own game,” Serena continued. “Mariah Robinson isn’t her real name either. I wonder, John. Did you consider her a suspect because of that?”

Miller looked directly into Mariah’s eyes. “Gun,” he started to whisper again.

She cut him off. “I know. I’m really mad at you,” she added, reaching behind him to touch his hand. Except wait—those weren’t her fingers that touched him. It was something cold and…

It was amazing, but somehow she’d managed to get the gun out of his boot without his noticing. Without
Serena noticing. Miller’s hands were numb, but he took the safety off, preparing the gun to fire.

Still, this gun wasn’t going to do him a whole hell of a lot of good as long as he was holding it behind his back. He was a good shot—at least he was when he wasn’t pumped full of narcotics—but trick shooting had never been his forte.

“Take it back,” he told Mariah.

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

Serena’s gun was still pointed loosely at Mariah, yet now she brought her hand up higher, taking better aim. “What are telling her?” she asked him sharply, then said to Mariah, “Move away from him.”