Love with the Proper Stranger (8 page)

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.

* * *

“C
AR ALARMS
,” J
OHN 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.