Love with the Proper Stranger (10 page)

“I don’t want to rush things,” he said, wishing he could tell her the truth. But what
was
the truth? That he couldn’t make love to her because he was intending to woo and marry a woman she considered one of her closest friends?

He had to stop thinking like John Miller and start thinking like Jonathan Mills. He had to
become
Jonathan Mills, and his reality—and the truth—would change, too. But he’d never had so much trouble taking on a different persona before.

“I’m not ready to do more than just be friends with you, Mariah. I just got out of the hospital, my latest test results aren’t even in and…” He broke off, staring out the window at the dawn breaking on the horizon, Jonathan Mills all but forgotten. “It’s morning.”

As Mariah watched, John stood up, transfixed by the smear of color in the eastern sky.

“I slept until morning,” he said, turning to look at her. He smiled—a slight lifting of one side of his mouth, but a smile just the same. “Whoa. How’d
that
happen?”

She smiled back at him. “I guess you’re going to have to admit that my silly relaxation exercise worked.”

He shook his head in wonder, just gazing at her. She
could still see heat in his eyes and she knew he could see the same in hers.

He looked impossibly good with his shirt off and the top button of his jeans still unfastened. He was maybe just a little bit too skinny, but it was clear that before his illness he’d been in exceptionally good shape.

She could guess why he didn’t want to become involved with her. He was just out of the hospital, he’d said. He didn’t even know if he was going to live or die. And if he thought he was going to die…

Another man might have more of a live-for-today attitude. But John refused to take advantage of her. He was trying to keep her from being hurt, to keep her from becoming too involved in what could quite possibly be a dead-end relationship in a very literal sense.

But it was too late. She already was involved.

It was crazy—she should be pushing to keep her distance, not wanting to get closer to him. She didn’t need to fall for some guy who was going to go and die. She should find his shirt for him, and help him out the door.

But he found his shirt on his own, on the floor next to the couch. He slipped it on. “I better go.”

He didn’t want to leave. She could see it in his eyes. And when he leaned over to kiss her goodbye—not just once, but twice, then three times, each kiss longer than the last—she thought he just might change his mind.

But he didn’t. He finally pulled away, backing toward the door.

“I’d love it if you came over for dinner again tonight,” she told him, knowing that she was risking everything—everything—with her invitation.

Something shifted in his eyes. “I’m not sure I can.”

Mariah was picking up all kinds of mixed signals from him. First those lingering goodbye kisses, and now this evasiveness. It didn’t make sense. Or maybe it made perfect sense. Mariah wasn’t sure which—she’d never been this intimate with someone dealing with a catastrophic illness before.

“Call me,” Mariah told him, adding softly, “if you want.”

He looked back at her one more time before going out the door. “I want. I’m just not sure I should.”

* * *

S
ERENA WENT THROUGH
the sliding glass doors, past the dining table and directly into the kitchen, raising her voice so that Mariah could hear from her vantage point on the deck. “Thank God you’re home. I’m so thirsty, I was sure I was going to die if I had to wait until I got all the way to my place.”

“Your place is not
that
much farther up the road.” Mariah glanced up from the piles of black-and-white photographs she was sorting as Serena sat down across from her at the table on the deck, a tall glass of iced tea in hand.

“Three miles,” Serena told her after taking a long sip. “I couldn’t have made it even one-
tenth
of a mile. Bless you for keeping this in the icebox, already chilled. I was parched.” She leaned forward to pull one of the pictures out from the others, pointing with one long, perfectly manicured fingernail. “Is that me?”

Mariah looked closely. Ever since her initial meeting with Serena, she had tried to be careful not to offend her friend by taking her picture. Or rather, she had tried not to offend Serena by letting her
know
her picture was being taken. Mariah had actually managed to get
several excellent photographs of the beautiful Englishwoman—taken, no less, with one of those cheap little disposable cameras. Serena was incredibly photogenic, and in color, even on inexpensive film, her inner vibrance was emphasized. Mariah was careful to keep those pictures hidden.

But yes, that was definitely Serena, caught in motion at the edge of a particularly nice shot of the resort beach, moments before a storm struck. “You must’ve walked into the shot,” Mariah said.

Serena picked it up, looking at it more closely. “I’m a big blur—except for my face.” She lifted her gaze to Mariah. “Do you have any copies of this?”

Mariah sifted through the pile that photo had been in. “No, I don’t think so.”

“How about the negative? You still have that, right?”

Mariah sighed. “I don’t know. It might be down in the darkroom, but it might’ve been in the batch I just brought over to B&W Photo Lab for safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping?” Serena’s voice rose an octave in disbelief. “Forgive me for being insensitive, but, Mariah sweetheart, no one’s going to want to steal your negatives. You know I love you madly, dearest, but it’s not as if you’re Ansel Adams.”

Mariah laughed. “I bring them to B&W for storage. I don’t have air-conditioning here, and the humidity and salt air are hell on film.”

Serena slipped the photo in question into her purse. “You realize, of course, that I’m going to have to kill you now for stealing my soul,” she said with a smile.

“Hey, you were the one who stuck your soul into my shot,” Mariah protested. “Besides, I’ll get the negative
next time I’m over at B&W. You can have it, and your soul will be as good as new.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise. Although it occurs to me that you might want to get yourself a more American approach to having your picture taken. You’re not living in Africa anymore.”

“Thank God.” Serena took another sip of her drink. “So. How are you?”

“Fine.” Mariah glanced suspiciously at the other woman. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“Don’t I look fine?”

Serena rested her chin in the palm of her hand, studying Mariah with great scrutiny. “Actually, you don’t look half as fine as I would have thought.”

Mariah just waited.

“You’re not going to tell me a thing, are you?” Serena asked. “You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you? You’re going to make me pull every little last juicy detail out of you.”

Mariah went back to work. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the man.”

“What man?”

“The one I saw leaving your house at five-thirty this morning. Tall, dark and probably handsome—although I’m not certain. I was too far away to see details.”

Mariah was floored. “What on earth were
you
doing up at five-thirty in the morning?”

“I get up that early every morning and go over to use the resort health club,” Serena told her.

“You’re kidding. Five-thirty?
Every
morning?”

“Just about. This morning the tide was low, so I rode my bike along the beach. And as I went past your place, I distinctly saw a man emerging from your deck door. I’m assuming he wasn’t the refrigerator repairman.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Mariah didn’t look up from her photos.

“Well…?”

“Well what?”

“This is the place in the conversation where you tell me who he is, where you met him, and any other fascinating facts such as whether he was any good in bed, and so on and so forth?”

Mariah felt herself blush. “Serena, we’re just friends.”

“A friend who happens to stay until dawn? How modern of you, Mariah.”

“He came over for dinner and fell asleep on my couch. He’s been ill recently.” Mariah hesitated, wanting to tell Serena about Jonathan Mills, but not wanting to tell too much. “His name is John, and he’s very nice. He’s staying over at the resort.”

“So he’s rich,” Serena surmised. “Medium rich or filthy rich?”

“I don’t know—who cares?”

“
I
care. Take a guess.”

Mariah sighed in exasperation. “Filthy rich, I think. He inherited a company that makes car alarms.”

“You said he’s been ill? Nothing serious, I hope.”

Mariah sighed again. “Actually, it
is
serious. He’s got cancer. He’s just had a round of chemotherapy. I think the prognosis is good, but there’s never any guarantees with something like this.”

“What did you say his name was?”

“Jonathan Mills.”

“It’s probably smart to keep your distance. If you’re not careful, you could end up a widow. Of course, in his case, that means you’d inherit his car alarm fortune, so it
could
be worse—”

“
Serena!
” Mariah stared at her friend. “Don’t even
think
that. He’s
not
going to die.”

The blonde was unperturbed. “You just told me that he might.” She stood up. “Look, I’ve got to run. Thanks for the tea. See you later tonight.”

Mariah frowned. “Later… tonight?”

“My party. You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? Lord, Mariah, you’re hopeless without your date book.”

“No, I’m
relaxed
without my date book. Oh, that reminds me—can I borrow your car this afternoon? Just for an hour?”

Serena looked at her watch. “I’m getting my hair done at half past two. If you want to drive me to the salon, you can use the car for about an hour then.”

“Perfect. Except I’m not sure I can make it to the party—I’m tentatively scheduled to have dinner again with John.” Except she wasn’t. Not really. She’d asked, but he’d run away.

“Bring him. Call him, invite him to my party, and bring him along with you. I want to meet this
friend
of yours. No excuses,” Serena said sternly as she disappeared down the deck steps.

Mariah gazed after her. Call him. Invite him to the party. Who knows? Maybe he’d actually agree to go. H
E WAS THE ONE
. T
HE
gray-faced man from the resort.

She’d recognized him right away.

The fact that he’d spent the night with that silly cow only served to make him even more perfect.

Tonight she would begin to cast her spell.

Tonight she would allow herself to start thinking about the dinner she would serve him.

Oh, it was still weeks away—maybe even months. But it was coming. She could taste it.

And tomorrow morning, she would go shopping for the perfect knife.

* * *

T
HE MESSAGE LIGHT ON HIS
telephone was blinking when Miller returned to his suite of rooms after lunch.

Daniel had the portable surveillance equipment set up in the living room. The system was up and running when Miller came in. Daniel was wearing headphones, listening intently, using his laptop computer to control the volume of the different microphones they’d distributed throughout Serena Westford’s house. The DAT recorder was running—making a permanent record of every word spoken in the huge beach house.

“Lots of activity,” Daniel reported, his eyes never leaving his computer screen. “Some kind of party is happening over at the spider’s web tonight.”

“I know.” Miller picked up the phone and dialed the resort desk. “Jonathan Mills,” he said. “Any messages?”

“A Mariah Robinson asked to leave voice mail. Shall I connect you to that now, sir?” the desk clerk asked.

“Yes. Please.”

There was a whirr and a click, and then Mariah’s voice came on the line.

“John. Hi. It’s me, Mariah. Robinson. From, um, last night? God, I sound totally lame. Of course you know
who I am. I just… I wanted to invite you to a party that a friend is having tonight—”

“Jackpot,” Miller said.

Daniel glanced in his direction. “Party invitation?”

Miller nodded, holding up his hand. Mariah’s message wasn’t over yet.

“… going to start at around nine,” her voice said, “and I was thinking that maybe we could have dinner together first—if you’re free. If you want to.” He heard her draw in a deep breath. “I’d really like to see you again. I guess that’s kind of obvious, considering everything that happened this morning.” She hesitated. “So, call me, all right?” She left her phone number, then the message ended.

Miller really wanted to see her again, too.
Really
wanted to see her again.

Daniel glanced at him one more time, and Miller realized he was standing there, staring at nothing, listening to nothing. He quickly hung up the phone.

“Everything all right?” Daniel asked.

“Yeah.” He was well aware that Daniel had said not one word about the fact that Miller hadn’t come back to the hotel last night until after dawn. The kid hadn’t even lifted an eyebrow.

But now Daniel cleared his throat. “John, I don’t mean to pry, but—”

“Then don’t,” Miller said shortly. “Not that it’s any of your business, but nothing happened last night.” But even as he said the words, Miller knew they were a lie. Something
had
happened last night. Mariah Robinson had touched him, and for nearly eight hours, his demons had been kept at bay.

Something very big had happened last night.

For the first time since forever, John Miller had slept.

* * *

M
ARIAH WAS DRESSING UP.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn anything besides shorts and a T-shirt or a bathing suit. She’d gone to Serena’s other parties in casual clothes. But tonight, she’d pulled her full collection of dresses—all four of ’em—out of the back of her closet. Three of them were pretty standard Sunday-best, goin’-to-meeting-type affairs, with tiny, demure flowers and conservative necklines.

The fourth was black. It was a short-sleeved sheath cut fashionably above the knee, with a sweetheart neckline that would draw one’s eyes—preferably Jonathan Mills’s eyes—to her plentiful assets. Her full breasts were, depending on her mood, one of her best features or one of her worst. Tonight, she was going to think positively. Tonight they were an asset.