God, what was wrong with him? He didn't usually have this kind of reaction to the female suspects in a case. Apparently, it had been too long since his last sexual encounter. Way too long. Back even before Daniel came on as his partner. Miller couldn't even remember when it was, or even whom he'd been with.
Maybe that was why he wasn't sleeping. Maybe he would finally be able to sleep if a woman was in bed with him. Maybe all he needed was a little sexual relief.
Except the reason he hadn't had sex since forever was because none of the women he'd met during that time had managed to turn him on.
Yet here he was, having a definite physical reaction from surveillance photos of a murderess's best friend, who also happened to be living under an alias. What the hell was wrong with him?
And wasn't it just his luck that it wasn't going to be the goddess, but the murderess who was probably going to end up in his bed? And that sure as hell wasn't going to make him sleep any better.
Miller picked up the fifth photo. It was a close-up of Mariah Robinson's face.
She was pretty in a sweet, girl-next-door kind of way. Her face was heart-shaped, with broad cheekbones and a strong, almost pointed chin. Her mouth was generous and wide. Her smile revealed straight white teeth and made dimples appear in her cheeks. Her eyes were light colored – Miller couldn't tell from the black-and-white photo if they were blue or light brown. But they sparkled with some secret amusement, as if she were laughing at him.
Miller felt a swirl of anticipation deep in his gut. It was sexual energy combined with something else, something deeper and far more complicated. Something that made his pulse quicken. Something he couldn't identify.
Captain Blake smoothed one hand along the top of his nearly bald head as he shuffled through his copy of the file. "How long do you think it'll take till we can get a cover in place for an agent to portray potential husband material?" he asked.
"A week," Taylor answered. "Two at the most. In order to match the profiles of the previous victims, we'd need to find an agent who could pose either as a much older man or a man in poor health. We'd need to provide fictional background, complete with financial records and heavily padded bank accounts. You can bet Serena will run a credit check on anyone she's considering targeting. We'll need to prep the agent, set up protection and a surveillance team—"
Miller sat forward. "I could be ready to go down to Garden Isle tomorrow."
Taylor stared at him, unable to hide his expression of surprise. "You? You're not old enough."
"Husband number three was only twenty-nine years old," Daniel pointed out mildly. "And husband six was in his mid-thirties."
"Both were in extremely poor health, one in a wheelchair."
Miller took two copies of his file from his briefcase, handed one to Blake and tossed the other onto the table in front of Steven Taylor. "Meet Jonathan Mills," he said. "I'm thirty-nine years old. Recently in remission after a long struggle with Hodgkin's disease – that's a kind of cancer of the lymph system."
Taylor opened the file and quickly skimmed Miller's investigation summary. His eyes widened. "You actually intend to marry this woman...?"
"If I don't, she won't try to kill me."
"You're going to be her husband," Taylor said. "You're actually planning to sleep with her...?"
Even Daniel had a hint of curiosity in his dark brown eyes as he waited for Miller's answer.
Pat Blake shook his head. "Should I not be hearing this?"
"Don't worry, Captain, the marriage will be legal. She'll be my wife," Miller said. "And I'll make a point to practice safe sex." He smiled. "Of course, in her case, that means no knives in bed." He stood up, scooping the photos and files off the table, and looked at Blake. "Am I good to go?"
The older man nodded. "Let's do it."
Daniel and Steven Taylor got to their feet, and Miller turned to leave the room.
"One moment, if you don't mind, John," Blake said. He waited until the younger agents had left his office, then stood up and closed the door behind them. "You look like crap."
Miller knew Blake hadn't missed the fact that his hands were shaking. "Too much coffee," he said. "I'm fine, but thanks for your concern."
Blake nodded, clearly not buying it for one second. "I know we haven't exactly been friends down through the years, John. I've always just figured I'll stay out of your way, let you do what you do best, and you'll continue to give me the highest success record in the Bureau. But if you've got some kind of problem, maybe there's something I can do to help."
Miller met his superior's eyes steadily. "I just want to get to work."
"Do you have anyone at all you can talk to, Miller?"
"Will that be all, sir?"
Blake sighed. "I'm not supposed to give you a warning, but after this one's over, I'm bringing you in for a full psychological evaluation. So go on, get out of here. And try to spend a least some of your time on that resort island with your eyes closed and your head on a pillow."
Miller had to protest. "Over the past eighteen months my efficiency has increased—"
"Yeah, because you work twenty-two hours each day." Blake sighed again. "Go to Georgia, John. Catch this killer. Get the job done and make the world safe again for rich, dirty old men. But be ready to be stuck under a shrink's microscope when you get back."
Blake turned toward his desk, and Miller knew the conversation was over. He let himself out, aware that his pulse was racing, the sound of blood rushing through his veins roaring in his ears. Psych evaluation. Christ, he didn't stand a chance. Somehow, over the next few weeks, he was going to have to teach himself to sleep again – or face the new nightmare of a psychological evaluation.
God, he needed another cup of coffee.
He was halfway down the hall that led to the lounge when he heard voices coming from one of the tiny windowless cubicles assigned to the less experienced agents. He heard what's-his-name's voice. Taylor. Steven Taylor's voice.
"He's a time bomb, about to explode. You know that as well as I do. You wouldn't believe the rumors that are circulating about John Miller. Talk is that he's on the verge of some kind of breakdown."
"Do you always listen to rumors?" It was Daniel, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Not usually, no. But the man looks terrible—"
Daniel's voice was gentle now. "He's a living legend, Steve. He's the best there is. He looks terrible because he's got insomnia. It gets worse when he's between investigations. But believe me, he'll be fine. Don't request a transfer – you'll be able to learn a lot from this guy. Trust me on this one."
"Humph." Taylor didn't sound convinced. "Did you see the way his hands shook? No way do I want to be under the command of some flaky insomniac James Bond has-been who's on the edge. No, I'm outta here. Haven't you heard that his partners have a way of dying on him?"
Miller stepped into the room. "If you've got a problem with me, Taylor," he said coldly, "come and tell me to my face."
A flush of embarrassment darkened Taylor's cheeks as he gazed at him in surprise. His eyes lost their focus for a second or two, and Miller knew that he was replaying his words in his mind, recalling all the harsh things he'd said that Miller had no doubt overheard.
Time bomb. Flaky insomniac. James Bond has-been. "Excuse me, sir," Taylor said, making a quick exit out of the room.
That was one agent he was never going to see again. Miller turned to Daniel Tonaka. "Mind stepping into my office with me?"
Daniel didn't look perturbed, but then again, Daniel never did.
Miller went out into the corridor, leading the way back to his office. He went inside, then turned and waited for Daniel to join him.
"What's up?" Daniel asked evenly.
Miller closed the door and immediately lit into him. "If I hear you discussing my personal life with another agent ever again, you will be transferred off my team so fast, you won't know what hit you."
He'd truly caught Daniel off guard, an
d a myriad of emotions flashed across the young man's face. But he quickly recovered. "I was unaware that you believed your inability to sleep was a secret around here."
"I know damn well that it's no secret," Miller said coolly. "But it's not your business to discuss."
Daniel nodded and even managed to smile. "Okay. I can respect that, John. And I apologize for offending you."
Miller opened his office door. "Just be ready to leave first thing in the morning."
"I will." Daniel paused and smiled again before he went out the door. "I'm glad we had this little time to talk and straighten things out."
Miller didn't let himself smile until he'd closed his office door behind Daniel. I'm glad we had this little time to talk... Hell, other men would've wet themselves. Taylor sure as hell would've – it was just as well he wasn't going to be hanging around, getting in the way.
Miller tossed his briefcase onto a chair and the photos Taylor had taken onto his desk. The blurred picture of Serena Westford had been on top, but it slid off the pile, and Mariah Robinson's laughing eyes peeked out at him.
Tomorrow he was going to be in Garden Isle, Georgia, and he was "accidentally" going to bump into Mariah Robinson. For the first time in weeks, he felt wide-awake with the buzz of anticipation.
Chapter 2
There was a dog on the beach, frolicking in the surf in the predawn light.
There was a dog – and a man.
It wasn't such a rare occurrence for a dog and its master to be on the beach outside of Mariah's cottage. The stretch of sand was nearly seven miles long, starting down by the resort, and ending at the lighthouse on the northern-most tip of the island. Ambitious runners and power walkers often provided a steady stream of traffic going in both directions.
No, finding a dog and a man on the beach wasn't odd at all, except for the fact that it wasn't yet even five o'clock in the morning.
Mariah had risen early, hoping to get some photos of the deserted beach at sunrise.
There was still time – she could ask them to move away, off farther down the beach. But the man was sitting in the sand, his back slumped in a posture of exhaustion, his head in his hands. And the dog was having one hell of a good time.
Mariah moved closer. The wind was coming in off the water, and neither dog nor man was aware of her presence. She settled herself on her stomach in the sand and propped her camera up on her elbows as she focused her lens on the dog.
It was a mutt and probably female. Mariah could see traces of collie in the animal, along with maybe a little spaniel and something odd – maybe dachshund. Her coat was long and shaggy – and right now almost entirely soaked. She had short legs and a barrel-shaped body, a long, pointed nose and two ears that flapped ungracefully around her head. She may not have been eligible to win any beauty contests, but Mariah found herself smiling at her expression of delight as she bounded in and out of the waves. She could swear the dog was full-out grinning.
Her master, on the other hand, was not.
He stood up slowly, painfully, as if every movement hurt. He moved as if he were a hundred years old, but he wasn't an old man. His crew-cut hair was dark without even a trace of gray, and the lines from the glimpse she saw of his face seemed more from pain than age.
As he straightened to his full height, Mariah saw that he was tall – taller even than she was by at least a few inches. He wore sweatpants and a windbreaker that seemed to fit him loosely, as if he'd recently lost weight or been ill.
Together, man and dog made a great picture, and Mariah snapped shot after shot.
The dog bounded happily up to the man.
"Hey, Princess. Hey, girl." His voice was carried on the wind directly to Mariah. "Time to go back."
His voice was low and resonant, rich and full.
Dog and master were silhouetted against the red-orange sky, making a striking picture. Mariah moved her camera up to snap another photo, and the dog turned toward her, ears up and alert. She launched herself in Mariah's direction, and the man turned, too.
"Stop," he commanded. He spoke softly, just one single word, but the dog pulled up. She backed off slightly, her entire backside wagging as she grinned at Mariah.
Mariah looked from the dog to the man.
The man was far better-looking – or at least he would be if he smiled.
His hair was dark and severely cut close to his scalp, almost as if it was growing in after he'd shaved his head. Despite the austerity of his crew cut, he was a strikingly handsome man. His features looked almost chiseled, the bone structure of his face more elegant than rugged. His eyebrows were thick and dark, and right now forming a rather intimidating scowl over eyes that she guessed were brown. His chin quite possibly was perfect, his lips generously full, but his nose was large and slightly crooked.
On closer scrutiny, Mariah realized that it was possible some people might not have found this man worthy of a second glance. Actually, he wasn't conventionally handsome – he'd certainly never grace the cover of a men's fashion magazine. But there was something about his looks that she found incredibly appealing.
Or maybe it wasn't his looks at all, Mariah thought with a smile, remembering how the young woman in the natural food store on the mainland had spoken of cosmic reverberations and auras. Maybe as far as auras went, his was a solid ten.
As he stepped closer, she saw in the pale morning light that his face was lined with weariness and gray with fatigue. Still, despite that and his too-short hair, she found him to be remarkably attractive.
"Hi," Mariah said, sitting up and brushing the sand off the front of her T-shirt. His eyes followed the movement of her hand, and she became self-consciously aware of the fact that she'd only thrown a pair of shorts on underneath the T-shirt she'd worn to bed. She wasn't wearing a bra and she didn't have the body type that allowed for such wardrobe omissions. The only times she didn't bother to put on a bra were mornings like this, when she was certain she would be alone.
But she'd been wrong. Right now, she most definitely was not alone.
"I'm sorry," she said, trying to fold her arms across her chest in a casual manner. "I didn't mean to intrude."
Dear God, would you listen to her? She was apologizing for being on her own stretch of beach.
She didn't have to apologize for that. And she certainly shouldn't bother to apologize for her missing bra. Despite the man's earlier scowl, it was clear from the way that his gaze kept straying in the direction of her breasts that he, for one, was not in the least put out by her lack of underwear.
He pulled his gaze away from her long enough to glance up at the cottage. "Is this your place?"
Mariah nodded. "Yeah," she said. "I'm renting it for the season."
"Nice," he said, but his eyes were back on her, sweeping along the lengths of her bare legs, skimming again across her body and face. "I hope we didn't disturb you. The dog can get loud – she's still young."
"No, I woke up to catch the sunrise on film."
He glanced up at the sky. The sun was already above the horizon and climbing fast. "I'm sorry," he said. "We were in your way."
"It's all right."
He held out one hand, offering to help her up.
Taking his hand meant she'd have to unfold her arms. But there was no way she'd be able to get to her feet with her arms folded anyway.
What the heck, Mariah thought, reaching up to clasp his hand. With a face like his, this man had no doubt seen a vast array of female bodies, and probably wearing far less than a worn-out T-shirt. She was nothing new, no big deal.
He, on the other hand, was a very, very big deal. He pulled her up from the sand, and she found herself standing much too close to him. But when she moved to back away, he steadied her with his other hand, his fingers warm against her elbow.
He was tall, with shoulders that went on forever and a broad chest that tapered down to a narrow waist and slim hips and... Embarrassed, Mariah quickly brought her eyes back to his face.
&nbs
p; His eyes were blue. They were electric, brilliant, neon blue. And they sparked with the heat of attraction. Dear God, he found her attractive, too.
"Is it just you?" the man asked, and Mariah gazed up at him stupidly, wondering what he was talking about.
"Renting the house," he added, and she understood.
"Yes," she said, gently pulling free and putting some distance between them. "I'm here by myself."
He nodded. God, whoever he was, he was so serious. She'd yet to see him smile.
"How about you?" she asked. "Are you vacationing with your family?"
He shook his head. "No, I'm here alone, too." He motioned vaguely down the beach. "I'm staying at the resort, at least temporarily. I was thinking about renting one of the houses up on this part of the beach. I'm getting tired of room service – I'd like to have my own kitchen."
"It's a trade-off," Mariah told him. "Renting a house is more private, but you lose the benefits of having a hotel maid. And if you're not careful about cleaning up after yourself in the kitchen... Well, the variety of insect life you can attract is immense. You can't leave anything out. Not even a plate with crumbs on it. You have to keep all the food in the refrigerator – or in plastic containers. But as long as you don't mind doing that, it's great."
He nodded. "Maybe I'll stick with room service for a while longer."
Princess the dog inched forward and pressed her cold nose against the back of Mariah's knee. "Yikes!" Mariah exclaimed.
"Princess, back," the man said sharply.
"She was just playing," Mariah protested as the dog immediately obeyed. "It's okay – she just startled me. I don't mind. She's...an unusual mix."
There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "You're unusually tactful. But it's okay. She's not a mix of anything. She's a pure mutt, and she knows it. There's no ego involved – for either one of us."
"She does what you say," Mariah said. Princess gazed up at her, tongue lolling from her mouth, eyes sharp, ears alert, tail thumping slightly even though she was sitting down. She seemed to understand every word of the conversation. "That's worth more than a pedigree."
LOVE WITH THE PROPER STRANGER Page 3