LOVE WITH THE PROPER STRANGER

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "She was well trained," he told her. "I...inherited her from a friend a few years ago."

  He glanced out over the ocean as if trying to hide the sudden sadness in his eyes. Or maybe she only imagined she saw such an emotion there – when he looked back at her, it was gone.

  He held out his hand. "I'm Jonathan Mills."

  His fingers were warm and large and made her own hand seem slender and practically petite. "I'm..." She hesitated for a moment, uncertain of which name to give him. "...Mariah Robinson," she decided. It wasn't as if she were telling a lie. It had become true. Over the past two months, she'd acted less and less like Marie Carver and more and more like Mariah Robinson. At least more like the Mariah Robinson she'd heard about from her grandmother. The Mariah her own childhood nickname had come from.

  He was still holding her hand, but his gaze had dropped to her breasts again.

  "Are you here for the week?" she asked. He looked up, and for half a second, Mariah thought she saw a flash of embarrassment in his eyes – embarrassment that he'd been caught staring. But it, too, was quickly gone. This man was a master at hiding his feelings.

  "I'm here until my hair grows back in," he told her.

  Mariah gently pulled her fingers free from his grip. "Well, that's one way to handle a bad hair day."

  Jonathan Mills almost smiled. Almost, but not quite. He ran one hand across his short hair. "Actually, today's a rather good hair day, if you want to know the truth."

  God, had she insulted him? "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that your hair looks bad...or anything..." Her voice trailed off.

  He finally smiled. "It's okay. I know exactly what it looks like, and it looks much better than it did a few days ago."

  He had a nice smile. It was only a small smile, barely playing about the corners of his elegantly shaped lips, but it was very nice just the same.

  He looked down at the camera she was holding, its strap still encircling her arm. "Are you a professional photographer?" he asked.

  Mariah shook her head. "No, no, I'm... Not." God, what was her problem? It had been two decades since she was a seventh grader, so why was she suddenly acting like one? "It's a hobby."

  Was it her imagination, or had Jonathan Mills just gone another shade paler?

  "I've got a camera, too," he said, "though I've got to confess I'm not sure I can get it to work. I bought it a few years ago and don't use it much. Would you mind if I brought it over some time? Maybe you could show me how it works."

  Would she mind? "Of course not."

  He looked down the beach in the direction of the resort. "I think I better go," he said.

  He was more pale. And perspiration was beading on his upper lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. The morning sun was hot, but it wasn't that hot.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  He pressed his temples with both hands. "I'm not sure. I'm feeling a little...faint."

  He was a stranger. Mariah knew she shouldn't invite him into her house. But it couldn't hurt to bring him up so he could sit for a minute in the shade on her deck, could it?

  "Why don't you come up to the house and sit in the shade?" she suggested. "I've got some iced tea in the fridge."

  Jonathan nodded. "Thanks."

  His entire face was slick with sweat as he follow Mariah up toward the cottage.

  Even Princess was subdued, trailing after them quietly.

  Mariah walked backward, watching him worriedly. "You're not, like, having a heart attack on me, are you?"

  Whatever was happening, he was hurting. His lips twisted in a smile-like grimace. "My heart's fine."

  Mariah could see that it took him some effort to speak, so she didn't ask any other questions. He staggered slightly, and she quickly moved to help him, unthinkingly supporting him by putting her arm around his back and his arm across her shoulders.

  He was warm and he was solid and he was pressed against her side from her underarm all the way to her thighs. She may have reached for him unthinkingly, but now that she was in this rather intimate position, she could do nothing but think.

  When was the last time she'd walked arm in arm with a man like this?

  Never.

  The thought flashed crazily through her mind as she misinterpreted her own silent question. She'd walked arm in arm with plenty of men – although not recently – but she'd never walked arm in arm with a man like this.

  Jonathan Mills was different from all of the men she'd ever known. Including Trevor. Maybe especially Trevor.

  "I'm really sorry about this," he murmured as they reached the stairs that led to her deck.

  "Can you make it up here?" Mariah asked.

  But he'd already started to lower himself down so that he was sitting on the third step. He shook his head. "Can you do me a favor?"

  "I can try."

  "Call my assistant at the resort. His name's Daniel Tonaka. Room 756. Will you ask him to come and please pick me up?"

  "Of course."

  Mariah took the steps up two at a time, leaving Princess sitting and worriedly watching her master.

  It didn't take long to make the phone call. She woke Daniel Tonaka up, but he snapped instantly awake. She gave him directions, and he told her he was on his way. Mariah had to wonder. Did this happen often?

  She poured a plastic tumbler of iced tea as she spoke on the phone, then carried it back to the deck. "It shouldn't take him much more than ten minutes to get over here from the resort..."

  Jonathan Mills was no longer sitting on the stairs. He wasn't on the deck, and she would have seen him if he'd come into the house...

  Down in the sandy yard, Princess barked sharply. Mariah went halfway down the stairs and then she saw Jonathan.

  He was crumpled in the sand, out cold.

  At first she thought he was dead, he was lying there so completely motionless. She set the glass of iced tea down on the stairs but knocked it over in her haste to get down to him as quickly as possible.

  She found the pulse in his neck beating slowly and steadily and she breathed a sigh of relief. His skin was warm and the stubble from his chin felt rough against her fingers. When was the last time she'd touched a man's face? Surely not an entire five years, back before Trevor finally left? Still, she honestly couldn't remember.

  "John," she said softly, trying to rouse him but not wanting to shout in his ear.

  He groaned and stirred, but didn't open his eyes.

  Mariah could feel the early morning sun already beating down on her head and her back. "John," she said again, louder this time, touching his shoulder. "Come on, wake up. We've got to get you out of the sun."

  He was a large man, but Mariah was no lightweight herself, and she was able to hoist him up by taking hold under both arms. As she dragged him toward the shade, he roused slightly, trying to help her. He opened his eyes, but quickly shut them, wincing against the brightness of the sun.

  "God, what happened?"

  "I think you fainted," she told him.

  There was a bit of shade at the side of the house, and he sank to the ground.

  "Can you sit up?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "Still dizzy."

  He lay on his back, right there on the sandy ground. His eyes were closed, and he had one arm thrown across them as if for added protection from the brightness. There were bits of gravel and sand stuck to the side of his face, and Mariah gently brushed them off.

  "John, I'm going to go get some cold towels," she told him. "Don't try to stand up, all right?"

  "Yeah," he managed to say.

  Mariah dashed back up the stairs and into the house. She grabbed two hand towels from the linen closet, stopping only to dampen one with cool water in the kitchen sink.

  Jonathan hadn't moved when she reached him, but he did open his eyes again at the sound of her footsteps. "I'm really sorry about this," he said. His eyes were so blue.

  Mariah sat down next to him, lifting him slightly so that his head was of
f the hardness of the ground and resting instead in her lap. She pressed the cool towel against his forehead and he closed his eyes. "I really hope whatever this is, it's not contagious."

  Another flash of blue as he looked up at her. "It's not. I'm ... not contagious. I promise. I haven't been sleeping that well and... I'm really sorry about this," he said again.

  Someday their children would marvel at the story of the way they'd met....

  Where had that thought come from? It had simply popped into Mariah's mind. Their children? What was that about? Still, she had to admit, this made one heck of a good story. They meet on the beach, and he turns green and passes out. It certainly was different, at any rate.

  "I don't know what happened," he admitted. "I was sitting on the steps, and I was positive I was going to get sick to my stomach, so I stood up and..." He laughed, but it was painful-sounding, embarrassed. "I don't think I've ever fainted before."

  He seemed to want to sit up, so Mariah helped him. She could tell with just one touch that he was a mass of tension, a giant bundle of stress. She could feel it in his body, in his shoulders and neck, even see it in the tightened muscles in his face. Gently, she massaged his shoulders and back, wishing she had the power to teach this man in one minute all that she'd learned in the past two months, all the relaxation techniques and stress reduction exercises that had helped her.

  "God, that feels good," he breathed.

  "There's a licensed masseur at the resort," Mariah told him. "You should definitely schedule some time with him. You're really tense."

  He was starting to relax, the tightness in his shoulders melting down to a more tolerable level. He sighed and she saw that his eyes were closed as he sat slumped forward, forehead resting in his hands.

  "Don't fall asleep yet," Mariah leaned closer to whisper. "I think your friend just pulled up in front of the house."

  Her lips were millimeters away from the softness of his ear, and on a whim, she closed the final gap, brushing her lips gently against him in the softest of kisses.

  His eyes opened again, and he turned to stare at her, as if she'd taken a bite out of him instead.

  Mariah felt her cheeks heat with a blush. Obviously, she'd finally lost her mind. It was the only explanation she could come up with, the only reason she had for kissing this stranger who'd fainted in her yard.

  But his eyes seemed to soften as he saw her blush, and with that softness came an almost haunting vulnerability.

  That vulnerability was something she instinctively knew that he usually kept hidden. He kept a lot hidden, she knew that, too. There was quite a bit about this man that she recognized, that seemed familiar.

  "Wow, John, are you okay?"

  Daniel Tonaka was a man of slightly shorter than average height. But he was stronger than his lean build suggested. He leaned over and easily helped Jonathan to his feet.

  Daniel looked at Mariah. "What happened?"

  "I don't know." She shook her head, gracefully rising and helping Daniel support John as they headed toward his car. "He walked out here from the resort, along the beach. We were talking, and then suddenly, wham-o. He started to sweat and then he passed out."

  "I just need some breakfast," John insisted as they helped him into the passenger seat. "I'm all right."

  "Yeah, man, you look about as all right as roadkill."

  Mariah reclined the seat slightly, then leaned across John to fasten his seat belt. Her breasts brushed his chest, and when she glanced down at him, his eyes were open again, and he was looking directly at her.

  "Thank you," he said, giving her one of his almost smiles.

  Mariah's mouth was dry as she backed out of the car and closed the door.

  "Come on, Princess," Daniel said.

  The dog jumped into the car, taking a surefooted stance on the back seat.

  "Thank you very much, Miss...?" Daniel called to her. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

  "Robinson," she told him. "Mariah Robinson."

  Jonathan Mills lifted a hand in a weak wave as the car pulled away.

  Mariah looked at her watch. It wasn't even 6:00 a.m. The day had barely just begun.

  *

  She saw them through the window of the resort health club.

  She worked out for several hours early each morning – earlier than most other people used the resort facility. She was here only to tone and strengthen her body. She wasn't here to flash her spandex-clad reflection in the mirrors on the wall, to catch the attention of some healthy, weight-lifting, muscle-bound man.

  No, the man she was looking for wasn't going to be found pumping iron.

  A car pulled into the parking lot alongside the building – the only thing moving in the early-morning stillness. As she worked her triceps, she watched a young Asian man help another man out of that car and toward the wing that held the more expensive rooms. A dog trotted obediently behind them.

  The older man was bent over, his shoulders stooped as if from fatigue or pain. His skin had a grayish cast. Yet there was still something about him that caught her eye.

  She set down her weights and moved closer to the window, watching until they moved out of sight.

  *

  Mariah Robinson belonged to him.

  The game had begun early this morning, and already he'd gotten much further than he'd hoped.

  John Miller pulled to a stop in Mariah's driveway. He took a deep breath, both amused and disgusted by the sensation of anticipation that was flowing through him.

  This woman was his way to get closer to a suspected killer. No more, no less.

  He tried to tell himself that the anticipation he was feeling was from being under cover, from closing in on the Black Widow. And those flowers he had on the car seat next to him were all part of his plan to make friends with a woman who was close to his suspect.

  Miller had ordered a dozen roses yesterday – a thank-you gift for helping him – before he'd even met Mariah Robinson, as she was currently calling herself. But as he'd gone into the florist's to pick them up this afternoon, he'd spotted a display of bright yellow flowers – great big, round flowers that brought huge, colorful splashes of brilliance into the room.

  He'd known instantly that Mariah would prefer wild-looking flowers like that over hothouse roses. On a whim, he'd canceled the roses and bought a huge bouquet of the yellow flowers instead, mixed together with a bunch of daisies and something delicate and white called baby's breath.

  He should've stomped down his impulse and bought the damned roses. The roses were part of his plan. The roses said an impersonal thanks. But the yellow flowers echoed the memory of Mariah's gentle hands touching his face, her strong, slender fingers massaging his shoulders, her lips brushing lightly against his ear.

  And that was trouble.

  The yellow flowers had nothing to do with catching Serena Westford and everything to do with the unmistakable heat of desire that had flooded him as he'd gazed into Mariah's soft brown eyes.

  She was everything her picture had shown and more. And now he was going to walk into her house with these stupid flowers and lie to her about who he was and why he was here. But the biggest lie of all would be in denying the attraction that had flared between them. Jonathan Mills was only to become Mariah's friend. It was John Miller who wanted to take this woman as his lover and lose himself in her quiet serenity for the entire rest of the year.

  It was John Miller who'd found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the soft cotton of Mariah's T-shirt as it clung revealingly to her body out on the beach that morning. He'd caught himself staring more than once, and he could only hope that she hadn't noticed.

  But he knew damn well that she bad. He'd seen the slight pink of her blush on her cheeks.

  Miller got out of the car and, carrying the flowers with him, went to Mariah's front door and rang the bell.

  There was no answer.

  He knew she was home – Daniel had been out on surveillance all day and had just call
ed saying that Mariah was back home after an afternoon of running errands in town. Sure enough, her bike was leaning against the side of the house.

  Miller went around toward the back, toward the beach, and nearly ran smack into Mariah.

  She'd come directly from the ocean. Her hair was wet, her dark curls like a cap against her head. Her skin glistened from the water, and her tank-style bathing suit was plastered to her incredible body. The sun sparkled on a bead of water caught in her eyelashes as her eyes widened in surprise.

  "John! Hi! What are you doing here?"

  God, she was gorgeous. Every last inch of her was fantastic. But she wrapped her towel around her waist as if self-conscious of the way she looked in a bathing suit.

  He held out the yellow flowers. "I wanted to thank you for helping me this morning."

  She took the flowers, but barely looked at them. Her attention was fully on him, her gaze searching his face. "Are you all right? You didn't walk all the way out here, did you?"

  "No, I drove."

  "By yourself?" She looked over his shoulder at the car, parked in her drive.

  "I'm feeling much better," he said. "It was just...I don't know, low blood sugar, I guess. I didn't have much dinner last night, and I didn't have anything to eat before I left the resort this morning. But I had some breakfast and even managed to catch a few hours of sleep after Daniel gave me a ride back to my room."

  "Low blood sugar," she repeated her gaze never leaving his face.

  She clearly didn't believe him. It was the perfect opening for him to begin to tell her Jonathan Mills's cover story. But the words – the lies – stuck in his throat, and for the first time in his life, he almost couldn't do it.

  What was wrong with him? This was the part of being under cover that he always enjoyed – getting close to the major players in the game. He'd never thought of his cover story as lies before. It was, instead, the new truth. His cover became his new reality. He was Jonathan Mills.

  But as he looked into Mariah's eyes, he couldn't push John Miller away. No doubt the fatigue and the stress of the past few years were taking their toll.