Suzanne Brockmann - Unstoppable - Love With The Proper Stranger / Letters To Kelly

Even the dark cloud of anxiety cast by John’s potentially terminal illness didn’t faze her tonight. They’d caught the cancer early, he’d told her. The survival rate for this type of cancer was high. He was going to live. Positive thinking.

Mariah felt another surge of anticipation as she slipped into her shoes and stepped back to look at herself in the mirror.

She looked…sexy. She looked…well proportioned. It was true that those proportions were extra large, but they had to be to fit her height. And in this case, she was using her body to her advantage. In this dress, with this neckline, she had cleavage with a capital C. All that without a WonderBra in sight.

The doorbell rang, and she smoothed the dress over her hips one last time, leaning closer to check her lipstick.

Ready or not, her date had come.

Praying that she wasn’t coming on too strong, what with the attack of the monster cleavage and all, Mariah opened her front door.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly.

John’s eyes skimmed down her once, then twice, then more slowly, before coming back to rest on her face as he smiled. “Wow. You look…incredible.”

She stepped back and opened the door wider to let him in.

“Incredibly tall,” he added as he noted the heels that put them eye to eye.

Was that a compliment? Mariah took it as one. “Thank you,” she said, leading the way into the kitchen. “I’m ready to go, but I wanted to show you something first.”

He was dressed a whole lot more casually than she, in a faded pair of jeans, time-softened leather boat shoes and a sport jacket over a plain T-shirt.

“I think I might be underdressed,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it. Knowing Serena’s friends, there’ll be an equal mix of sequined gowns and tank tops over swimsuits.” Mariah opened the door to the basement.

“Serena?” he asked.

“Westford,” she told him, turning on the switch that lit the stairs going down. “She lives a little more than three miles north, just up the road.”

“Is she one of the Boston Westfords? Funny, maybe I know one of her brothers.”

Mariah shook her head, poised at the top of the stairs. “She hasn’t talked about Boston. Or any brothers. When we met, she did give me a business card with a Hartford hotel, but I think that was only a temporary address. I think she lived in Paris for a few years.” She started down, careful of the rough wooden steps in her heels. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Into the basement? Is your darkroom down there?”

“My darkroom’s down here,” Mariah told him, “but that’s not what I want to show you.”

She turned on another light.

The ceiling was low, and both she and John had to duck to avoid pipes and beams. But it was a nice basement, as far as basements went. The concrete floor had been painted a light shade of gray and it had been carefully swept. Boxes were neatly stacked on utility shelves that lined most of the walls.

A washer and dryer stood in one corner, along with a table for folding laundry. Another corner had been walled off to make the darkroom.

But she led him to the open area of the basement, where an entire concrete-block wall and the floor beneath it had been cleared. Only one box sat nearby, in the middle of the room on top of a broken chair.

Mariah reached inside and pulled out one of the plates she’d bought dirt cheap at a tag sale that afternoon, when she’d borrowed Serena’s car. It was undeniably one of the ugliest china patterns she’d ever seen in her life. She handed it to John.

He stared at it, perplexed.

“It occurred to me this morning that you probably never give yourself the opportunity to really vent,” she explained.

“Vent.”

“Yes.” She took another plate from the box. “Like this.” As hard as she could, she hurled the china plate against the wall. It smashed into a thousand pieces with a resounding and quite satisfying crash.

John laughed, but then stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” She gestured to the plate in his hands. “Try it.”

He hesitated. “Don’t these belong to someone?”

“No. Look at it, John. Have you ever eaten off something that unappetizing? It’s begging for you to break it and put it out of its misery.”

He hefted it in his hand.

“Just do it. It feels…liberating.” Mariah took another plate from the box and sent it smashing into the wall. “Oh, yeah!”

John turned suddenly and, throwing the plate like a Frisbee, shattered it against the wall.

Mariah handed him another one. “Good, huh?”

“Yeah.”

She took another herself. “This one’s for my father, who didn’t even ask if I wanted to spend nearly seven years of my life working eighty-hour weeks, who didn’t even try to quit smoking or lose weight after his doctor told him he was a walking heart attack waiting to happen, and who died before I could tell him that I loved him, the bastard.” The plate exploded as it hit the wall.

John threw his, too, and reached into the box for another before she could hand him one.

“This one’s the head of the bank officer who wouldn’t approve the Johnsons’ loan for a Foundations for Families house even when the deacons of their church offered to co-sign it, all on account of the fact that she’s a recovering alcoholic and he’s an ex-con, even though they both have good, steady jobs now, and they both volunteer all the time as sponsors for AA.”

The two plates hit the wall almost simultaneously.

“We only have time for one more,” Mariah said, breathing hard as she prepared to throw her last plate of the evening. “Who’s this one for, John? You call it.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can. It’s easy.”

“No.” He glanced at the plate he was holding loosely in his hands. “It gets too complicated.”

“Are you kidding? It simplifies things. You break a plate instead of someone’s face.”

“It’s not always that easy.” He gazed searchingly into her eyes as if trying to find the words to explain. But he gave up, shaking his head. Then he swore suddenly, sharply. “This one’s for me.” He threw the plate against the wall so hard that shards of ceramic shot back at them. He moved quickly, shielding her.

“Whoa!” Mariah said. She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that, but he was catching on.

“I’m sorry. God—”

“No, that was good,” she said. “That was very good.”

He had a tiny piece of broken plate in his hair, and she stepped toward him to pull it free.

He smelled delicious, like faintly exotic cologne and coffee.

“We should get going,” he murmured, but he didn’t step back, and she didn’t, either, even after the ceramic shard was gone.

As Mariah watched, his gaze flickered to her mouth and then back to her eyes. He shook his head very slightly. “I shouldn’t kiss you.”

“Why not?” He’d shaved, probably right before he’d come to pick her up, and his cheeks looked smooth and soft. Mariah couldn’t resist touching his face, and when she did, he closed his eyes.

“Because I won’t want to stop,” he whispered.

She leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. With her heels on, she didn’t even need to stand on her toes. She kissed him again, as softly and gently as before, and he groaned, pulling her into his arms and covering her mouth with his.

Mariah closed her eyes as he kissed her hungrily, his tongue possessively claiming her mouth, his hands claiming her body with the same proprietary familiarity.

But just as suddenly as he’d given in to his need to kiss her, he pulled himself away, holding her at arm’s length. “You’re dangerous,” he gasped, half laughing, half groaning. “What am I going to do with you?”