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

Mariah smiled.

“No,” John said, backing even farther away. “Don’t answer that.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she protested.

“You didn’t have to. That wicked smile said more than enough.”

Mariah started back up the stairs. “What wicked smile? That was just a regular smile.”

When she reached the top of the stairs, she realized he wasn’t behind her.

“John?” she called.

From the basement, she heard the sound of a shattering plate.

“Did that help?” she asked with a smile, as he came up the stairs.

He shook his head. “No.” His expression was so somber, his eyes so bleak, all laughter gone from his face. “Mariah, I’m…I’m really sorry.”

“Why, because you want to take some time before becoming involved? Because you’re trying to deal with a life-threatening illness? Because it’s so damn unfair and you’re mad as hell? Don’t be sorry about that.” She gazed at him. “We don’t have to go to this party. We can stay here and break some more plates.” She paused. “Or we could talk.”

He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite cancel out the sadness in his eyes. “No, let’s do it,” he said. “I’m ready to go.” He took a deep breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Chapter Five

SERENA WESTFORD. SHE WAS small and blond and green-eyed with a waist Miller could probably span with his hands. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured, her hair arranged in a youthful style. She was trim and lithe, dressed in a tight black dress that hugged her slender curves and showed off her flat stomach and taut derriere to their best advantage. She had sinewy muscles in her arms and legs that, along with that perfect body, told of countless hours on the Nautilus machine and the StairMaster.

She was beautiful, with a body that most men would die for.

But Miller knew more than most men.

And even if she wasn’t his only suspect in a string of grisly murders, he still wouldn’t have wanted to give her more than a cursory glance.

But she was his suspect, and even though he didn’t want to look at anyone but Mariah, he smiled into Serena’s cat green eyes. He’d come into this game intending to do more than smile at this woman. He was intending to marry her. Until death—or attempted murder—do us part.

Of course, his plan depended quite a bit on Serena’s cooperation. And it was entirely possible that she wouldn’t hone in on what Mariah was clearly marking as her territory with a hand nestled into the crook of his elbow. Serena was probably a killer, but Miller’s experience had taught him that even killers had their codes. She may not hesitate to jam a stiletto into a lover’s heart, but hitting on a girlfriend’s man might not be acceptable behavior.

And that would leave Miller out in the cold, forced to bring in another agent to do what? To play the part of his even more terminally ill friend? A buddy he’d met in the oncology unit of the hospital?

God, if Serena wouldn’t take his bait, the entire case could well be lost. Still, he found himself hoping…

But Serena smiled back at him and held his hand just a little too long as Mariah introduced them, and Miller knew that he was looking into the eyes of a woman who had no kind of code at all. If she was interested, and he thought that she was, she would do what she wanted, Mariah be damned.

“Look at us,” the blond woman said, turning back to Mariah. “We’re wearing almost exactly the same thing tonight. We’re twins.” She flashed a glance directly into Miller’s eyes, just so that he knew she was well aware of the physical differences between the two women.

Miller forced himself to smile conspiratorially back at Serena, knowing that Mariah was going to see the exchange, knowing that she was going to interpret it as friendliness. At first.

Later, when she’d had time to think about it, Mariah would realize that he’d been flirting with her friend right from the start.

“You wouldn’t happen to be from the Boston area, would you?” he asked Serena. “I know a Harcourt Westford from my Harvard days—his family came from…I think it might’ve been Belmont.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’ve never even been to Boston.”

She was lying. She’d met, married and murdered victim number six in Hyannisport, out on Cape Cod. The victim’s sister had told investigating officers that her brother and his new wife—she was using Alana as an alias back then—frequently went into Boston to attend performances of the BSO.

“Help yourself to something from the bar,” Serena directed them. “And the caterer made the best crab puffs tonight—be sure you sample them.”

As Serena moved off to greet other arriving guests, she glanced back at Miller and blew him a kiss that Mariah couldn’t see.

“Are you okay?” Mariah’s fingers gently squeezed his upper arm. “You look a little pale.”

He met her eyes and forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get us something to drink?”

“You don’t have to do that.” He didn’t want her to go. He didn’t want to have to use the opportunity to watch Serena, to smile at her when he caught her eye.

“I don’t mind,” Mariah told him. “What can I get you?”

“Just a soda.”

“Be right back.”

Miller couldn’t stop himself from watching her walk away, knowing that by the time she came back, he’d be well on his way toward destroying the easy familiarity between them.

There were chairs along the edge of the deck, but he didn’t sit down. If he sat down there, he wouldn’t be able to see Serena Westford where she was standing on the other end of the wide deck, at the top of the stairs that led down to the beach.

He made his way to one of the more comfortable-looking lounge chairs instead. He’d have a clear view of Serena from there.

Serena was watching him. He could feel her glancing in his direction as he gingerly lowered himself into one of the chairs. From the corner of his eye, he saw her lean closer to the man she was talking to. The man turned to look over at the bar and nodded. As he walked away, Miller sensed more than saw Serena heading in his direction.

His cover flashed through his mind like words scrolling down a computer screen. He was Jonathan Mills. Harvard University, class of ’80. M.B.A. from NYU in 1985. Car alarms. Hodgkin’s. Chemotherapy. Never married. Facing his own mortality and the end of his family line.

Forget about Mariah. God knows she’d be better off without a man like him in the long run. He was “The Robot,” for God’s sake. What would a woman who was so incredibly warm and alive want with a man rumored to have no soul?

“Are you feeling all right?” Serena’s cool English voice broke into his thoughts. He glanced over to find her settling onto the chair next to his. “Mariah was telling me how you’ve recently been ill.”

There was an unmistakable glint of interest in her eyes.

Miller nodded. “Yeah. I have been.” Across the deck he could see Mariah, a glass of something tall and cool in each hand, held in conversation by the same man who’d been talking to Serena earlier. She glanced at him, but he looked away before she could meet his eyes.

“How awful,” Serena murmured.

“Mariah didn’t tell me anything at all about you,” Miller countered, knowing that everything she was about to tell him about herself would be a lie.

In the past, this game of pretend had had the power to excite him, to invigorate him. She would lie to him, and he would lie to her, and the game would go on and on and on until one of them slipped up.

It wouldn’t be him. It never was him.

But tonight he didn’t want to play. He wanted to turn back the clock and spend the next one hundred years of his life reliving this morning’s dawn, with Mariah in his arms, the taste of her kisses on his lips.