Unstoppable. Suzanne Brockmann
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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 off 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.