Unstoppable: Love With The Proper Stranger / Letters To Kelly

Mariah Robinson was more than tall, Miller realized. She was an Amazon—a goddess. She had to be only an inch or two shorter than his own six feet two inches. She was as tall as a man, but built entirely like a woman. Her breasts were full and generously proportioned to the rest of her body. Her hips were appropriately wide—enough so that she was probably self-conscious, hence the shorts. Her legs were impossibly long and well muscled.

Another picture caught her riding an ancient bicycle. She was going up a slight hill and standing above the seat, muscles straining in her legs, breasts tight against the cotton of her T-shirt.

Christ, what a body. There was so damned much of her.

Serena Westford was their Black Widow suspect. She had allegedly lured seven men to their deaths with her searing sexuality. She was a femme fatale in the most literal sense.

Yet it was this other woman, Mariah Robinson, who made Miller stand at attention. Of course, he’d always been a breast-and-leg man. And from what he could see from these pictures, she had more than enough of both. Enough for a man to sink into and lose himself in for a solid year or two.

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?”