carpeting. Generic pictures of lighthouses and seabirds on the walls. A rental TV and VCR all but chained to the floor. White walls and plain, easy-to-clean curtains.
But Mariah had been here for two months, and she’d added touches of her own personality to the room.
A wind chime near the sliding glass doors, moving slightly in the evening breeze. Books stacked on an end table—everything from romances to military nonfiction. A boom box and a pile of CDs on another end table. A crystal bird on a string in front of a window, sparkling even in the dim light. A batik-print throw across the couch. The bouquet of bright yellow flowers he’d brought her just a few mornings ago.
She released his hand. “Lie down.”
“On the floor?” God, he hated this already. But he did it, lying on his back. “And close my eyes, right?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
As he closed his eyes, he heard her sit on the couch, heard her sandals drop to the floor as she pulled her long legs up underneath her.
“Okay, are your eyes closed?”
Miller sighed. “Yeah.”
“Okay, now I want you to picture yourself lying in a special place. In a field with flowers growing and birds flying all around and a waterfall in the distance…”
Miller opened his eyes. She was laughing at him.
“You should see the look on your face.”
He sat up, rubbing his neck and shoulders with one hand. “I’m glad I entertained you. Of course, now my stress levels are so high I may never recover.”
Mariah laughed. It was a husky, musical sound that warmed him.
“Lie down here on the couch,” she said, moving out of his way and patting the cushions. “On your stomach this time. I’ll rub your back while we do this, get those stress levels back down to a more normal level—which for you is probably off the scale, right?” She stopped, suddenly uncertain. “What I meant to say was, I’ll rub your back if you want…”
Miller hesitated. Did he want…? God, yes. A back rub. Mariah’s fingers on his neck and shoulders… He moved up onto the couch. Surely he was strong enough to keep it from going any further.
“Thanks,” he said, resting his head on top of his folded arms.
“It’ll be easier if you take your shirt off,” she told him, “but you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she added quickly.
Miller turned to look up at her. “This is just a back rub, right?”
She nodded.
“You’re doing me a favor. Why wouldn’t I want to make it easier for you?”
Mariah was blunt. “Because people sometimes misinterpret removing clothes as a sign that something of a sexual nature is going to follow.”
He had to smile. “Yeah, well, that’s mostly true, isn’t it?”
She sat down next to him, on the very edge of the couch. “If I was going to come on to you, I would be honest about it. I would tell you, ‘Hey. John, I’m going to come on to you now, okay?’ But that’s not what I’m doing here. Really. We just met. And if that weren’t enough, you have issues. I have issues.”
“You have issues?” he asked. Did they have something to do with the reason why she’d traveled more than halfway across the country to live under an assumed name?
“Not like yours. But yeah. I do. Doesn’t everyone?”
“I guess.”
She was remarkably pretty, sitting there above him like that, her clean, shiny hair falling in curls and waves down to her shoulders.
She’d put on a pair of cutoff jeans and a tank top when she came out of the shower. She smelled like after-sun lotion, sweet and fresh.
Miller pulled his T-shirt over his head, rolling it into a ball and using it, along with his arms, as a pillow. As he shifted into position, he could feel Mariah’s leg pressed against him. It felt much too good, but she didn’t move away, and he was penned in by the back of the couch. He had nowhere to go.
But then she touched him, her fingers cool against the back of his neck, and he forgot about trying to move away from her. All he wanted was to move closer. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the sweet sensation.
“This is supposed to make you relax, not tighten up,” Mariah murmured.
“Sorry.”
“Make a fist,” she told him.
Miller opened his eyes, lifting his head to look back at her. “What?”
She gently pushed his head back down. “Are you right-or left-handed?”
“Right-handed.”
“Make a fist with your right hand,” she said. “Hold it tightly—don’t let go.”
“Am I allowed to ask why?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m telling you to. You agreed to do this exercise, and it won’t work unless you make a fist. So do it.”
“I never agreed to do anything,” he protested.
“You gave your unspoken consent when you lay down on this couch. Make a fist, Mills.” She paused. “Or I’ll stop rubbing your back.”
Miller quickly made a fist. “Now what?”
“Now relax every other muscle in your body—but keep that fist tight. Start with your toes, then your feet. You’ve surely done that exercise where you relax every muscle, first in your legs and then your arms and then all the way up to your neck?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t work,” he said flatly.
“Yes, it does. I’ll talk you through it. Start with your feet. Flex them, flex your toes, then relax them. Do it a couple of times.”
She ran her fingers through his hair, massaging the back of his head and even his temples. Christ, it felt heavenly.
“Okay, now do the same thing with your calves,” she told him. “Tighten, then relax. You know, this is actually an exercise from a Lamaze childbirthing class. The mothers-to-be learn to keep the rest of their bodies relaxed while one muscle is tensed and working hard. Of course they can’t practice with the actual muscle that’s going to be contracting, so they contract something else, like a fist.” Her voice was soft and as soothing as her hands. Despite himself, he felt his tension draining away. He actually felt himself start to relax. “Okay, tighten and relax the rest of your legs. Are you doing it? Are you loose?”
He felt her reach down with one hand and touch his legs, shaking them slightly.
