it down, take your time. But keep that fist tight.”
Miller felt as if he were floating.
“Okay, now relax your shoulders and your arms. Relax your left hand—everything but that right fist. Keep holding that.”
He could feel her touching him, her hands light against his back, caressing his shoulders and arms.
“Relax the muscles in your face,” she told him softly. Her husky, musical voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Loosen your jaw. Let it drop open.
“Okay, now relax your right hand. Open it up as if you’re setting everything free—all of your tension and stress. Just let it go.”
Let it go.
Let it go.
Miller did as she commanded, and before he could stop himself, he sank into a deep, complete, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Four
MARIAH WOKE UP, heart pounding, sure she’d been dreaming.
But then she heard it again. A strangled, anguished cry from the living room. She nearly knocked over the lamp on her bedside table as she lunged for it, using both hands to flip the switch.
Four fifty-eight. It was 4:58 in the morning.
And that was Jonathan Mills making those noises out in her living room.
He’d fallen asleep on her couch. He’d lain there motionless, as thoroughly out cold as if he’d been hit over the head with a sledgehammer. Mariah had stayed up reading for as long as she could, but had finally given in to her own fatigue. She hadn’t had the heart to wake him and send him home.
She’d put an old blanket under the patio table for Princess to curl up on and covered John with a light sheet before she went to bed herself.
He cried out again, and she went out into the hall, turning on the light.
He was still asleep, still on the couch. He’d thrown off the sheet, shifting onto his back. Perspiration shone on his face and chest as he moved restlessly.
He was having a nightmare.
“John.” Mariah knelt next to him. “John, wake up.”
She touched him gently on the shoulder, but he didn’t seem to feel her. His eyes opened, but he didn’t even seem to see her. What he did see, she couldn’t imagine—the look of sheer horror on his face was awful. And then he cried out, a not quite human sounding “No!” that ripped from his throat. And then the horror turned to rage. “No!” he shouted again. “No!”
He grabbed her by the upper arms, and Mariah felt a flash of real fear as his fingers bit harshly into her. For one terrifying moment, she was sure he was going to fling her across the room. Whoever it was he saw here in her place, he was intending to hurt and hurt badly. She tried to pull away, but he only tightened his grip, making her squeal with pain.
“Ow! John! God! Wake up! It’s me, Mariah! Don’t—”
Recognition flared in his eyes. “Oh, God!”
He released her, and she fell back on the rug on her rear end and elbows. She pushed herself away from him, scooting back until she bumped into an easy chair.
She was breathing hard, and he was, too, as he sat, almost doubled over on the couch.
The shock in his eyes was unmistakable. “Mariah, I’m sorry,” he rasped. “What the hell happened? I was… God, I was dreaming about—” He cut himself off abruptly. “Did I hurt you? God, I didn’t mean to hurt you....”
Mariah rubbed her arms. Already she could see faint bruises where his fingers had pressed too hard in the soft underside of her upper arms. “You scared me,” she admitted. “You were so angry and—”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Oh, God.” He stood up. “I better go. I’m so sorry....”
As Mariah watched, he turned to search for his T-shirt. He couldn’t find it and he had to sit down on the couch again for a moment because he was shaking. He was actually physically shaking.
“You don’t ever let yourself get good and angry,” Mariah realized suddenly. “Do you?”
“Do you have a shirt I can borrow? Mine’s gone.”
“You don’t, do you?” she persisted.
He could barely meet her eyes. “No. Getting angry doesn’t solve anything.”
“Yeah, but sometimes it makes you feel better.” She crawled back toward him. “John, when was the last time you let yourself cry?”
He shook his head. “Mariah—”
“You don’t cry, either, do you?” she said, sitting next to him on the couch. “You just live with all of your fear and anger and grief all bottled up inside. No wonder you have nightmares!”
Miller turned away from her, desperate to find his shirt, desperate to be out of there, away from the fear he’d seen in her eyes. God, he could have hurt her so badly.
But then she touched him. His hand, his shoulder, her fingers soft against the side of his face, and he realized there was no fear in her eyes anymore. There was only sweet concern.
Her face was clean of any makeup and her hair was mussed from sleep. She was wearing an oversize T-shirt that barely covered the tops of her thighs, exposing the full length of her statuesque legs. Her smooth, soft skin seemed to radiate heat.
He reached for her almost blindly, wanting only…what? Miller didn’t know what he wanted. All he knew was that she was there, offering comfort that he couldn’t keep himself from taking.
She seemed to melt into his arms, her face lifted toward his, and then he was kissing her.
Her lips were warm and soft and so incredibly sweet. He kissed her harder, drinking of her thirstily, unable to get enough.
Her body was so soft, her breasts brushing against his chest, and he pulled her closer. She fit against him so perfectly, the room seemed to spin around him. He wanted to touch her everywhere. He wanted to pull off her shirt and feel her smooth skin against his.
He pulled her back with him onto the couch and their legs intertwined. Not for the first time that night, Miller wished he’d worn shorts instead of jeans.
He shifted his weight and nestled between the softness of her thighs, nearly delirious with need as he kissed her harder, deeper.
This was one hell of a bad mistake.
She pushed herself tightly against him, and he pushed the thought away, refusing to think at all, losing himself in her kisses, in the softness of her breast cupped in his hand.
She was opening herself to him, so generously giving him everything he asked for, and more.
