Mariah has something of a crush on you,” Serena told him. “I don’t think she was eager for you to meet me.”
Meaning that it was an indisputable fact that the moment Miller met Serena, he would turn away from Mariah, and—in Serena’s opinion—rightly so.
This woman’s self-confidence and ego were both the size of the Taj Mahal.
Miller leaned closer to Serena, feeling like Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane. “I don’t really know her—not very well. We just met a few days ago, and…I know we’re here together tonight, but we’re really just friends. She seems very nice, though.”
Meaning, he hadn’t made up his mind about anything.
“Tell me,” Miller said, “what’s a woman like you doing on Garden Isle all by yourself?”
Meaning Serena was definitely interesting and attractive to him with her petite, aerobicized body and her gleaming blond hair and killer smile.
Serena smiled.
The game had moved into the next round.
MARIAH FELT LIKE A GIANTESS. Standing next to Serena, she felt like a towering football linebacker despite the dress and heels. Maybe because of the dress and heels. She felt as if she’d dressed up like this in an attempt to fool everyone into thinking she was delicate and feminine, but had failed.
Miserably.
John and Serena were deep in a conversation about Acapulco. Mariah had never been to Acapulco. When had she had the time? Up until just a few months ago, she hadn’t gone anywhere besides the office and to the occasional business meeting up in Lake Havasu City or Flagstaff.
Feeling dreadfully left out, but trying hard not to let it show, Mariah shifted her weight from one Amazon-sized leg to another and took a sip of her wine, wishing the alcohol would make her feel better, but knowing that drinking too much would only give her a headache in the morning.
This evening was so not what she’d hoped. Silly her. She’d never even considered the fact that Jonathan Mills would take one look at Serena and be smitten. But he was obviously infatuated with Mariah’s friend. He’d watched the blond woman constantly, all evening long. The few times Mariah had been alone with him, he’d talked only about Serena. He’d asked Mariah questions about her. He’d commented on her hair, her house, her party, her shoes.
Her tiny shoes. Oh, he didn’t say anything about size, but Serena’s feet were small and feminine. Mariah hadn’t worn shoes that size since third grade.
All those signals she’d thought she’d picked up from him were wrong. Those kisses. Had he kissed her first, or had she kissed him? She couldn’t remember. It was entirely possible that she had made the first move this morning on the couch. She knew she’d made the first move down in the basement.
And each time she’d kissed him, he’d told her in plain English that he thought they should just be friends.
But did she listen? Nope, not her. But she was listening now. It was all that she could do—she had nothing worth adding to the conversation. Acapulco. Skiing in Aspen. John and Serena had so much in common. So much to talk about. Art museums they’d both been to in New York…
Serena seemed just as taken with John as he was with her. In spite of the fact that she herself had warned Mariah about becoming involved with a man who could very well die, Serena looked for all the world as if she was getting ready to reel John in.
Some friend.
Of course, Mariah had told Serena that she and John were just that—friends. Still, Mariah had the sense that even if she’d told her friend that she was already well on her way to falling in love with this man, Serena wouldn’t have given a damn.
Neither John nor Serena looked up as Mariah excused herself quietly and went back to the bar.
The hard, cold fact was that Mariah didn’t stand a chance with John if Serena decided that she wanted him for her own. And it sure seemed as if she wanted him.
Disgusted with all of them—herself included—Mariah set her empty glass down on the bar, shaking her head when the bartender asked if she wanted a refill. No, it was time to accept defeat and beat a retreat.
The bartender had a pen but no paper, so Mariah quickly wrote a note on a napkin. “I’m partied out, and I’ve got to be up early in the morning. I’ve gone ahead home—didn’t want you to feel obligated to drive me. Enjoy the rest of party. Mariah.”
She folded the napkin in half and asked the bartender to bring it to John in a minute or two.
Chin up, she silently commanded herself as she took off her shoes and went barefoot down the stairs that led to the beach. Jonathan Mills wasn’t the man she’d thought he was anyway. He was just another member of the jet set, able to talk for hours at a time about nothing of any importance whatsoever. Frankly, she’d expected more of him. More depth. More soul. She’d thought she’d seen more when she’d looked into his eyes.
She’d thought she’d seen a lover, but she’d only seen the most casual of acquaintances.
She headed down the beach, toward home, determined not to look back.
“JOHN.” THERE WAS THE briefest flare of surprise in Daniel Tonaka’s eyes as he opened the door to his hotel room and saw Miller standing on the other side. “Is there a problem?”
Miller shook his head. What the hell was he doing here? “No. I…” He ran his hand through his too short hair. “I saw that your light was still on and…” And what? “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, then shrugged. “What else is new?”
What was new was his admitting it.
Daniel didn’t comment, though. He just nodded, opening the door wider. “Come in.”
The hotel suite was smaller than Miller’s room, but decorated with the same style furniture, the same patterned curtains, the same color rug. Still, it seemed like another planet entirely, strange and alien. Miller stood awkwardly, uncertain whether to sit or stand or beat a quick exit before it was too late.
He remembered the way he used to go into Tony’s room without even knocking, the way he’d simply help himself to a beer from Tony’s refrigerator. He remembered the way they’d pick apart every word spoken in the course of the night’s investigation, hashing it out, searching for the hidden meanings and subtle clues, trying to figure out from what had—or hadn’t—been said, if their cover had been blown.
They’d done the same thing in high school, except back then the conversation had been about girls, about basketball, about the seemingly huge but in retrospect quite petty troubles they’d had with the two rival gangs that ruled the streets of their worn-out little town. They’d often been threatened and ordered to choose sides, but Tony had followed Miller’s lead and remained neutral. They were Switzerland, for no one and against no one.
Switzerland. God, Miller hadn’t thought about that in ages.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Daniel asked politely. “A beer?”
“Are you having one?”
