Unstoppable: Love With The Proper Stranger / Letters To Kelly. Suzanne Brockmann

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       Step one was cutting herself off from this company—breaking her addiction to this job and the company’s addiction to her. She was going to do it cold turkey.

       The company would survive. Marie knew they’d survive. Any one of her three job candidates would bring a freshness and vitality to the job that she’d lacked for nearly two years now. Whether or not Marie would survive was a different story…

       “Where are you going?” Susan asked.

       “I don’t know,” Marie admitted. “I’m just going to take my camera and go. I read in a book about stress-reduction that I should take a few months and leave everything behind—including my name. This book recommended that I temporarily take on a new identity. Supposedly that’ll help me distance myself from everything that’s been causing my ulcers.” She smiled. “I’m going to leave Marie Carver locked in my condo—along with all my doubts about my sanity and my worries that Carver Software will go into a nosedive the moment I leave town.”

       Susan pulled her in for a quick hug—an unusual display of affection. “The job will be yours again when you come back,” the older woman whispered. “I’ll make sure of that.”

       Marie pulled away, unable to answer. If she had her way, she’d never be back. If she had her way, Marie Carver and her damned ulcers would be gone forever.

       SHE USED THE KNIFE TO CUT off a lock of his hair.

       He didn’t have too much, just a light fringe of gray at the back of his head, but that didn’t matter. It was the only thing of his that she would keep.

       Besides the money.

       He was handcuffed now. He’d let her do that willingly, thinking she was playing some new sex game, never suspecting he had only moments left to live.

       But when she unsheathed the stiletto, there was a hint of consternation in his drug-glazed eyes.

       “What are you doing?” he asked.

       She shushed him with a kiss. He couldn’t speak. He wasn’t allowed to speak.

       But he didn’t know the rules. “Clarise?” he said, fear pushing past the opium, creeping into his voice, making it waver as she set the tip of the stiletto against his chest.

       She felt a flash of regret.

       Clarise. She liked that name a lot. It was a shame that she would only be Clarise for a few moments longer. She couldn’t use that name again. And she wouldn’t. She was too smart to make that mistake.

       “This has gone far enough,” he said, trying to hide his fear behind an air of authority. “Release me now, Clarise.”

       She smiled and leaned on the whisper-thin blade, sliding it deep into his heart, setting him forever free.

       “KILL HIM.”

       Domino’s order came before John Miller had reached the warehouse doors, and the gunshots—four of them in rapid sequence were amplified deafeningly through his headset.

       Tony.

       Tony was dead.

       Miller knew it. He had no chance of saving his friend.

       He had this tape, though, this tape of Domino giving the order to off a federal agent. He had enough evidence to put Domino on death row. Blasting his way through that warehouse door at twenty to one odds would only get himself killed, too.

       He knew that as well as he knew his own heartbeat.

       But the heart that was pounding in his chest wasn’t beating with a recognizable rhythm. And the red cloud of rage that covered his eyes didn’t obscure his vision, but rather made it sharper, clearer.

       Tony was dead, and the son of a bitch who ordered it done was not going to make his escape in a powerboat, losing himself in South America, outside of the FBI’s jurisdiction. No, Alfonse Domino was going to burn in hell.

       Miller hit the warehouse door at full run, bringing his gun up and into position at his hip, shouting in rage at the sight of Tony’s crumpled body lying on the cold, blood-soaked concrete, shooting the surprise off the faces of Alfonse Domino and his men.

       SHE HAD HER AIRLINE TICKET all ready, under an assumed name, of course. A temporary name.

       Jane Riley. Plain Jane. Plane Jane. The thought amused her and she smiled. But only briefly. She knew she had a noticeable smile, and right now she had no desire to be noticed.

       Her hair was under a kerchief for the occasion, and she wore a dowdy camel-colored jacket she’d picked up at a secondhand store downtown.

       She took nothing of Clarise’s with her. Nothing but the money and her collection. Nine locks of hair.

       She traveled light, boarding the plane to Atlanta with only a tote bag that held several novels she’d picked up at the airport shop and two hundred thousand dollars in cash. The rest of the money was already in her Swiss bank account.

       In Atlanta, she’d catch a train to who knows where. Maybe New York. Maybe Philadelphia.

       She’d catch a show or two, take her time deciding exactly who she wanted to be. Then she’d get her hair cut and colored, shop for a new wardrobe to match her new personality, pick a new town in a new state, and start the game all over again.

       And then she’d have ten locks of hair.

      Chapter One

      JOHN MILLER’S HEART WAS pounding and his mouth was dry as he awoke with a start. He stood up fast, trying hard to get his bearings, reaching automatically for his gun.

       “John, are you all right?”

       Christ, he was in his office. He’d fallen asleep with his head on his desk, and now he was standing in his office, with his side arm drawn and his hands shaking.

       And Daniel Tonaka was standing in the doorway watching him. Daniel was expressionless, as he often was. But he was gazing rather pointedly at Miller’s weapon.

       Miller reholstered his gun, then ran both hands across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just fell asleep—or something—for a second.”

       “Maybe you should go home and go to bed.”

       Bed. Yeah, right. Maybe in some other lifetime.

       “You look like hell, man,” Daniel continued.

       Miller felt like hell. He needed a case to work on. As long as he was working, the dreams weren’t so bad. It was this damned in-between time that was unbearable. “I just need some more coffee.”

       Daniel didn’t say anything. He just looked at Miller. He was relatively new to the bureau—just a kid. He was hardly twenty-five years old, with a young handsome face, high cheekbones and deep brown, exotically shaped eyes that announced his part-Asian parentage. Those eyes held a wisdom that extended far beyond his tender years. And true to the wisdom in his eyes, the kid always knew СКАЧАТЬ