Heroes are My Weakness (20 page)

“I haven’t told anyone. Until now. And I hope I don’t regret it.”

He ignored that. “Somebody broke into the cottage, and you’ve been shot at. Let’s assume the person who’s done these things is after whatever Mariah left here.”

“Nobody puts anything over on you.”

“Are you going to keep taking potshots or do you want to figure this out?”

She thought about it. “Take potshots.”

He stood there. Waiting patiently. She threw up her hands. “All right! I’m listening.”

“That’s a first.” He brought the wine to her and handed it over. “Assuming you haven’t told anyone else about this . . .”

“I haven’t.”

“Not Jaycie? Or one of your girlfriends?”

“Or a loser boyfriend? No one.” She sipped her wine. “Mariah must have told someone. Or . . . And I like this idea best . . . A random derelict broke into the cottage because he was looking for money, and, in a totally unrelated event, a kid messing with a gun accidentally shot at me.”

“Still looking for the happy ending.”

“Better than going around looking like the Lord of Gloom all the time.”

“You mean being a realist?”

“A realist or a cynic?” She frowned. “Here’s what I don’t like about cynics . . .”

Obviously he didn’t care about what she didn’t like because he was on his way to the kitchen. But cynicism was one of her hot buttons, and she followed him. “Cynics are cop-outs,” she said, thinking of her most recent ex, who’d hidden his actor’s insecurity behind condescension. “Being a cynic gives a person an excuse to stay above the fray. You don’t have to get your hands dirty working to solve a problem because, what’s the point? Instead, you can stay in bed all day and put down all the naive fools who are trying to make a difference. It’s so manipulative. Cynics are the laziest people I know.”

“Hey, don’t look at me. I’m the guy who made you a great meat loaf.” The sight of him leaning over to open the oven door derailed her tirade. He was lean, but not skinny. Muscular, but not pumped up. Suddenly the cottage seemed too small, too secluded.

She grabbed the silverware and carried it out to the table. All the while, sensible Dilly cried out in her head,
Danger! Danger!

Chapter Eleven

T
HE MEAT LOAF WAS EVEN
better than advertised, the accompanying roasted potatoes perfectly seasoned. By her third glass of wine, the cottage had become a place out of time where proper codes of behavior were suspended and secrets could stay secret. A place where a woman could let go of doubts and indulge every sensual whim with no one being the wiser. She tried to shake herself out of her reverie, but the wine made it too much trouble.

Theo twisted the stem of his glass between his thumb and index finger. His voice was low, as quiet as the night. “Do you remember what we used to do in the cave?”

She made a play of cutting a piece of potato in half. “Hardly anything. It was so long ago.”

“I remember.”

She cut the potato wedge smaller. “I can’t imagine why.”

He gazed at her, long and steadily, as if he knew she’d been thinking about erotic hideaways. “Everybody remembers their first time.”

“There wasn’t any first time,” she said. “We didn’t make it that far.”

“Near enough. And I thought you didn’t remember.”

“I remember that much.”

He kicked back in his chair. “We used to make out for hours. Do you remember that?”

How could she forget? Their kisses had gone on and on—cheeks, neck, mouth, and tongue. Seconds . . . minutes . . . hours. Then they’d start all over again. Adults were too fixed on the final goal to take that kind of time. Only teenagers afraid of the next step exchanged kisses that lasted forever.

She wasn’t drunk, but she was buzzed, and she didn’t want to linger in that bewildering cave of memory. “Kissing has turned into a lost art.”

“Do you think?”

“Um.” She took another sip of the rich, heady wine.

“You’re probably right,” he said. “I know I’m lousy at it.”

She barely suppressed the urge to correct him. “Most men wouldn’t admit it.”

“I’m too anxious to get to the next step.”

“You and every other guy.”

A black tail poked up over the edge of the table. Hannibal had jumped in his lap. He stroked the cat, then set him back down.

She pushed a piece of meat loaf around on her plate, no longer hungry, no longer wary. “I don’t understand. You love animals.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. He knew they were still back in the cave, but now the tide had turned and the weather had grown treacherous. He rose from the table and wandered toward the bookshelves. “How do you explain something you don’t understand yourself?”

She rested her elbow on the table. “Was it the pups? Was it me? Who were you trying to hurt?”

He took his time answering. “Ultimately, I guess it was myself.”

Which revealed nothing at all.

He said, “You should have let me know about Mariah’s legacy the night of the break-in.”

She rose and picked up her wineglass. “Like you tell me everything. Or anything, for that matter.”

“Nobody’s going around firing a gun at me.”

“I don’t— I didn’t trust you.”

He turned toward her, his gaze seductive without being lecherous. “If you knew what I was thinking right now, you’d have good reason not to trust me, because some of my happiest memories happened in that cave. I know you don’t feel that way.”

If it hadn’t been for what had happened that last night, she might almost have agreed. The wine hummed through her veins. “It’s hard to feel nostalgic about the place where you almost died.”

“Understandable.”

She was tired of being on edge, and she loved the way the wine had made her relax. She wanted to seal away the past, undo it so it never happened. Pretend they’d just met. She wanted to be like the women she knew who could see an attractive guy in a bar, tumble into bed with him, and walk out a few hours later with no regrets and no self-flagellation.
“I’m basically a guy,”
her friend Rachel had once said.
“I don’t need emotional attachment. I just want to get off.”

Annie wanted to be a guy, too.

“I’ve got an idea.” Theo leaned against the bookcase, and the corner of his mouth kicked up. “Let’s make out. For old times’ sake.”

Because she’d had three glasses of wine, she didn’t answer him with nearly enough conviction. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” He moved away from the bookcase. “We won’t be breaking any new ground, the two of us. And since you can’t completely shake the feeling that I’m out to kill you, you won’t need to pretend you have any deep fondness for me. And frankly . . . I could use the practice.”

The wine in her bloodstream couldn’t resist the mischief beneath all that smoky velvet seductiveness. But even though she was drunk enough to do this, she wasn’t so drunk that she didn’t have a few conditions. “No hands.”

He came toward her slowly. “I don’t know about that.”

“No hands,” she said more firmly.

“All right. No hands. Below the waist.”

She cocked her head. “No hands below the neck.”

“I’m fairly sure that’s not realistic.” He stopped in front of her and removed the wineglass from her hand as intimately as unfastening a bra clasp.

She liked almost-drunk Annie. “Take it or leave it.”

“You’re making me a little nervous,” he said. “I told you I’m not confident about my kissing. Other things, yes. But just kissing? No confidence at all.”

His eyes were laughing at her. Brooding, wicked Theo Harp was snaring her in a net of erotic whimsy. Her hand moved to her hair. She pulled off her ponytail holder. “Call on your inner sixteen-year-old for help. He was very good at kissing.”

He gazed at her hair, drained the last drops from her glass, and closed the final few inches between them. “I’ll try.”

T
HEO HAD NEVER BEEN A
jerk about it, but when he’d wanted a woman, he’d always been able to get her. That kind of sexual arrogance, however, was dangerous with someone like Annie. Why hadn’t she called him on his game? She knew better.

He didn’t remember the last time he and Kenley had kissed, but he did remember the last time they’d fucked. A middle-of-the-night fuck—she hating him and making sure he knew it. He hating her and trying not to show it.

He gazed down at Annie’s closed eyelids. They reminded him of pale seashells washed up on the beach. She’d grown some sharp edges over the years, but she still wouldn’t know how to be a ballbuster, not even if she read the manual. She clung to her puppets and her fairyland of good intentions and happy endings. Now here she was, ripe for kissing. And here he was. About to take advantage when he should walk away.

He ran his thumbs across her cheekbones. Her lips parted ever so slightly. Annie didn’t expect good behavior from him. She’d seen his worst, and she didn’t expect him to save her, to shield her, to do the right thing. Most important, she wasn’t expecting him to love her. That was what he liked most. That and her total lack of faith in his decency. It had been so long since he’d had the freedom to let down his guard and be who he wanted to be.

A man with no decency at all.

He lowered his mouth over hers. Lips barely touching. Wine-scented breath mingling. She arched her neck, looking for firmer contact. He forced himself to draw back, a bare millimeter. Their lips brushed, but that was all.

She saw his game and pulled back ever so slightly, creating a space he quickly filled, but only with the lightest touch. She had every reason to fear him, and letting him get so close was ludicrous, but she moved her head so her lips skimmed his like floating feathers. Only seconds had passed, but he was already hard. He sealed his mouth against hers, parted his lips, tongue thrusting, going in for the kill.

The heels of her hands slammed into his chest. A pair of outraged hazel eyes seared him. “You’re so right. You’re a terrible kisser.”

Him? A terrible kisser?
No way was he letting that pass. He brushed the inside of his arm against her hair as he braced one hand on the wall behind her head. “Sorry. I got a cramp in my leg and lost my balance.”

“You lost your chance, that’s what.”

Big talk from somebody who hadn’t moved a step away from him. He’d never admit defeat this early in the game. Not with Annie. Feisty, softhearted Annie Hewitt, who’d never think of demanding a man’s last drop of blood. “Deepest apologies.” He tilted his head and blew gently on the tender skin behind her ear.

Her hair ruffled. “That’s better.”

He moved closer, exploring the soft place with his lips. The closeness was agonizing, but he wasn’t going to let a hard-on get the best of him.

Her hands slipped around his waist and slid under his sweater, violating her own rule, something he had no intention of pointing out. She turned her head, bringing her mouth closer to his, but he’d always been a competitor, and the game was on, so he moved his kisses to the line of her jaw.

She arched her neck. He accepted the invitation and kissed her there. Her palms slid higher beneath his sweater. The touch of a decent woman felt so good. So unfamiliar. He fought against raising the stakes. Eventually she was the one who pressed her body hard against him, met his mouth with open lips.

He wasn’t sure how they ended up on the floor. Had he pulled her there? Had she pulled him? He only knew that she was on her back, and he was on top of her. Just as it had been during those sweet, hot cave days.

He wanted her naked, legs splayed, wet and open. The quickness of her breathing, the way her hands gripped his bare back, told him she wanted it, too. Holding on to the last measure of his self-control, he returned to their kisses. Temples, cheeks, mouth. Deep, soulful penetrations. On and on.

She was moaning now, sounds of entreaty as she wrapped one of her legs around his. His hands tangled in the silky hullabaloo of her hair. He settled deeper into the narrow saddle of her hips. Their jeans abraded, and her moans moved deeper in her throat. He was losing control. He couldn’t hold back a moment longer.

He jerked at her zipper, at his. She arched her back. He shoved at her jeans awkwardly, pushing them off one ankle. Her fist clutched a handful of his sweater. He settled between her thighs, freed himself, drove into her.

She cried out and collapsed, her low, guttural moan fierce and defenseless. He went deeper. Pulled back. Deep again. And that was all.

The universe cracked open around him.

T
HE NEXT THING HE KNEW
, she was cursing like crazy.

“You bastard! Son of a bitch!” She shoved him off her, yanking up her jeans and coming to her feet at the same time. “Oh, God, I hate myself. I hate you!” She was doing some kind of weird demon dance as she jerked on her zipper. Flapping her elbows. Stomping the floor. He got up, zipped his own jeans as her tirade continued. “I’m an idiot! Somebody should put me down. I swear to God! Just like a dumb, sick animal. The stupidest, dumbest . . .”

He ordered himself not to say a word.

She turned on him—red-faced and furious. “I’m not this easy! I’m not!”

“Kind of easy,” he said before he could stop himself.

She grabbed a pillow from the couch and swung it at him. He was used to a woman’s rages, and this was so small-time, he didn’t bother to duck.

She stomped the floor again. Beyond pissed, her arms waving, curls hopping. “I know exactly what’s going to happen next! The second I turn my back, I’ll be facedown in the marsh. Or locked inside the dumbwaiter. Or drowning in that cave!” She gasped for air. “I don’t trust you! I don’t like you. And now you— You—”

“Had the best time I’ve had in longer than I can remember?” He’d never been a wiseass, but there was something about Annie that drew out his worst. Or maybe it was his best.

She glared at him. “You came inside me!”

His amusement vanished. He’d never been careless, and now he was the one who felt stupid. It put him on the defensive. “I wasn’t exactly planning on this happening.”

“You should have! Even now, one of your little swimmers could be doing a backstroke right to my—egg!”