Heroes are My Weakness (26 page)

The interior of the Range Rover smelled like Theo: leather and winter’s cold. Her defenses were coming down so fast she could hardly keep the barriers in place. And then there was Jaycie. She and Annie had been together for nearly a month, yet Jaycie hadn’t once mentioned the small fact that she’d killed her husband. Granted, it wasn’t the kind of detail easily worked into a conversation, but she should have found a way. Annie was used to exchanging confidences with her friends, yet her conversations with Jaycie never went below the surface. It was as if Jaycie had a
NO ADMITTANCE
sign hanging around her neck.

Annie pulled up to the dark cottage and got out of the car. The locksmith she couldn’t afford wasn’t due until next week. She could find anything inside. She eased the door open, stepped into the kitchen, and flicked on the light. Everything was exactly as she’d left it. She made her way through the cottage, turning on lights, peeking in the storage closet.

Scaredy-cat,
Peter scoffed.

“Shut up, butthead,” she retorted. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Leo hadn’t tormented her lately, while Peter, her hero, was growing increasingly belligerent. One more thing out of balance in her life.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, HER HEAD
ached and she needed coffee. She stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around herself, and padded across the cold floor toward the kitchen. Iced lemon sunlight spilled in through the front windows making the iridescent scales of the mermaid chair sparkle. How had Mariah ended up with that ugly thing? The mermaid reminded Annie of one of Jeff Koons’s kitschy, and incredibly expensive, sculptures. His statues of the Pink Panther, Michael Jackson, the stainless steel animals that looked as though they’d been blown from colorful Mylar balloons . . . They’d made him famous. The mermaid could have come right out of Koons’s imagination if—

She gasped and raced across the living room toward the boxes she’d left there. What if the mermaid were one of Koons’s pieces? Going down on her knees, she dropped her towel as she fumbled through the cartons, looking for the cottage’s guest book. Mariah could never have afforded one of Koons’s statues, so it would have to have been a gift. She located the guest book and frantically thumbed through the pages, looking for Koons’s name. When she couldn’t find it, she started all over again.

It wasn’t there. But just because he hadn’t visited the cottage didn’t mean the chair couldn’t be one of his creations. She’d researched the paintings, the small sculptural pieces, and most of the books, and she hadn’t found anything. Maybe—

“I like it here so much better than Harp House,” a silky voice said behind her.

She whirled toward the kitchen doorway. Theo stood there, fingertips in his front pockets, wearing the dark gray parka she’d napped under last night, while the towel she’d been wrapped in lay on the floor.

Despite their crazy sex in this very room, he hadn’t seen her naked, but she fought her natural urge to snatch up the towel and clutch it in front of her like a Victorian virgin. Instead she reached for it slowly, as if it were no big deal.

“You are one gorgeous creature,” he said. “Did any of those loser boyfriends ever tell you that?”

Not in so many words. Not in any words, really.
And it was nice to hear, even if it came from Theo. She tucked in the towel, but—being herself—instead of rising gracefully to her feet, she lost her balance and sprawled back on her heels.

“Fortunately,” he said, “I’m practically a doctor, so none of what I’m seeing is unfamiliar.”

She maintained a firm grip on both the towel and herself. “You’re not practically a doctor, and I hope you enjoyed what you saw because you’re not seeing any more.”

“Highly doubtful.”

“Really? You’re really going to go there?”

“It’s hard to believe you’ve forgotten what I did last night.”

She cocked her head.

He shook his head sadly. “The heroic way I faced those menacing sharks and hundred-foot waves . . . The icebergs. And did I mention the pirates? But then, I suppose heroism should be its own reward. One shouldn’t expect more.”

“Nice try. Go make me coffee.”

He came toward her lazily, hand outstretched. “Let me help you to your feet first.”

“Back off.” She got up without another pratfall. “Why are you down here so early?”

“It’s not that early, and you shouldn’t have come here by yourself.”

“Sorry,” she said, with all kinds of sincerity.

He gazed from her bare legs to the mess she’d strewn on the floor. “Another break-in?”

She started to tell him about the mermaid chair, but his eyes were back on her legs again, and being the only person wearing a towel put her at a disadvantage. “I’ll have poached quail eggs and fresh mango juice. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Drop that towel, and I’ll throw in champagne.”

“Tempting.” She made her way toward her bedroom. “But since I might be
pregnant,
I shouldn’t drink.”

He gave a long sigh. “And with those chilling words, the raging fire in his loins vanished.”

W
HILE
T
HEO WROTE IN THE
studio, Annie photographed the mermaid chair from every angle. As soon as she got to Harp House, she’d e-mail the photos to Koons’s Manhattan dealer. If this really was a Koons, selling it would cover her debts and then some.

She zipped her backpack, her thoughts drifting toward the man closed up in the studio.

“You are one gorgeous creature.”

Even though it wasn’t true, it was nice to hear.

S
HE
’
D GOTTEN IN THE HABIT
of checking the fairy house every day, and now a seagull feather swung from a pair of sticks to make a delicate hammock. As Annie took in the new addition, she thought about Livia’s “free secret” drawing. The crude blob at the end of the outstretched arm of the standing adult figure hadn’t been a mistake at all. It was a gun. And the body on the ground? The red smear on the chest wasn’t a flower or a heart. It was blood. Livia had drawn her father’s killing.

The back door opened and Lisa stepped out. She spotted Annie and waved, then headed for the muddy SUV parked in front of the garage. Annie braced herself as she went inside.

The kitchen smelled of toast, and Jaycie wore her all-too-frequent anxious expression. “Please don’t tell Theo that Lisa came up here. You know how he is.”

“Theo’s not going to fire you, Jaycie. I guarantee it.”

Jaycie turned toward the sink, speaking softly. “I saw him leave for the cottage this morning.”

Annie wasn’t going to talk about Theo. What could she say? That she might be pregnant with his child? A onetime occurrence.

Do you really believe that?
Dilly said, with a
tsk-tsk.

Our Annie’s becoming a bit of a slut.
Peter, her former hero, had turned on her.

Now who’s the bully?
Leo said.
Watch the name-calling, pal.
He spoke with his habitual sneer, but still . . .

She didn’t know what was happening in her head. And with Jaycie standing in front of her, now wasn’t the time to sort it out. “I heard how your husband died,” she said.

Jaycie hobbled over to the table and sank into a chair, not looking at her. “And now you think I’m a horrible person.”

“I don’t know what to think. I wish you’d told me.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I get that. But we’re friends. If I’d known, I’d have understood from the beginning why Livia is mute.”

Jaycie flinched. “I don’t know for sure that’s why.”

“Stop it, Jaycie. I’ve done some research on mutism.”

Jaycie pressed her face into her hands. “You can’t imagine what it’s like knowing how badly you’ve hurt the child you love so much.”

Annie couldn’t endure her unhappiness, and she backed off. “You weren’t under any obligation to tell me.”

Jaycie gazed up at her. “I’m . . . not good at friendships. There weren’t a lot of girls my age when I was growing up. And I didn’t want anybody to know how bad things were with my dad, so I shut out everybody who tried to get too close. Even Lisa . . . She’s my oldest friend, but we don’t talk much about anything personal. Sometimes I think the only reason she comes up here is to check things out for Cynthia.”

The idea of Lisa as Cynthia’s mole was something Annie hadn’t considered.

Jaycie rubbed her leg. “I liked being with Regan because she never asked questions. But she was so much smarter than me, and she lived in a different world.”

Annie recalled Jaycie as a background figure that summer, someone she might not have remembered if it hadn’t been for what happened in the cave.

“I could have ended up in prison,” Jaycie said. “Every night I thank God that Booker Rose heard me screaming and ran to the house in time to see everything through the window.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Ned was drunk. He came toward me waving his gun, threatening me. Livia was playing on the floor. She started to cry, but Ned didn’t care. He put the gun right to my head. I don’t think he would have shot me. He just wanted me to understand who was boss. But I couldn’t stand hearing Livia cry, and I grabbed his arm, and . . . It was terrible. He looked so shocked when the gun went off, like he couldn’t believe he wasn’t in charge anymore.”

“Oh, Jaycie . . .”

“I’ve never known how to talk to Livia about it. Whenever I tried, she struggled to get away, so I stopped trying, hoping she’d forget.”

“She needs to talk to a therapist,” Annie said gently.

“How am I supposed to manage that? It’s not like we have one here on the island, and even if I could get her to the mainland for appointments, I can’t afford it.” She looked defeated, older than her years. “The only person she’s really connected with since it happened is you.”

Not me, Annie thought. Livia’s attachment was to Scamp.

Jaycie’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t believe I’ve hurt you, too. After everything you’ve done for me.”

Livia raced into the room, her presence putting an end to their conversation.

A
FTER
A
NNIE HAD LEFT FOR
Harp House, Theo moved into the living room to write, but the change of scenery hadn’t helped. The damned kid wouldn’t die.

The boy stared back at him from Annie’s drawing. Theo loved the oversize adult watch on the kid’s wrist, the cowlick the boy couldn’t control, those faint worry lines on his forehead. Annie had dismissed her talent as an artist, and while she might not be a master, she was one hell of an illustrator.

The kid had sucked him in right away, becoming as vivid in his mind as any of the characters he’d created. Without planning it, he’d ended up sticking him in his manuscript as a minor character, a twelve-year-old kid named Diggity Swift who’d been transported from modern-day New York City to the streets of nineteenth-century London. Diggity was supposed to be Dr. Quentin Pierce’s next victim, but so far the kid had managed to do what the adults couldn’t, elude Quentin’s pursuit. Now Quentin was in a psychopathic rage bent on destroying the little urchin in the most painful way.

Theo had decided not to show the boy’s death, something he might well have done in
The Sanitarium,
but this time around, he didn’t have the stomach for it. A fleeting reference to the smell coming from the baker’s oven would be more than enough.

But the kid was cunning. Even though he’d been transported into an environment that couldn’t be more foreign—an environment that transcended both time and space—he’d managed to stay alive. And he was doing it without the help of social workers, child endangerment laws, or a single supportive adult, not to mention a cell phone or computer.

At first, Theo couldn’t figure out how the kid was pulling off his miraculous escapes, but then it had come to him. Video games. Playing hours of video games while his wealthy, workaholic parents were conquering Wall Street had given Diggity quick reflexes, keen deductive skills, and a certain comfort level with the bizarre. Diggity was terrified, but he wasn’t giving up.

Theo had never written a kid into a book, and he was damned if he’d ever do it again. He hit the delete key, wiping out two hours of work. This wasn’t the kid’s story, and Theo had to get back in control before the little prick took over.

He stretched his legs and rubbed his hand over his jaw. Annie had repacked the boxes on the floor, but she hadn’t yet put them away. She lived on rainbows. He didn’t believe Mariah had left her anything.

But she didn’t live on rainbows where he was concerned. He wished she’d either stop taunting him with the possibility she was pregnant or give him some idea of when she’d know for sure. Kenley had never wanted kids, which had turned out to be one of the few things they’d had in common. Just the idea of ever again being responsible for another human being made him break out in a cold sweat. He’d as soon put a gun to his head.

He’d barely thought about Kenley since the night he’d told Annie about her, and he didn’t like that. Annie wanted to give him a free pass for Kenley’s death, but that only said something about Annie and nothing about him. He needed his guilt. It was the only way he could live with himself.

Chapter Fifteen

O
N
M
ONDAY MORNING
, A
NNIE STUMBLED
out of bed while it was still dark so she could get ready to go out on Naomi’s boat, but she hadn’t taken three steps across the room before she jolted wide-awake.
Go out on Naomi’s boat?
She groaned and buried her face in her hands. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking! That was the problem. She couldn’t go out on the water with Naomi. What part of her brain had failed to register that? Once the
Ladyslipper
left the harbor, Annie would be officially off the island. But because the boat was anchored at Peregrine, departing and returning every day—because Naomi was part of the island—because Annie had been distracted—she’d somehow failed to make the connection. She must be pregnant. How else to account for such a monumental lapse?