Heroes are My Weakness (29 page)

This is not his piece.

She wanted to cry. She’d told herself not to get her hopes up, but she had been certain the mermaid chair was a Koons. Instead, she’d hit another dead end.

A thud came from the kitchen, and she made herself get up to investigate. She found Jaycie trying to right one of the straight-backed chairs. “No more running, Livie. You’re going to break something.”

Livia kicked the corner of the chair with her sneaker. Jaycie leaned against the table with a defeated sigh. “It’s not her fault. She has no place to work off her energy.”

“I’ll take her out,” Annie said. “How ’bout it, Liv? Want to go for a walk?”

Livia nodded so vigorously that her lavender plastic headband slipped over her eyes.

Annie decided to take her down to the beach. The sun had emerged and the tide was out. Livia was an island kid. She needed to be near the water.

Annie held tightly to her hand as they descended the stone steps. Livia tried to pull away, anxious to get to the bottom, but Annie held on to her. As they cleared the last step, however, Livia stalled, taking it all in, almost as if she couldn’t believe she had so much space to run free.

Annie pointed down the beach. “See if you can catch those gulls.”

Livia didn’t need encouragement. She started to run, her short legs churning, hair flying from beneath her pink pom-pom hat. She darted through the rocks toward the sand, but stayed away from the breaking waves.

Annie found a flat-top boulder far from the old cave entrance. Dropping her backpack, she watched Livia climb rocks, chase the shorebirds, and dig in the sand. When the four-year-old finally got tired, she came to sit next to Annie and her backpack. Annie smiled, removed Scamp, and slipped the puppet onto her arm.

Scamp wasted no time. “Free secret?”

Livia nodded.

“I’m scared.” And then, more dramatically, “Terrified.”

Livia’s forehead knit.

“The ocean is so big,” Scamp whispered, “and I can’t swim. That’s scary.”

Livia shook her head.

“You don’t think the water is scary?” Scamp said.

Livia didn’t.

“I s’pose different things are scary to different people.” Scamp tapped her cheek. “Like some things are good to be scared of—going in the ocean if there aren’t any grown-ups around. And some things aren’t good to be scared of because they’re not real, like monsters.”

Livia seemed to agree.

As Annie had watched Livia play, she’d thought over what she now knew about Livia’s trauma. She wasn’t sure whether this was a good idea or not, but she was going to try. “Like watching your dad try to hurt your mom,” Scamp said. “That was really, really scary.”

Livia poked her finger into a tiny hole in her jeans.

Annie wasn’t a child psychologist, and the only thing she knew about treating childhood trauma was what she’d picked up on the Internet. This situation was too complicated, and she needed to stop right here. But . . .

Jaycie couldn’t talk to Livia about what had happened. Maybe Scamp could make the topic less forbidden. “A lot scarier than the ocean,” Scamp said. “If I saw my mommy have to shoot my dad with a gun, I would be so scared I might not want to talk either.”

Eyes wide, Livia abandoned the hole in her jeans and turned all her attention to the puppet.

Annie backed off and let Scamp speak in her most cheerful voice. “But then, after a while, I’d get bored not talking. Especially if I had something important to say. Or if I wanted to sing. Did I ever tell you that I’m a magnificent singer?”

Livia nodded vigorously.

A wild idea occurred to Annie. An idea she had no business pursuing. But, what if . . .

Scamp began to sing, bobbing her curly yarn hair to the rhythm of the makeshift tune Annie improvised on the spot.

“A scary, scary thing happened to me.

A thing I want to forget.

Times are good and times are bad,

And that was the baddest yet!

Oh . . . That was the baddest yet!”

Livia remained attentive, not seeming upset, so Annie plunged on with her ridiculous, improvised lyrics.

“Some daddies are good and some are bad

You’re stuck with what you get.

Liv’s dad was bad, the very, very worst

But . . . she didn’t want to see him die, oh!

She didn’t want to see him die.”

Ohmygod!
The reality of what she’d just done sent her stomach plummeting. It was like a bad
Saturday Night Live
skit! The happy little tune, the gruesome lyrics . . . She’d just treated Livia’s trauma as if it were a stand-up comedy routine.

Livia seemed to be waiting to hear more, but Annie was appalled, and she lost her courage. However good her intentions might be, she could be doing serious psychological damage to this precious little girl. Scamp hung her head. “I guess I shouldn’t sing a song about something so terrible.”

Livia studied her, then climbed down off the rock and scurried away to chase a seagull.

T
HEO FOUND HER AT THE
cottage just as she finished giving Hannibal his evening meal. “You’re not supposed to be here by yourself.” He sounded crankier than usual. “Why do I smell wet paint?”

“A little touch-up.” She spoke coolly, determined to reestablish the distance between them. “How did the wound repair go?”

“Not well. Stitching someone up without numbing them first isn’t my idea of a good time.”

“Don’t tell your readers. They’ll be disappointed in you.”

He scowled. “If I’m not here, you need to stay at Harp House.”

Good advice, except that she was experiencing an increasingly powerful urge to be here the next time her perpetrator showed up. This cat-and-mouse game had gone on long enough. She wanted a showdown.

“I refuse to raise a timid child, Antoinette.”

How many of Mariah’s judgments had Annie believed about herself?

“You’re naturally shy . . .” “You’re naturally clumsy . . .” “You need to stop being such a daydreamer . . .”

And then,
“Of course I love you, Antoinette. I wouldn’t be concerned about you if I didn’t.”

Living on this bleak winter island so far removed from her city life was making Annie think about herself in new ways. In ways—

“What the
hell
?”

She turned to see Theo examining the wall she’d painted earlier. She grimaced. “I need to put on a second coat.”

He jabbed his finger at the faint red letters bleeding through the white paint. “Are you trying to be funny? This is not funny!”

“Make up your mind. I can either be funny or scream. Take your pick.” She didn’t feel like screaming. She’d rather punch someone.

He uttered a blistering obscenity, then asked her exactly what she’d found. When she finished, he made his proclamation. “That’s it. You’re moving up to Harp House. And I’m going over to the mainland to talk to the police.”

“A waste of time. Even when somebody shot at me, they weren’t interested. They’ll be even less interested in this.”

He pulled out his phone only to remember he couldn’t get a signal. “Pack up. You’re getting out of here.”

“As much as I appreciate your concern, I’m staying right here. And I want a gun.”

“A gun?”

“Only as a loan.”

“You want me to lend you a gun?”

“And show me how to use it.”

“That is not a good idea.”

“You’d rather I face whoever is doing this unarmed?”

“I’d rather you didn’t face
whoever
at all.”

“I’m not running.”

“Damn it, Annie. You’re as reckless now as you were at fifteen.”

She stared at him. She’d never thought of herself as reckless, and she liked the image. She considered it in light of her habit of falling in love with the wrong men, her belief that she could be a great actress, her determination to take Mariah to London for one last trip. And—not to forget—letting Theo Harp possibly get her pregnant.

Mariah, you didn’t know me at all.

He looked frazzled, and the novelty of it made her dig in. “I want a gun, Theo. And I want to learn how to shoot it.”

“It’s too dangerous. You’ll be safe at the house.”

“I don’t want to stay at Hell House. I want to stay here.”

He gazed at her long and hard, then thrust his finger in her face. “All right. Target practice tomorrow afternoon. But you’d better pay attention to every word I say.” He stalked away to the studio.

Annie made herself a sandwich for dinner and went back to sorting through the boxes, but it had been a long day, and she was tired. As she brushed her teeth, she gazed at the closed studio door. Despite everything she’d been telling herself about keeping her distance, she wanted him lying next to her. She wanted him so much that she grabbed a pad of Post-it notes from the kitchen, scrawled on the top one, and stuck it to her bedroom door. Then she closed herself in and went to sleep.

D
IGGITY
S
WIFT WAS DEAD
. T
HEO
had done it. The kid had finally slipped up, Dr. Quentin Pierce had caught him, and Theo hadn’t written a word since.

He closed his laptop and rubbed his eyes. His brain was fried, that was all. Tomorrow he’d be able to start with a clear head. By then, the tightness in his chest would have disappeared, and he’d be able to make headway. The middle of any book was the hardest to write, but with Diggity gone, he’d be able to see his way clear of the muddle he’d created and find a pathway to the next chapters. As long as he didn’t start thinking about Annie and what had happened at his farmhouse today . . .

He wouldn’t wake her tonight when he got in bed next to her. He wasn’t some kind of animal with no self-control, even though that was how he felt. The novelty of making love with a woman he hadn’t grown to detest fascinated him. A woman who didn’t fall into a crying jag afterward. Or attack him for some imaginary offense.

Because Annie was so different from the women in his past, he wondered whether he would have noticed her if he’d passed her on the street? Damn right, he would have. The uniqueness of that quirky face would have caught his attention, the way she walked, as if she intended to conquer the ground under her. He liked her height, the funny way she had of looking at people as if she really saw them. He liked her legs—he definitely liked her legs. Annie was an original. And he needed to do a better job of protecting her.

He’d talked to Jessie and her father today, trying to get a feel for how people regarded Annie, but he hadn’t learned anything that raised his suspicions. They were curious about why she’d come to the island, but they were more interested in sharing their stories about Mariah. After the boats got in tomorrow, he intended to hang out at the fish house. He’d take the men some beer, see what he could pick up. He’d also make sure they knew Annie would be armed, a disturbing prospect, but necessary.

He’d come to the island because he couldn’t tolerate being around people, yet here he was, involved with everything. It had been over an hour since he’d heard her go to her room. She’d be wearing those awful pajamas. Or maybe not.

His good intentions vanished. He set aside his laptop and left the studio. But as he saw the Post-it note on her door, he stopped cold. It had one word.

No.

T
HEO DIDN
’
T MENTION THE NOTE
to her the next morning. He didn’t say much of anything except that he needed his car that day. Only later did she discover he’d driven to the dock to pick up the locksmith. Knowing she didn’t have the money to pay the bill made her feel ashamed.

He was in the studio when she returned to the cottage. She took the box of wine from her closet and carried it out to his car. He opened the kitchen door for her as she came back in. “What did you put in my car?”

“Some excellent wine. You’re welcome. And thanks for taking care of the locks.”

He saw right through her. “I had the locks changed for myself. I can’t chance having my laptop stolen while I’m out.”

He was trying to let her save face, which only made her more indebted. “Uh-huh.”

“Annie, I don’t want your wine. This isn’t a big deal to me.”

“It’s a big deal to me.”

“All right. How’s this? No more Post-it notes on your door, and we’ll call it even.”

“Enjoy your wine.” She couldn’t think straight with him standing in front of her, oozing all those male pheromones, not after what had happened at the farmhouse. “Did you bring a gun?”

He didn’t press. “I’ve got it. Grab your coat.”

They went out on the marsh. After he’d gone through the basic rules of gun safety, he showed her how to load and fire the automatic pistol he’d chosen for her. The gun should have repelled Annie, but she liked shooting it. What she didn’t like was the unexpected eroticism of having Theo so close. They were barely inside the cottage before they were tearing off each other’s clothes.

“I
DON
’
T WANT TO TALK
about it,” she snarled at him later that night as they lay in her bed.

He yawned. “Fine by me. More than fine.”

“You can’t sleep here. You have to sleep in your own bed.”

He tried to settle her against his naked body. “I don’t want to sleep in my own bed.”

She didn’t want him to, either, but however murky some things might be, this was clear. “I want sex, not intimacy.”

He curled his hand around her rear. “Sex it is.”

She wiggled away. “You have two options. You can either sleep by yourself, or you can lie here for the next three hours and listen to the details of every crappy relationship I’ve ever had, why they were crappy, and why men suck. Warning. I cry ugly.”

He threw back the cover. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I thought so.”

A
NNIE HAD GOTTEN WHAT SHE
wanted from Theo—the best sex of her life—but she’d also set boundaries.