Heroes Are My Weakness(50)

“Hold up. One wrong step, and you’ll fall through the ceiling. I’ll check it tomorrow.”

Not before she looked herself. She dropped back into the chair. “Can I have my wine now? And my meat loaf.”

He made his way toward the wine bottle. “Who else knows about this?”

“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


THE 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?”