Heroes Are My Weakness(65)

“Steady there,” Theo said, gently pushing the man back down. “Glad we could help.”


IT WAS NEARLY TWO IN the morning by the time he reached Harp House. Even with the Range Rover’s heater running at full blast, his teeth were chattering. Only a few weeks ago, he’d craved this kind of discomfort, but something had happened to him tonight, and now he yearned to be dry and warm. Still, he made himself stop at Moonraker Cottage. To his relief, the place was empty. Hard to believe she’d done as he asked.

Harder to believe where he found her.

Instead of being curled up in one of Harp House’s bedrooms, she was asleep on the couch in the turret, the lights on, a copy of History of Peregrine Island lying open on the floor at her side. She must have stopped at the cottage first, though, because she’d changed into her customary jeans and sweater. As tired as he was, the sight of those rambunctious curls looping across the old damask couch cushion made him begin to unwind.

She rolled to her side and blinked. He couldn’t help himself. “Honey, I’m home.”

She’d used his gray parka to cover herself, and it slipped to the carpet as she sat up. She pushed the hair out of her face. “Did you find the boat? What happened?”

He peeled off his jacket. “We got the men. The boat sank.”

She came to her feet, taking in his disheveled hair, the wet, dark V at the neck of his sweater, his soggy jeans. “You’re soaked.”

“I was a lot wetter a few hours ago.”

“And you’re shivering.”

“Hypothermia. Stage One. Best treatment is bare skin to bare skin.”

She ignored his lame attempt at humor, seeing his fatigue instead, and regarding him with real concern. “How about a nice warm shower? Get upstairs.”

He didn’t have the energy to argue.

She went ahead of him, and by the time he reached the top of the steps, she had his robe. She pushed him into the bathroom and turned on the shower, as if he were incapable of doing it himself. He wanted to tell her to leave him alone, that he didn’t need a mother. She shouldn’t be here. Waiting up for him. Trusting him. Her gullibility drove him crazy. At the same time, he wanted to thank her. The last person he could remember trying to take care of him was Regan.

“I’ll make you something hot to drink,” she said as she turned to leave.

“Whiskey.” Exactly the wrong thing to drink when you were as cold as he was, but maybe she didn’t know that.

She did. As he came out of the bathroom freshly showered and wrapped in his robe, she was waiting at the door with a mug of hot chocolate. He gazed into it with disgust. “This had better be spiked.”

“Not even a marshmallow. Why didn’t you tell me you’re an EMT?”

“I was afraid you’d ask for a free pelvic exam. Happens all the time.”

“You’re depraved.”

“Thank you.” He wandered to his bedroom, taking a sip of the hot chocolate on the way. It tasted great.

He stopped in the doorway. She’d turned down the freaking covers and even fluffed his damn pillows. He took another swig of chocolate and gazed back at her as she stood in the hallway. Her green sweater was wrinkled, and the cuff of one jean leg had caught on top of a sweat sock. She was rumpled and flushed, and she’d never looked sexier. “I’m still cold,” he said, even as he told himself to back off. “Really cold.”

She cocked her head. “Good try. I’m not getting into bed with you.”

“But you want to. Admit it.”

“Oh, sure. Why not jump right back into the lion’s den?” Her irises shot gold-specked fireworks at him. “Look where it’s gotten me so far. Probably pregnant. How’s that for a bucket of ice water over those steaming private parts, Mr. Horn Dog?”

It wasn’t funny. It was horrifying. Except the way she said it, with all that bristly outrage . . . He wanted to kiss the hell out of her. Instead, he said, a lot more assuredly than he felt, “You’re not pregnant.” And then, because she’d refused to tell him the first time he’d asked, “When are you getting your period?”

“That’s my business.”

She was all badass. Her way of distracting them from what they both wanted to do. Or maybe he was the only one?

She looped a coil of hair behind her ear. “Did you know Jaycie killed her husband?”

The abrupt change of subject momentarily took him aback. He picked up the mug. He still couldn’t believe she’d made him hot chocolate. “Sure. The guy was a real bastard. Which was why I would never have fired her.”

“Stop looking so righteous,” she retorted. “We both know you set me up.” She rubbed her arm through her sweater. “Why didn’t Jaycie tell me?”

“I doubt she’s eager to talk about it.”

“Still, we’ve been working together for weeks now. Don’t you think she might have said something?”

“Apparently not.” He set the chocolate back down. “Grayson was a few years older than me. A surly kid. Wasn’t too popular even then, and it doesn’t seem as though anybody misses him much.”

“She should have told me.”

He didn’t like seeing her upset, this curly-haired woman who played with puppets and trusted unreliable people. He wanted to pull her into bed. He’d even promise not to touch her if that would wipe away those frown lines. But he didn’t get a chance. She flicked off the light switch and headed down the steps. He should have thanked her for taking care of him, but she wasn’t the only badass around.