Heroes Are My Weakness(75)

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


THEO 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.


DIGGITY SWIFT WAS DEAD. THEO 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.