Heroes Are My Weakness(54)

“Maybe.” No, she didn’t think that at all.

“If a kid had done it, there would have been a lot more destruction.”

“We don’t know that.” She slipped past him. “I’ve got to go. Jaycie was expecting me an hour ago.”

She’d barely managed a step before he’d planted himself in front of her, his body an immovable wall of hard tendon and solid muscle. “You have two options,” he said. “You either need to get off the island . . .”

Leaving him the cottage? No way was she doing that.

“. . . or,” he said, “you can level with me and let me try to help.”

The offer seemed so genuine, so seductive. But instead of burying her face in his sweater as she wanted to, she channeled Crumpet at her most peevish. “What do you care? You don’t even like me.”

“I like you very much.”

He said it with a straight face, but she wasn’t buying. “Bull.”

One of those dark arched eyebrows inched upward. “You don’t believe me?”

“I do not.”

“Okay, then.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You’re kind of a mess. But . . .” His voice turned soft and husky. “You’re a woman, and that’s what I need. It’s been a long time.”

He was playing games. She could see it in his eyes, but that didn’t prevent the hot kick of her senses. The sensation was unwelcome and unsettling, but understandable. He was a dark-haired, blue-eyed sexual fantasy come to life right from her books, and she was a tall, thin, thirty-three-year-old woman with a peculiar face, berserker hair, and a fatal attraction to men who weren’t as noble as they seemed. She fought his black magic with a crucifix of sarcasm. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? I’ll take my clothes off right now.”

He was all inky silk and plush black velvet. “Too cold out here. We need a warm bed.”

“Not really.” Shut up! Just shut the hell up! “I’m plenty hot enough. At least that’s what I’ve been told.” She tossed her hair, grabbed her backpack, and swept past him.

This time he let her go.


WITH SOMETHING HALFWAY BETWEEN A grin and a grimace, Theo watched the stable door slam shut. He shouldn’t have baited her, even if she was in on the game. But those big eyes kept sucking him in, making him want to play games. Have a little dirty fun. There was also something about the way she smelled, not of the ruthlessly expensive perfumes he’d grown so used to, but basic bar soap and fruity drugstore shampoo.

Dancer nudged him in the shoulder. “I know, fella. She got me good. And it’s my own fault.” His horse poked him in the jaw in agreement.

Theo put away the tack and filled Dancer’s bucket with fresh water. Last night, when he’d tried to get into the laptop Annie had left at the house, he couldn’t break her password. For now, her secrets were her own, but he couldn’t let that go on much longer.

He needed to stop messing with her. Besides, baiting her the way he’d just done seemed to throw him off balance more than it bothered her. The last thing he wanted on his mind right now was a naked woman, let alone a naked Annie Hewitt.

Having her on Peregrine again was like being shoved back into a nightmare, so why did he look forward to being with her? Maybe because he found a certain bizarre safety in her company. She didn’t possess any of the polished beauty he was always drawn to. Unlike Kenley, Annie had a quirky amusement park of a face. Annie was also smart as a whip, and although she wasn’t needy, she didn’t present herself as being indomitable, either.

Those were her good points. As for the bad . . .

Annie regarded life as a puppet show. She had no experience with soul-crushing nights or despair so thick it clung to everything you touched. Annie might deny it, but she still believed in happy endings. That was the illusion trapping him into wanting to be with her.

He grabbed his jacket. He needed to start thinking about the next scene he couldn’t seem to write instead of the naked body lurking underneath Annie’s heavy sweaters and bulky coat. She wore too damned many clothes. If it were summer, he’d see her in a bathing suit, and his writer’s imagination would be satisfied enough so that he could move on to more productive thoughts. Instead he kept conjuring up images of the skinny teenage body he barely remembered and curiosity about what it looked like now.

Horny bastard.

He gave Dancer one last pat. “You’re luckier than you know, pal. Living without a set of balls makes life a lot less complicated.”


ANNIE SPENT A FEW HOURS researching the oldest of the art books she’d found in the bookcase, but none of them turned out to be rare, not the David Hockney volume, or the Niven Garr collection, or Julian Schnabel’s book. When she’d had enough frustration, she helped Jaycie clean.