Heroes Are My Weakness: A Novel

How was she supposed to do that? He couldn’t have shot at her, not from where he’d been. But that didn’t mean he was trustworthy, not with his history. She took her time settling in the airplane seat armchair and tucked her legs under her. “Too bad the critics hated your book. I can only imagine what those brutal reviews did to your self-confidence.”

He took a sip of wine, as indolent as a playboy relaxing on the Costa del Sol. “Shattered it. Are you sure you didn’t read the book?”

Time to pay him back for his earlier condescension. “I prefer loftier literature.”

“Yes, I saw some of that loftier literature in your bedroom. Definitely intimidating to a hack like me.”

She frowned. “What were you doing in my bedroom?”

“Searching it. More successfully than when I tried to get into your computer. One of these days you’re going to have to give me your password. It’s only fair.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Then I’ll have to keep prying until you level with me.” He pointed toward her with his wine goblet. “By the way, you need some new panties.”

Considering the snooping she’d done in the turret, she had a hard time summoning up as much righteous indignation as she should. “There is nothing wrong with my underpants.”

“Said by a woman who hasn’t gotten laid in a very long time.”

“I have so!”

“I don’t believe you.”

She experienced a contradictory desire to play games and be honest. “For your information, I’ve gotten down and dirty with a long line of loser boyfriends.” Not that long a line, but since he’d burst out laughing, she wasn’t going to clarify.

When he finally sobered, he gave his head a rueful shake. “I see you’re still selling yourself short. Why is that, by the way, and when are you going to grow out of it?”

The idea that he thought more of her than she sometimes thought of herself took her aback.

Trust him, Scamp urged.

Don’t be a fool, Dilly said.

Forget about him! Peter exclaimed. I shall save you!

Dude, Leo sneered. Stop being such a tool. She can save herself.

The reminder of the men who hadn’t stood by her might have been what tipped the scale in Theo’s direction. Even as she told herself that psychopaths had a special talent for earning the trust of their victims, she untucked her legs and told him the truth. “Right before Mariah died, she said she’d left something valuable for me at the cottage. A legacy. And once I found it, I’d have money.”

She had his full attention. He dropped his legs to the floor and sat up straight. “What kind of legacy?”

“I don’t know. She could barely breathe. She slipped into a coma right after and died before morning.”

“And you haven’t found what it is?”

“I’ve researched all the major art pieces, but she’d been selling off her collection for years, and nothing that’s left seems to be worth much. For a few glorious hours, I thought it might be the wine.”

“Writers stayed here. Musicians.”

Annie nodded. “If only she’d been more specific.”

“Mariah had a habit of making things hard for you. I never understood it.”

“Her way of expressing love,” she said without any bitterness. “I was too ordinary for her, too quiet.”

“The good old days,” he said drily.

“I think she was afraid for me because I was so different from her. Beige to her crimson.” Hannibal jumped into her lap, and she rubbed his head. “Mariah was worried I wouldn’t be able to cope with life. She thought criticism was the best way to toughen me up.”

“Twisted,” he said, “but it seems to have worked.”

Before she could ask him what he meant by that, he went on. “Did you look in the attic?”

“What attic?”

“That space above the ceiling?”

“That’s not an attic. It’s a—” But of course it was an attic. “There’s no way to get to it.”

“Sure there is. There’s an access trap in the studio closet.”

She’d seen that trap dozens of times. She’d just never thought about what it led to. She sprang out of the chair, displacing Hannibal. “I’m going to look right now.”

“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!