Heroes Are My Weakness: A Novel

ANNIE WAS FINDING IT INCREASINGLY difficult to connect the Theo she remembered from the past with the man she now knew. She understood that people changed as they grew older, but his disturbing teenage behavior had seemed too deep rooted in psychosis to be easily fixed. He’d told her he’d had therapy. Apparently, it had worked, although he refused to talk about Regan and continued to shut down when the conversation got personal. She couldn’t lose sight of the fact that he was still deeply troubled.

Later, as she was taking out the trash, she glanced down at the cottage and saw something that made her stop in her tracks. A car moved slowly, almost stealthily, toward the cottage.

Theo wrote in the studio. Sometimes he blasted music while he worked. He wouldn’t even know he had a visitor.

She raced inside the house, grabbed the car keys, and sped down the cliff.





Chapter Seventeen

YOU WERE PREPARED TO DEFEND me with an ice scraper?” Theo tossed his parka over the back of the pink velvet couch. Two hours had passed since the unfortunate incident, and he was just returning from his second trip to town.

“It was all I could find in your car,” Annie said. “We Ninjas have to use whatever’s on hand.”

“You practically gave Wade Carter a heart attack.”

“He was skulking around behind the cottage,” she retorted. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Don’t you think jumping him was a bit extreme?”

“Not if he was getting ready to break in, and seriously, Theo, how well do you know him?”

“Well enough to know that his wife didn’t fracture her arm just so he’d have an excuse to break into the cottage.” He dropped his car keys on the table and headed for the kitchen. “He’s lucky you didn’t give him a concussion.”

Annie was more than a little proud of herself. Yes, she was glad she hadn’t actually hurt the man, but after feeling beat down for so long, she liked knowing she wasn’t afraid to act. “Next time he’ll knock on the door,” she said, following him.

He opened the flaps on the box of wine bottles he’d brought back inside. “We have new locks. And he did knock, remember?”

But Theo hadn’t answered, so Carter had circled the cottage, trying to figure out if anyone was inside. Annie hadn’t known that. “From now on, no more loud music when you work,” she said. “Anybody could sneak up on you, and you wouldn’t know until it was too late.”

“Why should I worry, with Wonder Woman on the job?”

She grinned. “I was pretty awesome.”

His laugh was still tarnished at the edges. “At least the word’s out that you’re not an easy mark.”

She considered asking him about the fairy house, but talking about it would destroy the magic. Besides, that was between him and Livia. “How did the bone setting go?”

“I stabilized her arm. Wade promised he’d take her over to the mainland tomorrow.” He examined the label on the wine bottle. “Then Lisa McKinley saw my car and asked me to look at her youngest daughter.”

“Alyssa.”

“Yes, well, Alyssa shoved something up her nose and it won’t come out. Ask me what I know about extracting a jelly bean from a kid’s nose.” He located the corkscrew. “I tell them all the same thing. I’m an EMT, not a doctor, but they act as if I have a medical degree from Harvard.”

“Did you get it out?”

“No, and Lisa’s really pissed at me.” Unlike the jelly bean, the wine cork came out with a soft pop. “I don’t carry around a nasal speculum, and I could do serious damage if I started poking at it. She’s going to the mainland with the Carters.” He pulled down two wine goblets.

“No wine for me,” she said quickly. “I’m having tea. Chamomile.”

The familiar hard grooves had reappeared at the corners of his unsmiling mouth. “You haven’t gotten your period.”

“No, I haven’t.” Her rejection of the wine wasn’t only about a possible pregnancy, but also about his decision to bring the wine back into the cottage. If she shared, it would no longer be a gift.

He set both glasses hard on the counter. “Stop screwing with me and tell me when you’re supposed to get your period?”

She couldn’t play games any longer. “Next week, but I feel fine. I’m sure I’m not . . . You know.”

“You’re not sure of anything.” He turned away to fill his own glass, not looking at her. “If you are pregnant, I’ll see a lawyer, set up a trust. I’ll make sure you have whatever you . . . you and the kid need.”

No mention of getting rid of “the kid.” “I’m not talking about this,” she said.

He turned back to her, cupping the bowl of the wineglass. “It’s not my favorite topic, either, but you need to know—”

“Stop talking about it!” She gestured toward the stove. “I made dinner. It won’t be as good as yours, but it’s food.”

“Target practice first.”

This time he was all-business.


THEIR GLOOMY MOODS DIDN’T LIFT until dinner. The weekly supply boat had brought groceries for Moonraker Cottage, most of which Theo had ordered, and she’d stuck with what she did well—meatballs and homemade spaghetti sauce. It wasn’t haute cuisine, but his enjoyment was obvious. “Why didn’t you make this for me when you were helping Jaycie with dinner?”

“I wanted you to suffer,” she said.

“Mission accomplished.”

He put down his fork. “So how do you want this to play out? More Post-it notes on the bedroom door, or are we going to act like adults and do what we both want?”

Leave it to Theo to get to the point. “I told you. I’m not good at emotionally detaching from sex,” she said. “I know that makes me old-fashioned, but that’s who I am.”

“I have news for you, Annie. You’re not good at emotionally detaching from anything.”

“Yes, well, there’s that.”

He lifted his glass to her. “Have I remembered to say thank you?”

“For me being a sex goddess?”

“That, too. But . . .” He set the glass down and abruptly pushed back from the table. “Hell, I don’t know. My writing’s gone to hell, I have no idea how to protect you from whatever crap is happening here, and pretty soon somebody’s going to ask me to do a fucking heart transplant. But . . . The thing is, I’m not exactly unhappy.”

“Gee. With that kind of progress, you’ll have your own special on Comedy Central in no time.”

“Sensitively put.” He almost smiled. “Now how about it? Are you done with Post-it notes or not?”

Was she? She carried her dirty plate into the kitchen and thought about what was right for her. Not him. Only her. She moved to the kitchen doorway. “Okay, this is what I want. Sex and lots of it.”

“My world just got so much brighter.”

“But impersonal. No cuddling afterward. And absolutely no sleeping in the same bed.” She came back toward the table. “As soon as you’ve satisfied me, we’re done. No cozy little chats. Sleep in your own bed.”

He tilted his chair back. “Harsh, but I can live with that.”

“Totally impersonal,” she insisted. “Like you’re a male prostitute.”

He lifted one of those imperious eyebrows. “Don’t you think that’s a little . . . degrading?”

“Not my problem.” The fantasy was delicious . . . and perfect for the message she wanted to deliver. “You’re a male prostitute working in a brothel designed for an exclusive female clientele.” She wandered toward the bookcases, letting the fantasy unfold, not caring how he felt about it or whether he was judging her. “The place is sparse, but luxurious. All white walls and black leather chairs. Not the overstuffed ones,” she added. “Those sleek ones with chrome frames.”

“Something tells me you’ve thought about this before,” he said drily.

“All you men are sitting around in various stages of dishabille. And no one is saying a word.”

“Dishabille?”

“Look it up.”

“I know what it means. I’m just—”

“Each man is more beautiful than the last,” she said. “I walk around the room.” She walked around the room. “Everything is absolutely silent. I’m taking my time.” She stopped. “There’s a round platform in the exact center of the room. The platform is set six inches off the floor . . .”

Again his eyebrow went up. “You really have thought this through.”

She ignored him. “That’s where the men go. To be inspected.”

All four legs of his chair hit the ground. “Okay, I’m getting seriously turned on.”

“I choose the three I’m most aroused by. One by one, I gesture them to the platform.”

“That would be the round platform set exactly six inches from the floor?”