Heroes Are My Weakness by Susan Elizabeth Phillips
“I’ll take care of him,” Theo said, hoping like hell the Coast Guard got to them soon. He kept an EMT first responder kit in his car, but it didn’t have the revival equipment these men needed.
In other circumstances, he’d have performed CPR on the kid, but that could be disastrous for someone with extreme hypothermia. Without stopping to get out of his own gear, he cut the men from their survival suits and wrapped them in dry blankets. He put together some makeshift heat packs and pressed them into the kid’s armpits. Finally, he caught a faint pulse.
By the time the Coast Guard cutter arrived, Theo had both men covered and warming with more heat packs. To his relief, the boy had begun to stir, while his father was managing short sentences.
Theo filled in the Coast Guard paramedic as she began starting IVs and giving the men warm, humidified oxygen. The boy’s eyes were open, and the father was trying to sit up. “You saved . . . his life. You saved my boy’s life.”
“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.
ANNIE COULDN’T GET BACK TO sleep, so she grabbed her coat and the keys to the Range Rover and went outside. On their way back from the Lobster Boil, she hadn’t talked to Jaycie about what she’d learned. And Jaycie didn’t know Annie had gone to the turret to wait for Theo.
The night sky had cleared, and the starry blanket of the Milky Way stretched above her. She didn’t want to talk to either Jaycie or Theo in the morning, but instead of getting in the car, she walked to the edge of the drive and gazed down. It was too dark to see the cottage, but if someone had been there making trouble, they would have left by now. Weeks ago, she would have been afraid to go to the cottage in the middle of the night, but the island had toughened her. Now she almost hoped someone would be there. At least she’d know who her tormenter was.
The interior of the Range Rover smelled like Theo: leather and winter’s cold. Her defenses were coming down so fast she could hardly keep the barriers in place. And then there was Jaycie. She and Annie had been together for nearly a month, yet Jaycie hadn’t once mentioned the small fact that she’d killed her husband. Granted, it wasn’t the kind of detail easily worked into a conversation, but she should have found a way. Annie was used to exchanging confidences with her friends, yet her conversations with Jaycie never went below the surface. It was as if Jaycie had a NO ADMITTANCE sign hanging around her neck.
Annie pulled up to the dark cottage and got out of the car. The locksmith she couldn’t afford wasn’t due until next week. She could find anything inside. She eased the door open, stepped into the kitchen, and fli
Scaredy-cat, Peter scoffed.
“Shut up, butthead,” she retorted. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Leo hadn’t tormented her lately, while Peter, her hero, was growing increasingly belligerent. One more thing out of balance in her life.
THE NEXT MORNING, HER HEAD ached and she needed coffee. She stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around herself, and padded across the cold floor toward the kitchen. Iced lemon sunlight spilled in through the front windows making the iridescent scales of the mermaid chair sparkle. How had Mariah ended up with that ugly thing? The mermaid reminded Annie of one of Jeff Koons’s kitschy, and incredibly expensive, sculptures. His statues of the Pink Panther, Michael Jackson, the stainless steel animals that looked as though they’d been blown from colorful Mylar balloons . . . They’d made him famous. The mermaid could have come right out of Koons’s imagination if—
She gasped and raced across the living room toward the boxes she’d left there. What if the mermaid were one of Koons’s pieces? Going down on her knees, she dropped her towel as she fumbled through the cartons, looking for the cottage’s guest book. Mariah could never have afforded one of Koons’s statues, so it would have to have been a gift. She located the guest book and frantically thumbed through the pages, looking for Koons’s name. When she couldn’t find it, she started all over again.
It wasn’t there. But just because he hadn’t visited the cottage didn’t mean the chair couldn’t be one of his creations. She’d researched the paintings, the small sculptural pieces, and most of the books, and she hadn’t found anything. Maybe—
“I like it here so much better than Harp House,” a silky voice said behind her.
She whirled toward the kitchen doorway. Theo stood there, fingertips in his front pockets, wearing the dark gray parka she’d napped under last night, while the towel she’d been wrapped in lay on the floor.
Despite their crazy sex in this very room, he hadn’t seen her naked, but she fought her natural urge to snatch up the towel and clutch it in front of her like a Victorian virgin. Instead she reached for it slowly, as if it were no big deal.
“You are one gorgeous creature,” he said. “Did any of those loser boyfriends ever tell you that?”
Not in so many words. Not in any words, really. And it was nice to hear, even if it came from Theo. She tucked in the towel, but—being herself—instead of rising gracefully to her feet, she lost her balance and sprawled back on her heels.
“Fortunately,” he said, “I’m practically a doctor, so none of what I’m seeing is unfamiliar.”
She maintained a firm grip on both the towel and herself. “You’re not practically a doctor, and I hope you enjoyed what you saw because you’re not seeing any more.”
“Highly doubtful.”
“Really? You’re really going to go there?”
“It’s hard to believe you’ve forgotten what I did last night.”
She cocked her head.
He shook his head sadly. “The heroic way I faced those menacing sharks and hundred-foot waves . . . The icebergs. And did I mention the pirates? But then, I suppose heroism should be its own reward. One shouldn’t expect more.”
“Nice try. Go make me coffee.”
He came toward her lazily, hand outstretched. “Let me help you to your feet first.”
“Back off.” She got up without another pratfall. “Why are you down here so early?”
“It’s not that early, and you shouldn’t have come here by yourself.”
“Sorry,” she said, with all kinds of sincerity.
He gazed from her bare legs to the mess she’d strewn on the floor. “Another break-in?”
She started to tell him about the mermaid chair, but his eyes were back on her legs again, and being the only person wearing a towel put her at a disadvantage. “I’ll have poached quail eggs and fresh mango juice. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Drop that towel, and I’ll throw in champagne.”
“Tempting.” She made her way toward her bedroom. “But since I might be pregnant, I shouldn’t drink.”
He gave a long sigh. “And with those chilling words, the raging fire in his loins vanished.”
WHILE THEO WROTE IN THE studio, Annie photographed the mermaid chair from every angle. As soon as she got to Harp House, she’d e-mail the photos to Koons’s Manhattan dealer. If this really was a Koons, selling it would cover her debts and then some.
She zipped her backpack, her thoughts drifting toward the man closed up in the studio.
“You are one gorgeous creature.”
Even though it wasn’t true, it was nice to hear.
SHE’D GOTTEN IN THE HABIT of checking the fairy house every day, and now a seagull feather swung from a pair of sticks to make a delicate hammock. As Annie took in the new addition, she thought about Livia’s “free secret” drawing. The crude blob at the end of the outstretched arm of the standing adult figure hadn’t been a mistake at all. It was a gun. And the body on the ground? The red smear on the chest wasn’t a flower or a heart. It was blood. Livia had drawn her father’s killing.
The back door opened and Lisa stepped out. She spotted Annie and waved, then headed for the muddy SUV parked in front of the garage. Annie braced herself as she went inside.
The kitchen smelled of toast, and Jaycie wore her all-too-frequent anxious expression. “Please don’t tell Theo that Lisa came up here. You know how he is.”
“Theo’s not going to fire you, Jaycie. I guarantee it.”
Jaycie turned toward the sink, speaking softly. “I saw him leave for the cottage this morning.”
Annie wasn’t going to talk about Theo. What could she say? That she might be pregnant with his child? A onetime occurrence.
Do you really believe that? Dilly said, with a tsk-tsk.
Our Annie’s becoming a bit of a slut. Peter, her former hero, had turned on her.
Now who’s the bully? Leo said. Watch the name-calling, pal. He spoke with his habitual sneer, but still . . .
She didn’t know what was happening in her head. And with Jaycie standing in front of her, now wasn’t the time to sort it out. “I heard how your husband died,” she said.
Jaycie hobbled over to the table and sank into a chair, not looking at her. “And now you think I’m a horrible person.”
“I don’t know what to think. I wish you’d told me.”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I get that. But we’re friends. If I’d known, I’d have understood from the beginning why Livia is mute.”
Jaycie flinched. “I don’t know for sure that’s why.”
“Stop it, Jaycie. I’ve done some research on mutism.”
Jaycie pressed her face into her hands. “You can’t imagine what it’s like knowing how badly you’ve hurt the child you love so much.”
Annie couldn’t endure her unhappiness, and she backed off. “You weren’t under any obligation to tell me.”
Jaycie gazed up at her. “I’m . . . not good at friendships. There weren’t a lot of girls my age when I was growing up. And I didn’t want anybody to know how bad things were with my dad, so I shut out everybody who tried to get too close. Even Lisa . . . She’s my oldest friend, but we don’t talk much about anything personal. Sometimes I think the only reason she comes up here is to check things out for Cynthia.”
The idea of Lisa as Cynthia’s mole was something Annie hadn’t considered.
Jaycie rubbed her leg. “I liked being with Regan because she never asked questions. But she was so much smarter than me, and she lived in a different world.”
Annie recalled Jaycie as a background figure that summer, someone she might not have remembered if it hadn’t been for what happened in the cave.
“I could have ended up in prison,” Jaycie said. “Every night I thank God that Booker Rose heard me screaming
“Oh, Jaycie . . .”
“I’ve never known how to talk to Livia about it. Whenever I tried, she struggled to get away, so I stopped trying, hoping she’d forget.”
“She needs to talk to a therapist,” Annie said gently.
“How am I supposed to manage that? It’s not like we have one here on the island, and even if I could get her to the mainland for appointments, I can’t afford it.” She looked defeated, older than her years. “The only person she’s really connected with since it happened is you.”
Not me, Annie thought. Livia’s attachment was to Scamp.
Jaycie’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t believe I’ve hurt you, too. After everything you’ve done for me.”
Livia raced into the room, her presence putting an end to their conversation.
AFTER ANNIE HAD LEFT FOR Harp House, Theo moved into the living room to write, but the change of scenery hadn’t helped. The damned kid wouldn’t die.
The boy stared back at him from Annie’s drawing. Theo loved the oversize adult watch on the kid’s wrist, the cowlick the boy couldn’t control, those faint worry lines on his forehead. Annie had dismissed her talent as an artist, and while she might not be a master, she was one hell of an illustrator.
The kid had sucked him in right away, becoming as vivid in his mind as any of the characters he’d created. Without planning it, he’d ended up sticking him in his manuscript as a minor character, a twelve-year-old kid named Diggity Swift who’d been transported from modern-day New York City to the streets of nineteenth-century London. Diggity was supposed to be Dr. Quentin Pierce’s next victim, but so far the kid had managed to do what the adults couldn’t, elude Quentin’s pursuit. Now Quentin was in a psychopathic rage bent on destroying the little urchin in the most painful way.