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.
Jaycie had been quieter than usual all day. She looked tired, and as they moved into Elliott’s office, Annie ordered her to sit down. Jaycie propped her crutches against the arm of the leather couch and sagged into the sofa. “Theo sent a text telling me to make sure you take the Range Rover back to the cottage tonight.”
Annie hadn’t told Jaycie about getting shot at, and she didn’t intend to. Her purpose was to make Jaycie’s life easier, not add to her worries.
Jaycie tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “He also told me not to send up dinner tonight. That’s the third time this week.”
Annie moved the vacuum to the front windows and said carefully, “I haven’t invited him, Jaycie. But Theo does what he wants.”
“He likes you. I don’t understand it. You say terrible things about him.”
Annie tried to explain. “He doesn’t like me. What he likes is giving me a hard time. There’s a big difference.”
“I don’t think so.” Jaycie pulled herself back up and fumbled with her crutches. “I’d better go see what Livia is up to.”
Annie gazed after her in dismay. She was hurting the last person in the world she wanted to upset. Life on an almost deserted island was getting more complicated by the day.
THAT EVENING, JUST BEFORE SHE went to get her coat, Annie saw Livia pull a footstool across the kitchen floor, climb up on it, and push a rolled tube of drawing paper into Annie’s backpack. She intended to investigate as soon as she got to the cottage, but the first thing she saw when she opened the door was Leo sprawled on the couch with a drinking straw tied around his arm like a drug user’s tourniquet. Dilly lounged at the other end, a tiny paper cylinder rolled like a cigarette dangling from her hand, her legs crossed like a man’s, ankle over knee.
Annie yanked off her hat. “Will you leave my puppets alone?!”
Theo wandered out from the kitchen, a lavender dish towel tucked in the waistband of his jeans. “Until now, I didn’t know I had such bad impulse control.”
Annie hated the thrum of pleasure she felt at the sight of him. Still, what woman with a heartbeat wouldn’t enjoy feasting her eyes on a man like him, lavender tea towel and all? She punished him for his ridiculous good looks by getting snooty. “Dilly would never smoke. She specializes in preventing substance abuse.”
“Admirable.”
“And you’re supposed to be out of here by the time I get home.”
“Am I?” He looked vague, a matinee idol prone to memory lapses. Hannibal wandered out from the kitchen and draped himself over Theo’s shoe.
She gazed at the cat. “What’s your familiar doing here?”
“I need him while I work.”
“To help cast spells?”
“Writers have this thing for cats. You couldn’t possibly understand.” He stared down his perfectly sculpted nose at her, his expression so deliberately condescending that she knew he was trying to rile her. Instead she rescued her puppets from their newfound vices and took them back to the studio.
The boxes were no longer on the bed but set along the wall underneath the taxi mural, which her research had proven to be worthless, like so much else. She’d begun going through the boxes’ contents, inventorying everything inside, but the only interesting items she’d found so far were the cottage guest book and her Dreambook, the name she’d given the scrapbook she’d kept when she was a young teen. She’d filled its pages with her drawings, Playbills from shows she’d seen, photos of her favorite actresses, and reviews she’d written herself of her own imaginary Broadway triumphs. It was depressing to see how far short her adult life had fallen from the fantasies of that young girl, and she put it away.
The smell of something delicious wafted in from the kitchen. After dragging a comb through her hair and dabbing on a little lip gloss because she was pathetic, she returned to the living room, where she found Theo lounging on the couch in the same place he’d positioned Leo earlier. Even from across the room, she could see he was holding one of her drawings. “I’d forgotten you were such a good artist,” he said.
Seeing him examining something she’d done to entertain herself made her uncomfortable. “I’m not any good. I do it for fun.”
“You’re selling yourself way short.” He looked at the drawing again. “I like this kid. He’s got character.”
It was a sketch she’d done of a studious young boy with straight, dark hair and a cowlick sprouting like a fountain from the crown of his head. Bony ankles showed beneath the cuffs of his jeans, as if he might be going through one of those preteen growth spurts. Square-rimmed glasses sat on a lightly freckled nose. His shirt was buttoned wrong, and he wore an adult watch that was too big for his wrist. Definitely not great art, but he had potential as a future puppet.
Theo tilted the paper, looking at it from another angle. “How old do you think he is?”
“No idea.”
“Twelve, maybe. Struggling with puberty.”
“If you say so.”
As he set the drawing down, she realized he’d poured himself a glass of wine. She began to protest, but he gestured toward the open bottle on the Louis XIV chest. “I brought it down from the house. And you can’t have any until you answer a few questions.”
Something she really didn’t want to do. “What are we having for dinner?”
“I’m having meat loaf. And not just any meat loaf. One with a little pancetta tucked inside, two special cheeses, and a glaze with a mystery ingredient that might be Guinness. Interested?”
Even thinking about it made her mouth water. “I might be.”
“Good. But you’re going to have to talk first. That means time’s run out, and you’re up against the wall. Decide right now whether or not you’re going to trust me.”
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!
Chapter Eleven
THE MEAT LOAF WAS EVEN better than advertised, the accompanying roasted potatoes perfectly seasoned. By her third glass of wine, the cottage had become a place out of time where proper codes of behavior were suspended and secrets could stay secret. A place where a woman could let go of doubts and indulge every sensual whim with no one being the wiser. She tried to shake herself out of her reverie, but the wine made it too much trouble.
Theo twisted the stem of his glass between his thumb and index finger. His voice was low, as quiet as the night. “Do you remember what we used to do in the cave?”
She made a play of cutting a piece of potato in half. “Hardly anything. It was so long ago.”
“I remember.”
She cut the potato wedge smaller. “I can’t imagine why.”
He gazed at her, long and steadily, as if he knew she’d been thinking about erotic hideaways. “Everybody remembers their first time.”
“There wasn’t any first time,” she said. “We didn’t make it that far.”
“Near enough. And I thought you didn’t remember.”
“I remember that much.”
He kicked back in his chair. “We used to make out for hours. Do you remember that?”
How could she forget? Their kisses had gone on and on—cheeks, neck, mouth, and tongue. Seconds . . . minutes . . . hours. Then they’d start all over again. Adults were too fixed on the final goal to take that kind of time. Only teenagers afraid o
f the next step exchanged kisses that lasted forever.
She wasn’t drunk, but she was buzzed, and she didn’t want to linger in that bewildering cave of memory. “Kissing has turned into a lost art.”
“Do you think?”
“Um.” She took another sip of the rich, heady wine.
“You’re probably right,” he said. “I know I’m lousy at it.”
She barely suppressed the urge to correct him. “Most men wouldn’t admit it.”
“I’m too anxious to get to the next step.”
“You and every other guy.”
A black tail poked up over the edge of the table. Hannibal had jumped in his lap. He stroked the cat, then set him back down.
She pushed a piece of meat loaf around on her plate, no longer hungry, no longer wary. “I don’t understand. You love animals.”
He didn’t ask what she meant. He knew they were still back in the cave, but now the tide had turned and the weather had grown treacherous. He rose from the table and wandered toward the bookshelves. “How do you explain something you don’t understand yourself?”
She rested her elbow on the table. “Was it the pups? Was it me? Who were you trying to hurt?”
He took his time answering. “Ultimately, I guess it was myself.”
Which revealed nothing at all.
He said, “You should have let me know about Mariah’s legacy the night of the break-in.”
She rose and picked up her wineglass. “Like you tell me everything. Or anything, for that matter.”
“Nobody’s going around firing a gun at me.”
“I don’t— I didn’t trust you.”
He turned toward her, his gaze seductive without being lecherous. “If you knew what I was thinking right now, you’d have good reason not to trust me, because some of my happiest memories happened in that cave. I know you don’t feel that way.”
If it hadn’t been for what had happened that last night, she might almost have agreed. The wine hummed through her veins. “It’s hard to feel nostalgic about the place where you almost died.”