“Understandable.”
She was tired of being on edge, and she loved the way the wine had made her relax. She wanted to seal away the past, undo it so it never happened. Pretend they’d just met. She wanted to be like the women she knew who could see an attractive guy in a bar, tumble into bed with him, and walk out a few hours later with no regrets and no self-flagellation. “I’m basically a guy,” her friend Rachel had once said. “I don’t need emotional attachment. I just want to get off.”
Annie wanted to be a guy, too.
“I’ve got an idea.” Theo leaned against the bookcase, and the corner of his mouth kicked up. “Let’s make out. For old times’ sake.”
Because she’d had three glasses of wine, she didn’t answer him with nearly enough conviction. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?” He moved away from the bookcase. “We won’t be breaking any new ground, the two of us. And since you can’t completely shake the feeling that I’m out to kill you, you won’t need to pretend you have any deep fondness for me. And frankly . . . I could use the practice.”
The wine in her bloodstream couldn’t resist the mischief beneath all that smoky velvet seductiveness. But even though she was drunk enough to do this, she wasn’t so drunk that she didn’t have a few conditions. “No hands.”
He came toward her slowly. “I don’t know about that.”
“No hands,” she said more firmly.
“All right. No hands. Below the waist.”
She cocked her head. “No hands below the neck.”
“I’m fairly sure that’s not realistic.” He stopped in front of her and removed the wineglass from her hand as intimately as unfastening a bra clasp.
She liked almost-drunk Annie. “Take it or leave it.”
“You’re making me a little nervous,” he said. “I told you I’m not confident about my kissing. Other things, yes. But just kissing? No confidence at all.”
His eyes were laughing at her. Brooding, wicked Theo Harp was snaring her in a net of erotic whimsy. Her hand moved to her hair. She pulled off her ponytail holder. “Call on your inner sixteen-year-old for help. He was very good at kissing.”
He gazed at her hair, drained the last drops from her glass, and closed the final few inches between them. “I’ll try.”
THEO HAD NEVER BEEN A jerk about it, but when he’d wanted a woman, he’d always been able to get her. That kind of sexual arrogance, however, was dangerous with someone like Annie. Why hadn’t she called him on his game? She knew better.
He didn’t remember the last time he and Kenley had kissed, but he did remember the last time they’d fucked. A middle-of-the-night fuck—she hating him and making sure he knew it. He hating her and trying not to show it.
He gazed down at Annie’s closed eyelids. They reminded him of pale seashells washed up on the beach. She’d grown some sharp edges over the years, but she still wouldn’t know how to be a ballbuster, not even if she read the manual. She clung to her puppets and her fairyland of good intentions and happy endings. Now here she was, ripe for kissing. And here he was. About to take advantage when he should walk away.
He ran his thumbs across her cheekbones. Her lips parted ever so slightly. Annie didn’t expect good behavior from him. She’d seen his worst, and she didn’t expect him to save her, to shield her, to do the right thing. Most important, she wasn’t expecting him to love her. That was what he liked most. That and her total lack of faith in his decency. It had been so long since he’d had the freedom to let down his guard and be who he wanted to be.
A man with no decency at all.
He lowered his mouth over hers. Lips barely touching. Wine-scented breath mingling. She arched her neck, looking for firmer contact. He forced himself to draw back, a bare millimeter. Their lips brushed, but that was all.
She saw his game and pulled back ever so slightly, creating a space he quickly filled, but only with the lightest touch. She had every reason to fear him, and letting him get so close was ludicrous, but she moved her head so her lips skimmed his like floating feathers. Only seconds had passed, but he was already hard. He sealed his mouth against hers, parted his lips, tongue thrusting, going in for the kill.
The heels of her hands slammed into his chest. A pair of outraged hazel eyes seared him. “You’re so right. You’re a terrible kisser.”
Him? A terrible kisser? No way was he letting that pass. He brushed the inside of his arm against her hair as he braced one hand on the wall behind her head. “Sorry. I got a cramp in my leg and lost my balance.”
“You lost your chance, that’s what.”
Big talk from somebody who hadn’t moved a step away from him. He’d never admit defeat this early in the game. Not with Annie. Feisty, softhearted Annie Hewitt, who’d never think of demanding a man’s last drop of blood. “Deepest apologies.” He tilted his head and blew gently on the tender skin behind her ear.
Her hair ruffled. “That’s better.”
He moved closer, exploring the soft place with his lips. The closeness was agonizing, but he wasn’t going to let a hard-on get the best of him.
Her hands slipped around his waist and slid under his sweater, violating her own rule, something he had no intention of pointing out. She turned her head, bringing her mouth closer to his, but he’d always been a competitor, and the game was on, so he moved his kisses to the line of her jaw.
She arched her neck. He accepted the invitation and kissed her there. Her palms slid higher beneath his sweater. The touch of a decent woman felt so good. So unfamiliar. He fought against raising the stakes. Eventually she was the one who pressed her body hard against him, met his mouth with open lips.
He wasn’t sure how they ended up on the floor. Had he pulled her there? Had she pulled him? He only knew that she was on her back, and he was on top of her. Just as it had been during those sweet, hot cave days.
He wanted her naked, legs splayed, wet and open. The quickness of her breathing, the way her hands gripped his bare back, told him she wanted it, too. Holding on to the last measure of his self-control, he returned to their kisses. Temples, cheeks, mouth. Deep, soulful penetrations. On and on.
She was moaning now, sounds of entreaty as she wrapped one of her legs around his. His hands tangled in the silky hullabaloo of her hair. He settled deeper into the narrow saddle of her hips. Their jeans abraded, and her moans moved deeper in her throat. He was losing control. He couldn’t hold back a moment longer.
He jerked at her zipper, at his. She arched her back. He shoved at her jeans awkwardly, pushing them off one ankle. Her fist clutched a handful of his sweater. He settled between her thighs, freed himself, drove into her.
She cried out and collapsed, her low, guttural moan fierce and defenseless. He went deeper. Pulled back. Deep again. And that was all.
The universe cracked open around him.
THE NEXT THING HE KNEW, she was cursing like crazy.
“You bastard! Son of a bitch!” She shoved him off her, yanking up her jeans and coming to her feet at the same time. “Oh, God, I hate myself. I hate you!” She was doing some kind of weird demon dance as she jerked on her zipper. Flapping her elbows. Stomping the floor. He got up, zipped his own jeans as her tirade continued. “I’m an idiot! Somebody should put me down. I swear to God! Just like a dumb, sick animal. The stupidest, dumbest . . .”
He ordered himself not to say a word.
She turned on him—red-faced and furious. “I’m not this easy! I’m not!”
“Kind of easy,” he said before he could stop himself.
She grabbed a pillow from the couch and swung it at him. He was used to a woman’s rages, and this was so small-time, he didn’t bother to duck.
She stomped the floor again. Beyond pissed, her arms waving, curls hopping. “I know exactly what’s going to happen next! The second I turn my back, I’ll be facedown in the marsh. Or locked inside the dumbwaiter. Or drowning in that cave!” She gasped for air. “I don’t trust you! I don’t
like you. And now you— You—”
“Had the best time I’ve had in longer than I can remember?” He’d never been a wiseass, but there was something about Annie that drew out his worst. Or maybe it was his best.
She glared at him. “You came inside me!”
His amusement vanished. He’d never been careless, and now he was the one who felt stupid. It put him on the defensive. “I wasn’t exactly planning on this happening.”
“You should have! Even now, one of your little swimmers could be doing a backstroke right to my—egg!”
The way she said it was funnier than hell, but he had no desire to laugh. He rubbed the back of his fist over his jaw. “You’re . . . on the pill, right?”
“It’s a little late to ask!” She turned and stomped away. “And, no, I’m not!”
An icy vise clamped around his rib cage. He could barely move. He heard her in the bedroom, and then in the bathroom. He needed to clean up himself, but all he could think about was what he’d done and the terrible price he might pay for what he could only think of as the most unsatisfying sexual encounter of his life.
When she finally emerged, she was wearing her navy robe, Santa pajamas, and a pair of sweat socks. Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair pulled up with a tie that left damp tendrils corkscrewing here and there. Mercifully, she seemed calmer. “I had pneumonia,” she said. “My pill schedule got screwed up.”
A cold trickle slid down his spine. “When did you have your last period?”
She sneered at him. “What are you? My gynecologist? Go to hell.”
“Annie . . .”
She spun on him. “Look. I know this is as much my fault as yours, but right now I’m too furious to take my share of the responsibility.”
“Damn right, it’s your fault, too! You and your kissing game.”
“Which you flunked.”
“Of course I flunked it. Do you think I’m made of ice?”
“You! What about me? And since when do you think it’s all right to have sex without a condom?”
“I don’t, damn it. But I’m not used to carrying them around in my pocket.”
“You should! Look at you. You shouldn’t go anywhere without a dozen of them!” She shook her head, closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she was mercifully calmer. “Just go,” she said. “I can’t stand looking at you a moment longer.”
His wife had delivered nearly those exact words a dozen times, but while Kenley had looked feral, Annie merely looked tired.
“I can’t go, Annie,” he said carefully. “I thought you’d have figured that out by now.”
“Of course you can. And that’s what you’re going to do. Now.”
“Do you really think I’ll leave you here alone at night after somebody tried to shoot you?”
She stared at him. He waited for her to start the foot stomping again or throw another pillow, but she didn’t. “I don’t want you here.”
“I know.”
She crossed her arms and curled her hands around her elbows. “Do what you like. I’m too upset to argue. And sleep in the studio because I’m not sharing. Understand?” A moment later she was gone, her bedroom door shut firmly behind her.
He used the bathroom, and when he came out, faced the dinner mess. Since he’d done the cooking, he shouldn’t have to clean up, but he didn’t mind. Unlike real life, cleaning a kitchen was a task with a clear beginning, middle, and end. Just like a book.
ANNIE BARELY AVOIDED TRIPPING OVER Hannibal as she got out of bed in the morning. In addition to everything else, it seemed she’d acquired a part-time cat. She’d fallen asleep last night counting and recounting the days since her last period. She should be safe, but “should” was far from a guarantee. For all she knew, she could right now be incubating the devil’s spawn. And if that happened . . . She couldn’t bear thinking about it.
She’d thought she’d freed herself from the power these handsome, brooding fake heroes had over her. But no. All Theo had to do was show a little interest, and there she was, eyes closed, legs spread, like the dumbest heroine ever written. It was so stupid. However hopeless the quest might be, she wanted a forever love. She wanted children and the conventional family life she’d never known, but she’d never find that with these damaged, aloof men. Yet here she was, slipping right back into her old pattern, except so much worse. She’d been caught in Theo Harp’s web—not because he’d diabolically cast it around her, but because she’d run into it with her arms outstretched.
She had to get to the attic before he did, and as soon as she heard him in the bathroom, she pulled the stepladder from the storage closet and carried it into the studio. He’d already made the bed, and her puppets were still arranged on the shelf under the window. Once she had the ladder into position in the closet, she climbed up and pushed open the trap. She gingerly poked her head into the cold attic space, then shone around the flashlight she’d brought with her, but she could see only construction beams and insulation.
One more dead end.
She heard the water stop in the bathroom and headed for the kitchen to make a quick bowl of cereal, then carried it back to her bedroom to eat. She didn’t like hiding out in her own home, but she couldn’t bear the idea of seeing him right now.
Only after he left the cottage did she remember the paper Livia had put in her backpack. She removed the roll and carried it over to the table, where she smoothed it out. Livia had used her black marker to draw a trio of stick figures, two large and one very small. The smallest figure, drawn off to the side of the page, had ruler-straight hair. Beneath it, Livia had printed her own name in crooked capital letters. The other two figures weren’t labeled. One lay prone with a red flower shirt decoration, the other stood with arms outstretched. At the bottom of the paper, Livia had laboriously printed out crooked letters:
FRESEK
Annie studied the drawing more closely. The small figure, she noticed, had no mouth.
FRESEK
Annie finally understood. She didn’t know exactly what she was seeing, but she knew why Livia had given this to her. This drawing was Livia’s free secret.
Chapter Twelve
ANNIE PARKED THE RANGE ROVER in the garage at Harp House. Thinking about Livia’s drawing would have been a welcome distraction from worrying about being pregnant if there weren’t something so unsettling about what the little girl had depicted. She wanted to show the drawing to Jaycie to see if she could decipher it, but Annie had made a pact, and even though she’d done it with a four-year-old, she wouldn’t break it.
She closed the garage door and wandered toward the edge of the drive. She’d made it to Harp House before Theo, and as she looked down, she saw him on the beach path, a solitary figure silhouetted against the vastness of the sea. His head was bare as usual, with nothing more than his black suede jacket as protection against the wind. He crouched down to examine a tidal pool. Eventually he leaned back on his heels and gazed out at the water. What was he thinking about? Some gruesome plot line? His dead wife? Or maybe he was considering how to get rid of an inconvenient woman he might have accidentally gotten pregnant?
Theo was not going to kill her. She was certain of that. But he could hurt her in a lot of other ways. She understood her tendency to romanticize men like Theo, and she had to be on her guard. She’d had sex with a fantasy last night. A romantic bookworm’s fantasy.
ANNIE WASHED JAYCIE’S AND LIVIA’S breakfast dishes and straightened the kitchen. By the time she was done, she still hadn’t seen Jaycie, and she went to look for her.
They lived in the old housekeeper’s apartment on the opposite side of the house from the turret. Annie wound through the back hallway until she reached the door at the end. It was closed, and she knocked. “Jaycie?”
There was no answer, and she knocked again. Just as she was about to turn the knob, Livia opened the door. She looked adorable with a homemade paper crown pushed so far down on her head that her ears stuck out. “Hey, Liv. I lik
e your crown.”
Livia was only interested in seeing if Annie had brought Scamp along, and she was clearly disappointed not to see the puppet on Annie’s arm. “Scamp’s taking a nap,” Annie said. “But I’m sure she’ll want to visit you later. Is Mommy here?”
Livia opened the door all the way to let Annie inside.
The housekeeper’s apartment had been designed in an L shape to provide both a sitting room and sleeping area. Prior to breaking her foot, Jaycie had converted the sitting room into Livia’s bedroom. Her own room was austere—a bed, chair, dresser, and lamp, all castoffs from the house. Livia’s space was more cheerful, with a bright pink bookcase, child’s table and chairs, a pink and green rug, and a bed with a Strawberry Shortcake comforter.
Jaycie stood at the window, staring outside. The hippopotamus she’d tied to the top of her crutch had twisted so it was facedown. Jaycie turned slowly from the window, her jeans and cherry red sweater clinging to her curves. “I was—straightening up in here.”
Since Livia’s toys were strewn about, and half a dozen stuffed animals poked out from the rumple of blankets on the unmade bed, Annie didn’t believe her. “I was afraid you were sick,” Annie said.
“No. I’m not sick.”
Annie realized she didn’t know Jaycie any better now than when she’d first come here not quite three weeks ago. Instead she felt as if she were looking at a photo that was slightly out of focus. Jaycie leaned on her good foot. “Theo didn’t come home last night.”
The skin on Annie’s neck grew hot with guilt. That explained why Jaycie was hiding out. Even though Annie didn’t believe Theo had any personal interest in Jaycie, she felt as if she’d broken the girlfriend code. She had to tell Jaycie at least part of the truth, but not with Livia taking in everything they were saying. “Scamp really likes your drawings, Liv. Maybe you could make one for us to hang in the kitchen while Mommy and I go talk.”
Livia didn’t protest. She went to her table and opened her crayon box. Annie stepped out into the hallway, and Jaycie followed. Annie wasn’t going to lie to her, but it would be cruel to tell her too much. “Some odd things have been happening,” she said, guilt clinging to her like sticky syrup. “I didn’t want to bother you, but I guess you need to know. When I got back to the cottage on Saturday night, it had been trashed.”