Heroes are My Weakness (31 page)

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?”

“I carefully inspect them. I run my hands over their bodies, check them for flaws—”

“Look at their teeth?”

“—assess them for strength and, most important, endurance.”

“Ah.”

“But I already know who I want. And I bring him up last.”

“I’ve never been so turned on and so horrified at the same time.”

“This man is magnificent. Exactly what I need. Thick, dark hair; a chiseled profile; hard muscles. Best of all, I can see by the intelligence in his eyes that he’s more than a stud. I select him.”

He rose from his chair and gave her a mocking nod. “Thank you.”

“No, not you.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Unfortunately, the man I’ve chosen is already booked for the night.
Then
I take you.” She gave him a triumphant smile. “You’re not as expensive, and who can resist a bargain?”

“Apparently, not you.” The slight hoarseness in his voice ruined his attempt at humor.

She felt like Scheherazade. She lowered her pitch, taking it to the border of sultry but not quite crossing over. “I’m wearing a filmy piece of black lace. And all I have on underneath is a tiny pair of scarlet panties.”

“Bedroom!” he ordered. “Right now.” It was a command, but she pretended to think it over—for about three seconds until he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her there.

After he’d pulled her through the door, she planted her feet, not yet ready to give up her control. “The room has a large bed with fur-lined shackles dangling from the head and foot boards.”

“Just when you think you know someone . . .”

“And a wall of glass-fronted cabinets displaying every sex toy imaginable.”

“I am way out of my league here.” But the smoke mingling with the amusement in his eyes said that wasn’t quite true.

“Except for those creepy gag-things,” she said quickly. “You know the ones.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, they’re disgusting.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She gestured toward the imaginary display cabinets. “Everything is tastefully arranged.”

“And why not? It’s a first-rate establishment.”

She took a few steps away from him. “We open the glass doors and examine each item together.”

“Taking our time . . .”

“You pull several out,” she said.

“Which ones?”

“The ones you’ve noticed I’ve looked at the longest.”

“Which would be . . .”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I gesture toward the display of whips.”

“I am not whipping you!”

She ignored his outrage, which might or might not be phony. “You get the whip I’ve selected and bring it to me.” She pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth. “I take it from you.”

“Like hell you do!” The devil inside him took over. “Unknown to you,” he said, closing the distance between them, “I am not just any highly paid male prostitute. I am the
king
of male prostitutes. And now I’m taking over.”

She wasn’t certain how she felt about that.

He twisted a long strand of her hair around his fingers. “I yank one strip of leather free from the whip.”

She stopped breathing.

“I use it to tie up your hair . . .”

Goose bumps skittered down her spine. “I’m not sure I like where this is going.” She loved where this was going.

He brushed the nape of her neck with his lips, then lightly nipped the flesh. “Oh, you like it. You like it a lot.” He released her hair. “Especially when I use the butt of the whip to open your legs.”

Her clothes were burning her up. She had to get them off. Right now.

“I run it up your calf . . .” He moved his fingers along the inseam of her jeans. “Then up the inside of your thigh . . .”

“Take off your clothes!” She yanked her sweater over her head.

He crossed his arms over his chest and she did the same, then locked his eyes with hers. “I make you take off your clothes.”

“You cad.”

She was undressed first, which gave her time to drink in the sight of his body. The muscle and tendon, ridges and hollows. He was perfect, and if she wasn’t, she didn’t care. Apparently, neither did he.

“What happened to that whip?” she inquired. Just in case he’d forgotten . . .

“I’m glad you asked.” He tilted his head. “You. On the bed.”

It was only a game, but she’d never felt more desirable. She sauntered over, Sex Queen of the World, and knelt on the mattress to watch him approach.

In all his magnificent glory . . .

She sat back on her heels. The gleam in his eyes told her he was enjoying this as much as she. But was he enjoying it too much? This was, after all, a man who’d built a career on sadism.

He pushed her to her back. As he explored her body, he whispered all the perverted, crude . . . and absolutely thrilling things he intended to do to her.

She struggled to find enough air to whisper back, “And I say nothing. I let you do whatever you want, touch whatever you want. I’m completely submissive.” She dug her fingernails hard into his buttocks. “Until I’m not.”

And the Sex Queen of the World took over.

It was glorious.

Their role-playing liberated them. Stripped away their seriousness. Let them snarl and play and threaten and tussle. They had no scruples and every scruple. The blankets tangled around them as their threats grew more dire, their caresses more thrilling.

Outside the window of their erotic cave, fresh snow began to fall. Inside, they were lost in the wildness they’d unleashed.

T
HEO HAD NEVER BEEN
so foolish with a woman. As he lay back in the pillows, he tried on the unfamiliar notion that sex could be fun. A sharp elbow jabbed him in the ribs. “I’m done with you,” she said. “Out.”

Kenley could never get enough of him. She’d wanted him with her every second. And all he’d wanted was to get away. “I’m too tired to move,” he murmured.

“Fine.” She flipped out of bed and flounced from the room. She’d meant what she said about not sleeping together. He should have been a gentleman and done what she’d asked, but he was feeling ill used, and he stayed where he was.

Much later, when he still hadn’t fallen back asleep, he found her curled in his bed in the studio. He resisted the urge to crawl in with her and got his laptop instead. He carried it out into the living room and settled down to write. But he kept thinking about Diggity Swift. He’d killed off the kid on the page, but not in his head, and he didn’t like that. Disgusted with himself, he set the laptop aside, stared out the window, and watched the snow fall.

A
FTER
A
NNIE HAD SHOWERED AND
dressed for the day in jeans and her green sweater, she found Theo in the kitchen.

“Would you like another cup of coffee?” he asked.

“No, thank you. But thank you for offering.”

“My pleasure.”

He’d showered before her, and he, too, was fully dressed. They had their best manners on display, making up for last night’s debauchery with Old World courtesy, as if they needed to reclaim their dignity and prove they were, indeed, civilized.

As he retired to the table with his coffee, she found an old sheet, located a can of black paint in the storage closet, and carried it all into the studio where there were enough splatters on the floor not to make a difference. Half an hour later, Theo stood in the fresh snow and gazed at the banner she’d hung on the front of the cottage.

TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

She climbed down from the ladder and scowled at him, daring him to make fun of her, but he merely shrugged. “Works for me.”

O
VER THE COURSE OF THE
next few days, Annie came to a decision. Not about Theo. Her relationship with him was as clear-cut as she could wish. She loved being Sex Queen of the World, and insisting on separate beds kept her from becoming a chump. Instead, her decision involved the legacy. She’d found nothing, and it was time to face reality. Mariah had been on so many painkillers that she hadn’t known what she was saying. There was no legacy, and Annie could either fall apart because her money problems weren’t going to magically disappear, or she could keep moving forward, one step at a time.

The interisland ferry was due to arrive on the first of March, only a few days away, and she began packing up everything in the cottage that had value to ship to the mainland. She arranged for a van to meet the ferry and take it all to Manhattan. Her mother’s name was still worth something, and her things were going to the best resale shop in the city.

Annie had sent photos of everything to the owner, including the paintings, lithographs, art books, the Louis XIV “Pile Driver” chest, and barbed-wire bowl. He’d agreed to advance the money for transportation against future sales.

The centerpiece of the collection and the item the dealer was certain would fetch the most money was one she’d nearly overlooked. The cottage guest book. Some of the autographs were of well-known artists, and a few signatures had small doodles next to the names. The dealer hoped to get as much as two thousand dollars for it, but he took a 40 percent commission. Even if everything sold, Annie wouldn’t be able to settle her debts, but she’d put a dent in them. She was also healthy again. When her sixty days were up, she’d try to get her old jobs back and start all over again. A depressing thought.

Then something happened on the last day of February that cheered her up.

Theo had been out riding longer than usual, and she kept dashing to the windows at Harp House looking for him. It was nearly dusk when she spotted him riding up the drive. She hurried out the side door, grabbing her coat on the way but not bothering with her hat and gloves.

He reined up as he saw her running toward him. “What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing. Put your happy face on. I got my period!”

He nodded. “That’s a relief.”

No big smile. No high fives or “Thank Gods.” She regarded him curiously. “Somehow I expected a little more enthusiasm.”

“Trust me. I couldn’t be more enthusiastic.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Unlike you, I’m not in the habit of jumping up and down like a twelve-year-old.” He rode off toward the stable.

“You should try it sometime,” she called after him.

As he disappeared she shook her head in disgust. One more reminder that the only connection between them was physical. Did he let anybody see what was going on inside his head?

O
F COURSE HE WAS RELIEVED
. Annie had a lot of gall suggesting he wasn’t. A pregnant Annie would have screwed up his life in more ways than he could begin to fathom. He was irritable because of his work. He always got testy when his writing wasn’t going well, and it definitely wasn’t going well now. He’d killed off Diggity Swift a week ago and been blocked ever since.

He didn’t understand it. He’d never had a problem killing off a character, but now he couldn’t seem to garner any interest in Quentin Pierce and his band of miscreants. Today he’d actually been happy to get a call from Booker Rose about his hemorrhoids, and how whacked was that?

A
NNIE KEPT THE PINK VELVET
sofa and the beds, but shipped off most of the rest of the furniture, including the mermaid chair. She wrapped old blankets around the larger paintings and packed up smaller items in boxes she brought down from Harp House. Judy Kester’s son Kurt had to make two trips in his truck to get it all to the wharf. She paid him with the taupe armchair he wanted to give his pregnant wife for her birthday.

Since the new locks had been installed a little over a week ago, there’d been no more incidents at the cottage, although she couldn’t be certain whether the locks were responsible or the sign she’d hung. Once Theo was satisfied she could handle a gun, he’d made certain everyone in town knew she was armed, and she’d begun to feel safe again.

Theo wasn’t happy about the missing furniture. “I need a place to write,” he complained as he surveyed the nearly bare living room.

“You can go back to the turret. I’ll be fine here now.”

“I’m not going anywhere until we figure out who’s been behind this. It’s amazing what people tell me when I’m bandaging them up. I keep hoping if I ask the right questions, I’ll learn something.”

She was touched by his attempts to help her. At the same time, she didn’t want him to think she was leaning on him—expecting him to play the hero to her hapless heroine. “You’ve had enough of needy women,” she said. “You’re not responsible for me.”