Why Do We Love Dangerous Fictional Heroes?

A mysterious man walks into a room, says very little and gives the impression that he knows where every exit is. In real life, I would appreciate a proper introduction. In a romantic suspense novel, I am suddenly prepared to read another hundred pages.

What is going on there? It cannot simply be the brooding. Brooding, without anything underneath it, is just poor conversation with flattering lighting.

The heroes who hold our attention tend to offer something more interesting: the possibility that a formidable exterior is concealing a person worth knowing. Danger opens the door. Character has to persuade us to stay.

Confidence is an excellent entrance. It is not a whole personality.

Competence is attractive on the page. A man who can assess a difficult situation, make a decision and remain useful while everyone else panics has an immediate advantage. Especially if the alternative is someone shouting, “Calm down!” while contributing absolutely nothing.

But confidence becomes far more compelling when it meets someone it cannot effortlessly manage. A heroine with her own priorities. A question he cannot answer neatly. A feeling that refuses to fit into his carefully arranged life.

In Sweet Precision, Celestine Navarro and Adrian Fitzgerald bring sharp observation and strategic thinking into a forced partnership. That is a much more entertaining prospect than one person doing all the thinking while the other admires the view. Two capable people can create splendid complications.

The crack in the composure

A hero does not have to deliver a magnificent speech about his feelings to become emotionally interesting. Sometimes the smaller admission matters more: uncertainty, regret, the need for help. Something that costs him a little pride.

If he can face an external threat but cannot bear to be properly known, there are suddenly two kinds of tension in the story. Will they survive the danger? And will he manage one honest conversation without treating it like an interrogation?

Vulnerability gives confidence somewhere to go. Without it, we may admire his efficiency, but we are left standing outside a locked door. I would rather discover the person inside than spend an entire novel complimenting the lock.

Loyalty needs something to prove

Declarations are easy to make when the room is quiet. Romantic suspense rarely leaves the room quiet for long.

That pressure makes choices revealing. Does he listen when the heroine disagrees? Can he respect her judgement when he is frightened for her? Is his concern about her safety, or about getting his own way?

Protectiveness can be deeply romantic when it makes room for the other person’s courage. It loses its shine when the heroine is expected to surrender her agency along with her coat. I want a partnership with sparks, not a beautifully dressed supervisor.

And yes, there are the secrets

Mystery asks us to look again. A guarded answer may suggest a hidden motive, a painful history or simply a man who has not yet earned our confidence. The pleasure is in finding out which.

In Sweet Vengeance, Gabriela Sullivan’s search for answers brings her into Timothy Fitzgerald’s world. Attraction cannot conveniently remove the questions that brought her there. That friction gives curiosity a romantic rival: the temptation to care before everything is understood.

We can enjoy that uncertainty because a novel gives us room to be curious without handing a mysterious stranger our house keys. Fiction is a very useful arrangement.

Perhaps the most appealing dangerous hero is not the man who frightens everyone else. It is the man whose confidence, loyalty and emotional depth become convincing under pressure. The expensive suit is welcome to attend. It cannot do all the work.

Elsewhere in the Journal: Behind the Title: Sweet Series.

Your turn: what wins you over first: quiet competence, a flash of vulnerability, fierce loyalty or a secret you simply have to unravel? And which one cannot carry a hero on its own?