The Widow

by Anne Stuart

  He barely made it out of the cottage before Lauretta arrived back with her charge. They were arguing about something, but the sound of their voices was muffled on the night air, and Maguire was too intent on stashing the painting and then going to look for Charlie to pay much attention to a couple of querulous old women.

  He might as well admit it—he was worried about her. He wasn’t supposed to be swayed by tender feelings—if he started getting sentimental he might think twice about the story he was writing, and then he’d really be up shit’s creek without a paddle. Gregory would kill him, and he wouldn’t be too happy with himself, either.

  Charlie was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She’d already survived marriage to a creature like Pompasse—and the scandal he was busy stirring up would be child’s play for her compared to the real thing.

  Unless, of course, she had actually killed the old man.

  But he wasn’t even going to consider that possibility. He trusted his own instincts enough to know when someone was capable of murder, and that was one area where Charlie fell short. It wasn’t that she was incapable of that kind of passion. Beneath that cool exterior raged a blazing heart, he was sure of it. He just couldn’t see it channeled into destruction.

  He wanted to see her laugh. Had she ever been a child, ever felt playful? She always seemed to be on her best behavior, even with him doing his best to irritate her. What would it take to break through that unnatural calm of hers? Make her laugh, make her cry?

  The moon was shining down through the broken roof of the abandoned church, providing plenty of light for him to make his way down into the cellars and put the painting in one of the driest rooms. He didn’t even see Charlie until he came back up.

  She was sound asleep, curled up on the pew where he himself had stretched out. Her hair had come loose around her face, and a shaft of moonlight shone down on her, like a ridiculous spotlight.

  He wanted to laugh at the romantic absurdity of it. He wanted to go over and shake her and wake her up, get her annoyed and fighting again.

  He did neither. He crossed the rubble, more quietly now that he knew she was there, but she didn’t wake up. He could see the lines of exhaustion on her pale face, and he figured jet lag and the entire mess must have finally caught up with her. She’d be stiff as a board when she woke up, and he ought to give her a good shake and send her back to the villa.

  Instead he sat down at the other end of the pew. Even the weight of his body hitting the seat didn’t disturb her. She was out for the count, and he stared at her in the moonlight, unable to look away.

  She was the strangest combination of opposites. Strong yet fragile. Frigid, yet there was a streak of powerful sensuality beneath her repressed surface. He’d watched the way she touched the flowers, smelled the food, lifted her face to feel the soft breeze against her skin, and he could almost feel her reactions.

  She could stand up to her mother, survive a powerhouse like Pompasse, and yet she was afraid of men. It didn’t make sense. Nothing about her added up.

  He leaned back against the armrest, watching her. So he wanted her—it was no crime, no weakness on his part, he told himself. She was pretty. Gia was prettier, but he wasn’t particularly interested in beauty.

  Maybe it was just the challenge.

  Or maybe it was the look in her eyes and the feel of her body against his when she finally relaxed. Maybe it was the taste of her mouth. What would it taste like if she kissed him back?

  She slept for another two hours—by the time she awoke the moon had sunk low. He’d watched over her the entire time, oddly content. Tomorrow they’d battle again. For now he could keep her safe.

  It was dark in the church, and he could tell by her movements that she was awake, that she’d seen him. He caught her before she started screaming, clamping a hand over her mouth to silence her.

  “It’s just me,” he growled.

  She relaxed, no longer fighting, and he had a moment to wonder that they both considered him a safe alternative before he released her and moved away.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Being a proper little gentleman and watching over you while you slept. I stashed the painting in one of the rooms down below—it seemed the best spot to keep it out of sight until we find out where the others are.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” he said irritably.

  “Why were you watching over me?” She was trying unsuccessfully to pin her hair back, but it kept coming loose around her face and eventually she gave up.

  “Maybe I didn’t want Pompasse’s killer to make you his second course. At least, not until I find the paintings.”

  She leaned back against the pew. “Why does everyone keep insisting he was murdered? There’s been no hint of suspicion.”

  “Maybe because he was.”

  “Then why haven’t the police been out to the villa? Why hasn’t anyone been asking questions? As far I know you’re the only one who’s the slightest bit curious….” Her voice trailed off. “You’re not an undercover policeman, are you?”

  He laughed, genuinely amused. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “You know perfectly well who I am. I’m an insurance investigator, trying to catalog your husband’s estate.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?” she said quietly.

  Hell and damnation. “I don’t know,” he said amiably. “Maybe because you’re naturally suspicious?”

  She ignored his comment. “What time is it?” she demanded.

  “After two. You’ve been sleeping like a baby.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Maybe I liked listening to you snore.”

  “I don’t snore. I need to get back to the house.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to get to bed. With my fiancé,” she added with a trace of defiance.

  If he hadn’t been so annoyed he would have laughed. “All right. I’ll come back with you.”

  “I can find my way myself.”

  “Well, I can’t, and I’m sure as hell not going to spend the night up here. I was just waiting for you. By the way, I found out who put the picture in your room.”

  She was already halfway to the door, but that stopped her. “Who?”

  “Who’s the logical choice? Your friend Gia. Problem is, she says she didn’t slash it. Says she found it like that and thought you deserved a little present.”

  “Did you believe her?” She’d waited until he caught up with her, and together they started down the pathway.

  “As a matter of fact I did. She said she was too pragmatic to ruin an expensive piece of art.”

  “She is,” Charlie said slowly. “Did she steal it in the first place?”

  “She says no, she just found it.”

  “Who took them, then? Does she have any idea where the others are?”

  “Not the faintest, love,” Maguire said. “I looked around the old lady’s cottage. They’re not there. I don’t think there’s room for anything there, even the old lady.”

  “You’re lucky she didn’t catch you snooping around. She always had a fearsome temper. Did you check the paintings on her walls? Pompasse gave her several over the years.”

  “None. Just a bunch of cheap garbage littering every available surface. Watch your step!” he said as she stumbled.

  She caught herself before he could grab her. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m like a mountain goat.”

  “Sure you are, sugar,” he drawled. “Though I won’t argue that you like to butt heads.”

  “Only with you, Maguire,” she shot back.

  That’s what I’m counting on, he thought, following her down the pathway. It was a strange consolation. She treated everyone else, friend and foe alike, with calm serenity. He was able to get to her as no one else could. He considered that a small victory.

  The house was dark, with no sign of life, when they reached the b
ottom of the path. “I guess they weren’t too worried about you,” he murmured.

  “In case you didn’t notice, Henry’s light is still on,” she said. “He’s probably waiting up for me.”

  “Maybe,” Maguire said. “But if I were you I’d let me go on ahead and check things out. Make sure everyone’s where they’re supposed to be.”

  “What are you suggesting, Maguire?”

  “Nothing. You don’t want to walk in on anything, now, do you?”

  “Go to hell,” she said, really angry, and pushed past him, into the hallway, moving up the stairs in the darkness.

  She didn’t bother being particularly quiet, and neither did he, but it didn’t matter. Henry and Gia were making enough noise to drown out anyone’s approach.

  Charlie had halted outside his door, and in the darkness he couldn’t see the expression on her face. Gia was by far the loudest, probably for the express purpose of announcing herself to the entire household, but Henry was wheezing and groaning away in tandem, and for such a large, immovable bed it was making a surprising amount of noise. He had to hand it to Gia—she’d been more successful than his wildest dreams. Henry must have been ripe for the plucking.

  He half expected Charlie to slam the door open and demand an explanation. But then, maybe she didn’t need one. She turned and walked past him, back down the stairs and out onto the terrace, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  16

  The moon had set completely, and the terrace was swathed in darkness. It was only a small comfort. When she’d lived here before, been married to Pompasse, she’d come out here in the middle of the night to hide. But there was no place to hide any longer.

  She knew he’d follow her. He loomed over her in the darkness, huge, silent, and she couldn’t read his expression. Which was just as well.

  “So?” he said finally.

  “So what? So Gia managed to get Henry in bed. It’s not surprising. She’s a beautiful woman, and Henry’s been…frustrated recently. It’s no wonder he succumbed.” She looked up at him, and some of her anguish broke through. “I thought she was going to go after you.”

  “Yeah, so she told me. Guess you thought you’d kill two birds with one stone by setting her on me. Problem is, it didn’t work. I told her I wasn’t interested.”

  “Why not? She’s young and beautiful.”

  “Let’s just say I have more taste than that old horn dog you think you’re going to marry.”

  “I’m not going to marry him,” she said.

  “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all night.”

  “I have no right.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Maguire exploded. “Don’t be such a bloody fool. The bastard took the first piece of ass offered to him, in your house, in your bed, and you say you have no right. Get over it, lady. You’re well rid of him.”

  “I wouldn’t sleep with him.”

  “So what? A grown man deals with it. He doesn’t go after the first bit of pussy that comes his way.”

  “Maguire!” she said, shocked.

  “Don’t like my language? I can get a lot more crude. You’re better off without him. Tomorrow morning you tell him to pack his bags and get the hell out of here. You’re good at doing that—you’ve had lots of practice with me.”

  “Yes, but you don’t listen,” she said mournfully.

  “Yeah, but I’m not Henry. Don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re anything alike.” There was a strange undertone to his voice in the darkness, one she couldn’t recognize. Didn’t want to recognize.

  “I don’t want you feeling sorry for me,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  “You probably think this is funny.”

  “Not particularly. Look, sweetheart, it’s the middle of the night and even though you took a lengthy snooze you still need your rest. As do I. You want me to go kick Gia out so you can get some peace and quiet?”

  “No,” she said. “I want to sleep in your bed.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Isn’t that a bit of a drastic turnaround?” he said finally. “Not that I’m unwilling, but under the circumstances…”

  “Not with you, asshole!” she said. “I mean I want to sleep in the studio and you can sleep somewhere else. Go up to my room if you want.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not interested in listening to the moaning, either.”

  “I’m taking your room.”

  “Fine. I’ll sleep in a chair. I’ve slept worse places. Though it would help if I had a pack of cigarettes.”

  “Sorry, I’m fresh out.”

  He couldn’t see her face in the darkness, her doubtlessly woebegone expression. She felt as if the air had been knocked out of her—everything she’d been so sure of had vanished. She’d waited too long. She didn’t want to blame Henry—he was only human. And she already knew Gia was an alley cat out to take anything that belonged to Charlie.

  “I can see you’re brokenhearted,” he drawled, and for a moment she wondered what he meant.

  She headed for the studio, half expecting him to follow, but he stayed where he was at the edge of the terrace. “Do you need anything?” she felt compelled to ask. “Covers? A pillow?”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, sugar. I can find what I need.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, and shut the French doors behind her, closing him out in the night air.

  She didn’t start crying until she got into the bed. It was a saggy old double bed—Charlie had no idea where Tomaso had found it, but it enfolded her like an old friend, and she sank into the softness with a sigh that somehow caught on a sob. And once she started she couldn’t stop.

  She didn’t even know why she was crying. Was it for Pompasse? Was it for her seemingly safe future with Henry? Was it for her lonely childhood or her empty present? It didn’t matter. She buried her face in the pillow, trying to stifle the sobs that were shaking her body, but the more she fought them the stronger they became, until she thought she might rattle apart from grief.

  She was barely aware of the door opening, the coolness of the air as the covers were lifted. But she felt his body slide up against hers in the sagging bed, his arms go around her, pulling her back against him, and she panicked, kicking out.

  “Calm down,” Maguire whispered. “It’s just me.”

  “Get out!” she said. Or tried to say. The words were almost indecipherable through her sobs.

  “I’m not going anyplace. There are times when a woman needs to be held and this is one of them.”

  “No!” She tried to fight him, but he was astonishingly strong, holding her pinioned against him.

  “Yes,” he said. “You need someone to hold you, and I’m your man. Now, go to sleep.”

  Somewhere along the way her tears had left her. “Sleep?” she echoed in astonishment.

  “Yes, sleep. Did you think I was going to have my wicked way with you, love? I’m a right bastard, but even I have my limits, and you’re not interested in sex right now.”

  “I’m never interested in sex.”

  “So you say,” he muttered. “In the meantime, go to sleep. I’m not leaving until you do.”

  “I can’t sleep with you.”

  “Sure you can. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and try it.”

  She yanked once more at his restraining arms, but it was hopeless. His grip was like a straitjacket, albeit a relatively gentle one. There was no escaping.

  “I hate this. I hate you,” she said fiercely.

  “Of course you do, love,” he said in a lazy voice. “Now, stop arguing and go to sleep.”

  There was no escape. At least, not until he was asleep. All she could do was lie perfectly still, somehow grit her teeth and put up with the feel of his body pressed up against her back, and sooner or later he’d drift off and she could get away from him.

  At least he’d gotten into bed with his clothes on. She could feel the cotton of his T-shirt, though his leg
s were bare against hers, and…

  “What’s that?” she demanded.

  “What do you think it is? It’s not like you never had any. You just didn’t like it.”

  “You’re disgusting. Get out of my bed.”

  “My bed, and I’m not going anywhere. It’s a perfectly natural response to being snuggled up to a woman. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it. Go to sleep.”

  “I don’t want…”

  “If you keep talking then I’ll start thinking of ways to occupy our time.”

  She shut up, fast. She’d survive this. She’d survive anything—she already had, and this was just one more assault on her fragile serenity.

  She took a deep breath, then let it out in a shuddering sigh. The softness of the bed kept her plastered up against him, and the stiffer she held herself, the longer it would take for him to drop his guard and fall asleep. Besides, he was stiff enough for both of them.

  The thought shouldn’t have been funny. She was just a little punchy by now—too many things happening in too short a period of time. She should be lying here mourning Henry, and instead all she could think about was the feel of Maguire’s heat against her back, the steady pounding of his heart, echoing through her own skin.

  His breathing was slow and steady, but his hold on her didn’t lessen, and she wondered whether he’d be able to sleep with her clamped against him. Probably. The sooner she gave in, the sooner the night would be over.

  She closed her eyes, trying to think of something peaceful. Snowstorms and olive trees and ocean waves and heat, reaching into her very bones, soothing her, so that her muscles began to relax and she felt herself sink back against him with a soft, forgiving sigh.

  She was going to fall asleep, which seemed like the greatest betrayal of all, and yet she couldn’t fight it any longer. She felt drugged, by the night, by the heat of his body, and she was tired of fighting.