The Widow Read online

  “Quit whining and start moving,” Maguire said. “Or I’ll come back there and carry you.”

  That was enough to make her move. She practically sprinted across the narrow plank, but the damned man didn’t move, didn’t get out of her way. She had no choice but to barrel into him as he pulled her to safety on the other side.

  This time he held her, looking at her.

  And this time he kissed her. As somehow she knew he would.

  10

  Charlie wouldn’t have thought a kiss would be earth-shattering. But then, she would never have let anyone like Maguire kiss her if she had had half a chance to avoid it.

  But she didn’t. He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her up against his dusty, sweaty body, put a hand behind her head to hold her still and simply kissed her, openmouthed, using his tongue.

  She stood frozen in his arms, trapped, unable to move. It felt as if she were still dangling over the precipice, ready to drop into some dark hole of oblivion. He took his time with the kiss, and there was nothing rushed, nothing brutal, nothing emotional. Just a kiss, thorough, territorial, and when he released her he didn’t even look shaken.

  “Not much experience with men, right?” he drawled.

  She went at him like a football player, plowing her shoulder into his stomach. He had a hard stomach, but he wasn’t expecting her sudden move, and he fell backward with a grunt of pain as she sprinted over him, down the narrow aisle of the church and out into the overgrown countryside.

  She was rubbing at her mouth while she ran, but she couldn’t wipe away the taste, the feel of him. Why the hell had he kissed her—he didn’t like her, and she despised him. So why had he pulled her up against his body and…

  She slid once, going down hard, and she let out a stifled sob that horrified her. She kept going, heading toward Madame Antonella’s tiny stone cottage, looking for some kind of safety.

  She scrambled up the steps to the terrace. It was deserted—no one to ask unwanted questions. She threw herself into one of the old iron chairs, taking deep, shuddering breaths as she tried to control herself.

  She was being ridiculous. Absurd, to react like a hysterical virgin because Maguire had decided, in a moment of complete insanity, to kiss her. She’d been kissed a thousand times, by a thousand men….

  Well, no, she hadn’t. There had been a few boys before she met Pompasse, but those had been messy, awkward, fumbling occasions, their idea, not hers. Pompasse had never kissed her on the mouth—not even at their wedding. He thought kissing unsanitary and overrated.

  And Henry was a cuddler, not a kisser. When they kissed it was closed-mouthed, brief, affectionate. Nothing like Maguire’s animal pawing.

  It hadn’t been animal pawing, she corrected herself, making an effort at fairness. It had just been a kiss, nothing more. Nothing to make such a fuss over. Just part of his strange need to unsettle her, though she couldn’t begin to guess why. Third-grade dynamics, he’d said. The only thing she knew about third grade and boys dipping girls’ braids in ink pots was that it was an early, fumbling attempt at flirtation.

  If that was Maguire’s way of flirting then he was doing a piss-poor job of it.

  But he wasn’t flirting with her. He couldn’t be. She’d worked very hard at keeping her defenses about her, and with her hard-won serenity, her height and her cool politeness, she usually managed to keep unwanted men at a safe distance.

  And, in fact, they were all unwanted.

  It was just a shame she didn’t want women, either. She’d grown to adulthood in Pompasse’s bohemian household and she had no provincial concerns about sexual preference. It would have made life so much simpler if she preferred women. People would accept her choice and leave her alone.

  They usually did, anyway. But not Maguire. He was like a nasty rash—raw and irritating—under her skin. And she still couldn’t figure out why.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She looked up. Madame Antonella loomed over her, huge in the bright sunlight. She was very tall, and massively built, and despite her age she was surprisingly strong and agile. It was only her mind that was prematurely weak.

  “Good morning, madame,” Charlie said, starting to rise from her seat politely. Madame Antonella had always expected to be shown the courtesy her age and position deserved, and Charlie had never hesitated. Pompasse had made it clear that Antonella, as his first model, held a place of honor, and Charlie had been dutiful.

  She didn’t get far this time. Antonella put a strong, gnarled hand in the middle of her chest and shoved her backward into the chair, with such force that the iron legs skittered across the flag-stoned terrace.

  “Whore,” the old lady spat at her. She spoke in the guttural French of her youth, and Charlie could barely understand her. “You think you can get away with it, spreading your legs for everyone, when you didn’t even deserve the blessing of…”

  “Antonella?” Charlie stammered, trying to move out of her way. “Madame…I don’t know how I’ve offended you….”

  The iron chair was pushed up against the low stone wall. Behind it, the path fell away steeply, and for the first time Charlie realized what a precarious position she was in. With the demented old lady leaning over her, one more push and she could topple down onto the rocks below, with only the iron chair to cushion her fall.

  “Bitch,” Antonella spat. “Slut.” She put her big hands on Charlie’s shoulders, squeezing hard.

  “Madame!” The sound of Lauretta’s voice was a blessed relief. Antonella’s face fell, and she looked like a naughty child caught with matches. She released Charlie, then turned to look at Lauretta.

  “She has to be punished,” she said plaintively, her aging voice sounding eerily like a child’s.

  “There’s no need to punish Charlie, Madame Antonella,” Lauretta said sternly. “She’s done nothing wrong.”

  “Charlie?” the old woman echoed in a puzzled voice. She swung around to look at her. “Is that Charlie?”

  For a moment Charlie had been too shocked to move, but she scrambled out of the chair, moving out of Antonella’s reach, absently rubbing her shoulders. The old lady’s grip had been fearsome.

  “Yes, Antonella. It’s Charlie. You remember me, don’t you?”

  The old woman’s milky gaze sharpened for a moment behind her thick, distorting glasses, then she nodded. “He married you,” she said in a tone of disbelief. “He never married the others.”

  “He’s dead now, madame,” Lauretta said soothingly. “He’s at peace now.”

  “But what about the rest of us?” Antonella said bitterly. She tilted her head to stare at Charlie. “So you’re Charlie. How very strange. I thought you were dead….” The sentence trailed off.

  “You thought I was dead?” Charlie repeated, slightly queasy.

  But Madame Antonella didn’t answer. She turned and wandered back into the cottage, her tuneless hum floating back to the terrace.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” Lauretta said earnestly. “You aren’t hurt, are you? She gets odd ideas at times, thinks someone is going to hurt her. She must have thought you were someone from the past.”

  “Maybe,” Charlie said, rubbing her shoulder. In fact she could have almost kissed the old woman. The pain in her shoulders had obliterated the feel of Maguire on her body. At least temporarily.

  She glanced at the low stone wall. “Is she quite safe up here? I didn’t realize how steep the slope is. Wouldn’t she be better off in the main house?”

  “She won’t come. Pompasse had tried to get her to come down in the past, but she barricaded herself in the cottage and refused to come out. He even threatened to put her in a home if she didn’t behave herself.”

  “And did she?”

  Lauretta shrugged. “When has the old woman ever behaved herself? And she gets worse every year. Pompasse finally gave up arguing. He said if she ended up falling to her death then it would be a fitting end, and we should let her be. I bring her meals
when she’s too tired to come down to the main house, and I help bathe her when she lets me. Tomaso and I take her to mass and to the doctor’s when she needs to go, but otherwise she’s happy enough up here in her little house, as she has been for all these years.”

  Charlie looked back over the wall, to the steep path below. “I hate to think of her falling, lying there helpless….”

  “We check on her several times a day. She wouldn’t be there long. And if she dies that way, so be it. She’s an old woman. Death is part of life—you Americans have a hard time realizing it.”

  There was no reproof in her gentle voice, but her words still startled Charlie. She wasn’t used to thinking of herself as an American, despite her birth, despite the last five years. She and her mother had always been rootless, wandering, and Pompasse had considered himself a citizen of the world, rather than from one country. She must have unconsciously adopted that notion.

  That, and her love of this small piece of land, which had always felt more like home than any place in the vast United States did, including her cozy apartment and her restaurant.

  But for some reason it was no longer feeling like the home it once was.

  She wasn’t about to argue. Not with Maguire coming up the path, heading straight toward them.

  It was too late to escape—if she took off, he’d simply catch up with her. The sooner she faced him the better, to prove how completely unmoved she was by his kiss. And Lauretta’s beaming presence would provide some measure of security. Though why she should be smiling at Maguire was beyond Charlie’s comprehension.

  Charlie sat back down in the iron chair, sliding away from the wall a little bit, and waited for him. He was taking his time, looking entirely unruffled.

  “Ah, that explains it,” Lauretta greeted him obscurely.

  “Explains what, bella?” he replied, mounting the stone steps, barely glancing at Charlie. She wasn’t reassured, though. He was as aware of her as she was of him—he was just playing more games. God, she had to get him out of here!

  “Why Signora Charlie is covered with dust. The two of you look like you’ve taken a bath in plaster. Were you up in the old church?”

  “Looking for the missing paintings,” Maguire said amiably. “We didn’t find a trace of them. And you’re certain you have no idea where he took them?”

  “I’ve told you over and over again, Signore Maguire, that I have no idea where they are. Aristide Pompasse was a law unto himself—it wasn’t up to me to ask questions.”

  He looked down at Charlie, a deceptively mild expression on his face. “Did you check the old lady’s house?”

  She gave him her best stony-faced look. If he was going to ignore the fact that he’d kissed her in the old church then she could ignore it, too. She just had to make sure he never got a chance to do it again.

  Not that he’d want to. Not that she could figure out why he wanted to in the first place. And she had more important things to concentrate on than the strange wanderings of the Australian male mind.

  “You think the paintings are here?” Lauretta said. “You haven’t been inside, then. It’s so cluttered you can barely move—you know what old ladies are like. There’s no place she could hide them, even if she wanted to.”

  “She’s right,” Charlie said. “I’d forgotten what a pack rat she was.”

  “So you’re telling me we aren’t going to look?” Maguire growled.

  “She just about pushed me off the terrace, thinking I was someone else,” Charlie said in a sour voice. “Feel free to risk life and limb searching her place. I think I’ve had enough for today.” She rubbed her aching shoulder.

  “Had a rough day, love? Something unsettle your equilibrium?” he asked innocently.

  She looked him in the eye quite calmly, as something clicked into place. He hadn’t kissed her because he wanted to. He hadn’t been overcome by lust or desire or passion or, God knows, affection. It had simply been one more way of baiting her, the most effective way he could find.

  “Just a rat in the church,” she said. She turned to Lauretta. “Mr. Maguire will be leaving us today. If he needs help with packing—”

  “I don’t think so, sweetheart,” Maguire interrupted her.

  “I don’t have to put up with you….”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “If Madame Antonella hears you two arguing she’ll get upset again, and I’ll have a hard time calming her.” Lauretta’s voice was stern. “You go somewhere else and argue.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with him,” Charlie shot back.

  “And I’m going to see if the old lady is hiding the paintings.”

  “You are going to go back down to the villa and work out your differences. I don’t think you can get rid of him, Signora Charlie, and expect to get the estate settled any time soon. And Signore Maguire, you leave Charlie alone. She’s just lost her husband, and this is a hard time for her….”

  “She dumped her husband years ago, even if she didn’t bother to divorce him,” Maguire said. “She doesn’t strike me as someone who’s particularly brokenhearted.”

  “Enough!” Lauretta said, with even more majesty than Madame Antonella could summon. “Go back to the villa and behave yourselves.”

  Charlie opened her mouth to protest once more, then shut it again as color flooded her face. Lauretta was absolutely right—she was behaving like an adolescent, angry and hostile and defensive. She could blame Maguire all she wanted, but in the end she was the one responsible for her actions and reactions. And from this moment on Maguire was not going to make her jump to his bait.

  “You’re right, Mama Lauretta,” she said, using the old term of affection from her youth. “I’ll behave myself. But Mr. Maguire has to find another room—we’re expecting more guests.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Pompasse,” he said in that ironic voice that made her want to hit him. “I’m already packed. I’m planning on bedding down in the studio. Tomaso found me an old bed and I’ll be perfectly comfortable.”

  “No,” she said flatly.

  “Yes. You can’t get rid of me, babe. Not until I’m good and ready to go.”

  Charlie looked at Lauretta for help, but there was none. Maybe Henry would figure out a way to dislodge him, but she had no idea when he’d be showing up. Sometime before the service on Saturday, but when was anybody’s guess.

  “Very well,” she said. “In the meantime, keep out of my way.”

  “Signora Charlie!” Lauretta said, shocked at her rudeness.

  It shocked Charlie herself. She hadn’t allowed herself to display open hostility in years. If ever. And yet Maguire seemed to drag forth all sorts of unnerving reactions and emotions she’d thought were long buried. It was an unpleasant reminder that she was still occasionally vulnerable and all too human.

  “Sure thing, sweetheart. As soon as I find the paintings. I told you, I don’t trust you. If you run across them when I’m not around you might just forget to mention them to me, and therefore to the tax bureau.”

  “And I’ve told you, Maguire, that getting rid of you is worth far more to me than a few million dollars’ worth of paintings,” she said wearily.

  “Flatterer. Are we going to force our way into Madame Antonella’s house or wait for another time?”

  “You’ll wait for another time,” Lauretta informed them. “She’ll go to confession tomorrow—you can look then. Unless, of course, the two of you feel the need to purge your souls of sin.”

  “I’m lapsed, bella,” Maguire drawled. “And it would take years for me to list all my transgressions to the good father. I’ll just stay in my sinful state. As for Charlie here, I don’t imagine she could drum up even five minutes’ worth of misdemeanors.”

  “You underestimate the effect you have on me, Maguire,” she said in a cool voice.

  “Turn you on that much, do I? Well, control yourself, babe. We’ve got more important things to take care of right now than our libidos.”

  Sh
e stared at him in shock. He was being completely outrageous, with Lauretta as a witness, and he didn’t seem to care. “I’m going to hurt you,” she said in a dangerous voice.

  “No, you’re not. Let’s go back to the house and…”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Hey, I promise. Hands off.” He held out his hands in a gesture of innocent surrender. The hands that had touched her. Held her.

  “Go along, Charlie,” Lauretta said fondly, totally oblivious to how dangerous Maguire really was. “The signore will make sure you don’t stumble again. He’s all talk, aren’t you, signore? He flirts with everyone but he doesn’t mean a word of it. Just ignore him.”

  “I’m trying,” she muttered.

  Maguire, in true gentlemanly fashion, had already started down the narrow path, not even bothering to see whether she was coming. She considered hanging back, waiting on the terrace until he was back at the house, but Madame Antonella was moving around in the cluttered cottage, muttering angrily in a mixture of French and Italian, and in a few moments she was likely to erupt onto the terrace again. And who knew who she’d think Charlie was this time?

  “Go with him, Charlie,” Lauretta said in a slightly urgent tone. “I’ll take care of the old lady. But go now.”

  And she had no choice but to follow him down the narrow path, as the sound of Antonella’s voice trailed after her.

  11

  One thing was for certain, Maguire thought as he picked his way down the pathway. Charlie Thomas didn’t like kissing.

  Or maybe it was more obvious than that. Maybe she just didn’t like him. But he didn’t think that was the problem.

  Well, of course she didn’t like him—that went without saying. He’d gone out of his way to get under her skin—the fastest way he could think of to get information out of someone with defenses as strong as hers were. It was a delicate balance. He had to be just obnoxious enough to get her to react, but not so bad that she kicked him out of the house. He was walking a fine line, and he’d almost fallen over the edge today.