The Widow Page 12

  Gia stretched and climbed off the bed with her usual feline grace. “I’m pleased you approve. I’ll go find him.”

  “I’m so glad you’re not wasting time with an extended period of mourning,” she called after her.

  It was a cheap shot, but Charlie’s usual calm had deserted her that day, and she wanted to lash out at someone. Unfortunately it was far too effective. Gia froze in the doorway, and her olive skin paled as her huge almond-shaped eyes filled with tears.

  “I shouldn’t have said that….” Charlie said, taking a step toward her, but by that time Gia had whirled around and left.

  Leaving Charlie alone, guilty and ready to weep herself.

  Even beyond the grave Pompasse was having a destructive effect on her life, she thought, throwing herself down on the rumpled bed that Gia had recently abandoned. She’d been in Tuscany less than two days and already she’d turned angry, upset and uncertain.

  Though in actual fact, it was Maguire who was disturbing her. Not Pompasse.

  Even if he hadn’t let her go completely, she’d escaped. She mourned the passing of a great artist, she mourned the death of someone she had once revered. But her heart wasn’t broken. He was old and it was his time.

  She just wished a bolt of lightning would strike Maguire to make things a little more comfortable.

  However, Gia in full form was comparable to a bolt of lightning. He wouldn’t know what hit him, and she’d manage to keep him out of Charlie’s way for as long as it took him to finish his work.

  So why wasn’t she feeling happier about it?

  12

  Maguire wasn’t particularly pleased coming out from his shower to find Gia Schiavone in his room, wearing a skimpy outfit of shorts and a halter top. Granted, she was gorgeous enough in a dour, Mediterranean fashion, and normally he would have been tempted, but for some reason all he could think about was Charlie.

  Gia pushed back her dark hair and smiled at him, with more warmth than she’d shown so far. “Hi, there,” she purred.

  He grunted something in reply, about to order her out, when his common sense stopped him. She’d been giving him the cold shoulder ever since he arrived, a fact that had not bothered him in the slightest. But she would know a lot more about Pompasse’s recent activities than Charlie would, and he’d be a fool not to find out everything he could, particularly when she seemed so willing.

  He summoned a half smile and sat down on the end of the bed, reaching for his shoes. “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked in a wry voice.

  “I thought we should be friends,” Gia replied. “I haven’t been very nice to you. It’s been a very sad time for me, losing the great love of my life.”

  “You mean Pompasse?”

  “Of course I mean Pompasse,” she snapped, some of her melting sorrow vanishing in irritation. “I adored him, worshiped him, gave him my youth…”

  “Honey, how old are you? Twenty? Trust me, your youth isn’t gone.”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Still a child,” he said. “And don’t worry—if you’ve been standoffish I hadn’t noticed. I’ve got a job to do, remember?”

  That didn’t sit well, either. She didn’t like to go unnoticed. She smiled stiffly, not willing to give up. “And how is the job going? Is there any sign of the missing paintings?”

  “Not a trace. I don’t suppose you have any idea where they might have gone to?”

  “Me? How would I know?” Her innocence was just a bit overplayed.

  “Because you were living in the house when they disappeared, and unlike the other members of the household you’re neither senile nor busy working for a living. At least, not by most standards.”

  She missed the veiled insult, which was just as well. “I’m a student at the university,” she said stiffly. “I’m working on my degree.”

  “In what? Art appreciation?”

  “Art history.”

  “Interesting,” he murmured. “So you have to spend a lot of time in Florence for that, don’t you? The old man must have missed you.”

  “He would have, but I took the last two semesters off. He needed me.”

  Sure he did, Maguire thought wryly. Undeterred, he continued, “So it must be nice living so close to Florence. You get the peace of the countryside and the excitement of the big city nearby. The best of both worlds.”

  “I’m tired of the countryside,” she said frankly, her eyes meeting his. “I’m tired of Italy. I want to travel.”

  “Then for your sake I hope the old man left you a tidy amount in his will,” Maguire drawled. “Travel’s expensive.”

  “Not if I go with someone.” She moved toward the bed with a slow, graceful languor, and he noticed her feet were bare.

  She had very pretty feet, with painted toenails. Unfortunately feet were not much of a turn-on for him, and neither were manipulative little girls looking for a way out.

  “Honey,” he said with a laugh, “I can’t afford you.”

  She halted, clearly affronted. “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. You need a new sugar daddy now that Pompasse has kicked the bucket, and so far I’m the only male around. But you can do a hell of a lot better. I’m too old for you.”

  “I like older men,” she said. “Besides, Pompasse was probably twice your age.” She sat down on the bed beside him, making one last attempt at charming him. It didn’t work.

  “Then you need someone blinded by your beauty. I’m afraid I’m too much of a cynic for you. I can see right through that manipulative little brain of yours.”

  She turned off the phony seduction like flicking a light switch, and if her pout was childish it was at least a lot more honest. Not that he was anyone to put much store in honesty, he reminded himself. “But I need someone to take care of me,” she said.

  “Why don’t you go home to your family?”

  “I’d rather die,” she said flatly. “Don’t you like me? Don’t you think I’m pretty? Don’t you want to sleep with me?”

  “Sure I like you, yes, I think you’re absolutely gorgeous, and no, I don’t want to sleep with you,” he said, wondering if he was being noble, stupid, picky or all three. It wasn’t every day that women like Gia offered themselves to a battle-scarred soul like himself. He had to be nuts to turn her down. Considering the stories she could tell if properly motivated. But the damnable thing was, he wasn’t in the mood. Not for her.

  “Tell you what,” he added, out of pure malice. “Charlie’s fiancé is supposed to be arriving sometime soon. He’s a lawyer, he’s rich, and he lives in New York. Why don’t you try your luck with him? After all, if Pompasse liked you both then maybe this guy will, too. And I get the impression that you wouldn’t mind sticking it to Charlie. Am I right?”

  He’d struck pay dirt. Her dark eyes lit up with pure malice. “She already told me I could have you with her blessing,” she said.

  “Did she, now? Well, I’m not so easily had. And if she doesn’t care, what’s the fun in it, right? She’ll think twice about handing her wealthy fiancé over to you, though. I’m a poor man, sweetheart. You need someone to keep you in style. I’m betting Charlie’s fiancé is just the man to do it.”

  She slid off the bed, as sunny-tempered as a child. “You’re a very smart man, Maguire,” she said. “I underestimated you.”

  “I didn’t underestimate you, love,” he replied. But she’d already left, leaving the studio door open behind her.

  He stretched out on the bed that she’d thoroughly rumpled, putting his shower-damp head against the pillow and humming to himself. He was a thoroughly nasty SOB at heart, and he didn’t feel the slightest trace of guilt. If Charlie Thomas had found true love in the arms of her lawyer, then a conniving little gold digger wouldn’t stand a chance.

  And if there was trouble in paradise, then Gia was just the sort of serpent to be tossed into the mix.

  Or maybe he was the serpent, and Gia was the forbidden fruit. And maybe he
was wasting a hell of a lot of time being biblical. He should save his flights of fancy for the book. Gregory wasn’t going to wait forever—he’d been foaming at the mouth already because Maguire hadn’t checked in often enough for his peace of mind. He wanted photos, he wanted text, he wanted everything and he wanted it now, but the last thing Maguire was going to do was tie up the villa phone lines e-mailing incriminating photos of the residents. Gregory would just have to hold his horses.

  Still, he’d better go grab his laptop and set up shop in here. Pompasse’s old study was far too public a place for his scandalous tell-all, even protected by a password. Charlie had been just itching to see what he was writing, and he imagined the rest of the household was just as nosy. He changed the password daily, just to be on the safe side, and Charlie didn’t strike him as any sort of computer geek, but you could never be too careful. Closet nerds lurked behind the most unlikely exteriors.

  He saw the dusty handprints the moment he entered the study. The laptop was still closed, but on the textured black case he could see the white outline of a woman’s hand. She hadn’t wasted any time in trying to get back into his computer.

  He sat down and opened it, but he already knew she hadn’t been able to breach it. If she had, she would have found out exactly what he’d been writing, and he would no longer be here. Hell, he might not still be alive.

  He’d bet his life that someone in this household was a murderer. Whoever killed Pompasse would probably have just as strong a reason to kill him, once they found out what he was doing. He was going to have to be more careful.

  Not that he imagined he was in any kind of danger from Charlie’s slender hands. If killing him meant that Charlie had to touch him, then he knew he was safe. Unless, of course, she was proficient with a gun.

  Gia, on the other hand, would have no qualms about killing, and she’d probably prefer to use her hands. And Lauretta was strong and beefy enough to wring a chicken’s neck—she probably could have snapped the old man’s without much more effort.

  Tomaso was a possibility, though he couldn’t imagine why he would care, and he could rule out the senile old lady. God knows who else could have been around with a grudge to settle.

  But he needed to watch his back. He wasn’t in the mood to find a knife between his shoulder blades.

  Charlie stayed in her room the rest of the day. It was nothing but sheer cowardice and she knew it, but right then she needed to give herself permission to be a coward. Besides, this room was one part of La Colombala that was completely different from when she’d lived here. It had no memories, no history. The walls were whitewashed, the bed was small and covered with a plain white duvet. The only color in the room was the countryside beyond the open casement window, and that was color enough.

  She stretched out on the bed, alternating between sleeping and daydreaming. It was hard work with so many things she wanted to keep at bay, but she’d learned early on how to keep her mind off things that might disturb her. She lay on the bed and devised recipes in her head, mentally adding the ingredients, stirring a great copper pot with a wooden spoon, visualizing it so strongly she could practically smell the food. Then she moved to setting the table, choosing just the right linens, the proper plates, reveling in the earthen tones and the splash of flowers on the painted pottery dishes. It soothed her, comforted her, and she sat down at the table in the sunshine, peaceful, serene, and looked up to see Maguire’s image across from her.

  The fantasy was shattered, and she sat up, cursing. The smells, however, were real—Lauretta had set lunch out on the terrace beneath her, and the fragrance of tomatoes and herbs carried upward. Charlie’s stomach growled in response, and she realized it was midafternoon and she hadn’t had anything but coffee all day.

  Her window overlooked the terrace and the valley beyond. The table was deserted—the meal consumed, and all the stragglers were gone. If she hurried down she could snag some of the remains and not have to deal with anyone in the house. Not Gia or Madame Antonella nor the curious Lauretta. And most particularly, she wouldn’t have to deal with Maguire.

  There was no one in sight when she reached the terrace. A platter still held some bruschetta, a dish of pasta remained, and even the bottle of wine stood open on the table. Lauretta must have been escorting Madame Antonella back to her cottage before clearing up the mess.

  She sat down at the table, filled an empty plate with the leftover food, and poured herself a glass of wine. It was a delicious Chianti, and she told herself she should savor it.

  But she would have killed for a Diet Coke.

  Pompasse had outlawed what he termed “belly wash” from his household. Wine was the only civilized thing to drink with meals, and he’d trained her well. She knew a Bardolino from a Valpolicella, she could even identify what part of Italy the grapes were from. This Chianti complemented the meal perfectly.

  And she would have killed for a Diet Coke.

  There was no denying that a few sips of wine soothed her jangled nerves almost as effectively as herbal tea. She leaned back in the chair, looking down over the valley, watching the breeze ripple through the olive trees, tossing the changing leaves.

  She knew she ought to wonder where everyone else was, but she didn’t. She was simply glad to have a moment of peace out on the terrace she’d once loved.

  It didn’t last long.

  He came up behind her. She didn’t turn to look, hoping in vain that she could ignore him, but she could feel his presence, the heat of his body, the smell of the soap from his shower. He wasn’t touching her, but he was too close, willing her to turn around, and she wasn’t going to move. She sat there, frozen, praying he’d go away.

  “I doubt that view has changed in the last five years,” Maguire said. His voice was low, slightly raspy, though that was probably from all the cigarettes. She still didn’t turn, but she knew she couldn’t ignore him.

  “Probably not in the last five hundred years,” she said. “But I haven’t been here to enjoy it. Which I prefer to do alone. Go away.”

  He moved then, taking the chair beside her and straddling it, his arms on the scrolled backrest. “Don’t you get tired of telling me that, Charlie?”

  “Don’t you get tired of staying where you’re not wanted?” she replied, still keeping her gaze averted.

  “You want the estate settled, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have to put up with me. At least for a few more days. Would it help if I apologized? Said I was sorry I was overcome by the passion of the moment and your rare beauty and kissed you?”

  She could see a car approaching, up the winding road to La Colombala, and she concentrated on it, still refusing to look at Maguire.

  “It would help if you never mentioned it again,” she said stiffly.

  “So you can pretend it didn’t happen. What’s wrong with kissing, Charlie?”

  She turned then, unable to help herself. “Any number of things,” she said. “One, I don’t like you. Two, I’m engaged. Three, I don’t like you. Four, you’re supposed to be doing a job here, not flirting. Five, I don’t like you. Six, I’m in mourning. Seven—”

  “You don’t like me,” he supplied lazily. “You’re trying awfully hard to convince me.”

  She’d been fiddling with the stem of the wineglass, trying to hide her nervousness, but at that she spilled it, and the red wine spread over the white tablecloth like fresh blood.

  “I don’t like you,” she said, exasperated. “Can’t you get it through your thick head? I don’t like you, I don’t like anything about you. I don’t like being pawed, I don’t like being mocked, I don’t like flirting, and I don’t like you.”

  His shaggy dark hair was still wet from the shower. He was wearing khakis and a denim shirt, far too casual for her taste. He hadn’t bothered to shave, and she thought beard stubble was pretentious. He sat there looking at her, that cool, assessing expression in his dark eyes, totally at ease with the world and her dis
comfort, and she wanted to slap him.

  “Convince me,” he said softly.

  She wanted to cry from frustration, when she hadn’t cried since she’d first heard about Pompasse’s death. She pushed away from the table, starting to rise, when he caught her wrist, pulling her back. He was very strong.

  “Take your hands off me,” she said in an icy voice.

  “Then tell me why you’re so damned interested in what’s in my laptop. You left your dusty handprints all over it this morning.”

  “I wanted to see how you’re doing with your investigation.”

  “You could have asked.”

  “I don’t trust you. Are you going to let go of me?”

  “I don’t think so, Charlie.” His lazy voice sent little shivers down her backbone despite the bright Italian sunlight. He was rubbing his thumb against her wrist, and he could probably feel her pulse hammering wildly. “Not until you tell me the truth.”

  “You’re hurting me,” she said, her voice shaking. In fact, he wasn’t. He was simply holding her there, his skin against hers, warmth against her icy-cold flesh.

  “Sorry,” he said. And before she realized what he intended he brought her wrist to his lips, pressing his open mouth against her sensitive skin.

  It was like an electric shock, straight to the heart, the caress of his lips, his tongue against the fragile veins of her wrist, and she was too astonished to move. He looked up at her, and his dark green eyes were compelling. “I can taste your pulse,” he whispered against her skin, and the electric shock sizzled down between her legs. “Why don’t you taste me?”

  In a daze she heard a noise, but it was a roaring, rushing sound that simply might have been inside her own head. She could feel her body sway toward him, almost of its own volition, and she couldn’t stop herself, she was mesmerized by his eyes, by his mouth on her skin, by the warmth of the afternoon and the drugging effect of the Tuscan sunshine—