The Widow (10 page)

“As I remember there are storage rooms all around the sides,” she said. “Why don't you go that way and I'll go this way?”

“Because it's too bloody dark to see which way you're pointing,” he said. “And I think we ought to stick together. There's a lot of junk around here—you may need my help clearing the way.”

“I'm quite strong, Maguire.”

“Okay, let's just say I don't trust you. You could find the paintings, tell me there was nothing there, and then once I left you could sell them to private collectors without paying estate tax.”

“But then I couldn't get rid of you as quickly. Trust me, Maguire, when you weigh the thought of millions of dollars against getting you out of my hair a couple of days early then it's a small price to pay. Money's overrated.”

“You know, I'm touched. I don't know that anyone's ever found me that annoying. I'm damned near priceless.”

“Damned near,” Charlie said agreeably. “There's also the fact that I happen to be an honorable person.”

“Are you?” He sounded genuinely surprised by the notion.

She glanced back at him, but in the murky shadows she couldn't see his expression. It didn't matter. For some obscure reason he was going out of his way to annoy her. He'd say anything he could to get under her skin.

“You don't like me very much, do you?” she said, not moving.

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, I don't know, maybe it's your delightful manners,” she said. “Did I do something terrible to you in a former life? Do I remind you of your mother or ex-wife or something?”

“Honey, my mother is the last thing I think about when I look at you,” he drawled. “And why do you care what I think about you? Looking for my good opinion, are you?”

He was having a very negative effect on her equilibrium, she thought, trying to stifle the little surge of irritation. She worked hard at being calm, unruffled, and Maguire seemed adept at stripping away her hard-earned serenity.

“Not particularly,” she said, making an effort not to grit her teeth. “I just don't like being baited and I wonder why you seem so determined to do it?”

“Partly it's my charming nature,” he said genially. “And part of it is simply third-grade dynamics.”

“Third-grade dynamics?”

“Remember the little boy who sat behind you in third grade and dipped your pigtails in the ink?”

“I never had pigtails, children haven't used ink in schools in ages, and for that matter I never went to school. I had private tutors. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Private tutors? La-di-da. You have led a charmed life, haven't you?”

“Absolutely peachy,” she replied. “Are you going to explain yourself?”

“Nope.”

Maguire was wrong about one thing, she thought as she turned from him and picked her way over the rubble to the first storeroom. He'd said everyone who'd ever met Pompasse had reason to kill him. She'd never, in her life, felt even the slightest murderous impulse. Until she'd had to spend time with Connor Maguire.

Fortunately Maguire kept relatively quiet during the next hour, hauling stones and debris out of the way with deceptive ease, following behind her as she made her way systematically through the cells. At one point Pompasse had kept his wine here, but that chamber was equally empty, devoid of even a broken wine rack or an empty bottle. Whatever had been up here was long gone. Including the paintings.

“All right,” she said finally. “They're not here. They probably never were.”

“What's down that way?” Maguire demanded, gesturing toward a huge pile of wood and rubble.

“If anything's behind there, no one's seen it in years,” Charlie said. “It's been that way for as long as I can remember. As a matter of fact, the whole area looks on the verge of collapse. There's no way anyone would be able to get inside there. They must be somewhere else.”

“So why did we just spend the last hour grubbing in the dirt looking for them?” Maguire grumbled.

“To be certain. Those are three good-size paintings. They couldn't have just disappeared without anyone noticing. If a delivery truck had carted them away someone would have seen it. They had to have been moved one at a time, which means they couldn't have gone far. This was a logical spot.”

“So where do we look next? I'm putting my money on Madame Antonella. She's so dotty she wouldn't even notice if someone stashed the paintings in her bedroom. Hell, she may have carted them off herself.”

“She's an old woman, Maguire. In her seventies at least.”

“She looks like she's as strong as an ox. Pompasse liked his models big and strapping, didn't he?”

This time she didn't rise to the bait. “Sometimes,” she said evenly. “I'm heading back. I was planning on stopping in to visit Madame Antonella, anyway. I'll take a look around.”

“I'll come with you.”

“I don't think so. You look like you took a bath in flour. Madame Antonella has strict standards. She wouldn't want a gentleman calling on her in your condition.”

“Hell, she should be lucky any man calls at all. And sweetie, I'm no gentleman. I thought you'd figured that much out.”

“I have,” she said dryly.

By the time they reached the main floor of the church the place was flooded with sunlight. Maguire looked ridiculous—dust everywhere, in his dark hair and his rough clothes. She glanced down at herself and realized she must look equally absurd.

Maguire had already crossed the makeshift bridge, and he turned back to look at her. “You coming?”

She took a deep breath, trying not to look down into the gaping hole beneath. “Give me a minute.”

“The longer you hesitate the worse it's going to be,” he said, stepping back onto the plank and holding out his hand. “Just do it.”

She wasn't sure which was more threatening—the hole beneath her or the strong hand reaching out for her. “There's got to be another way out of here…” she began.

“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.

C
harlie 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.