The Widow (13 page)

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 discomfort, 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—

“God, I've missed this place!” Olivia's arch tones preceded her through the open French doors. “There's nothing like Tuscany.” She paused, admiring the view, giving the two of them plenty of time to admire her if they were so inclined. All Charlie could do was thank God her mother's self-absorption enabled her to escape from Maguire's touch, unnoticed.

“You got here sooner than I expected,” she said awkwardly.

“And aren't you delighted, darling?” Olivia demanded archly. “Come give me a kiss, and then introduce me to your gorgeous young man.”

“He's not mine,” Charlie said, skirting the table to keep out of Maguire's way. Though why she thought she had to worry was beyond her. He'd hardly grab her with her mother watching. Just because he'd kissed her the last two times they'd been together didn't mean she wasn't perfectly safe as long as someone else was around to make sure he behaved himself.

She kissed her mother's smooth, unlined cheek, inhaling the usual sent of Joy. It always seemed such an odd fragrance for her mother to favor, since she spent so much of her life dissatisfied, looking for a joy that always seemed to elude her.

Before she could slide away Olivia's gaze narrowed, and she caught Charlie's hand in her perfectly manicured one. “What did you do to your wrist, darling? Did you burn yourself?”

The mark was red, still damp from his mouth, and without thinking she cast a furious glance at Maguire, sitting there smugly.

A glance her mother didn't miss. “Oh, really?” she said. “Then maybe now is the moment to tell you that Henry's here, as well. Don't you want to greet your fiancé?”

Escape was the only possible alternative. “Yes,” she said, practically dashing into the house.

But not before she heard Olivia's cool voice slither back to her. “So tell me, who are you and what are you doing to my frigid daughter?”

M
aguire still hadn't moved from his chair. The newcomer was a beauty, with an unlined, flawless face, a perfect cloud of dyed red hair, a ruthlessly thin figure. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, thanks no doubt to a masterful job of plastic surgery.

“You're Charlie's mother?” he drawled lazily. “I thought you were her sister.” It was pandering, and it was effective.

“Don't give me that crap,” the woman said, but she couldn't hide her pleased smirk. “I'm perfectly comfortable being forty-three years old. I don't try to hide my age.”

Charlie was thirty, which would have made the carefully preserved woman in front of him young indeed to have been a mother. He didn't bother pointing it out to her. Not at that point.

He rose, holding out his hand. “Connor Maguire. I'm an insurance adjuster, here to assess the estate.”

She looked up at him. She was much shorter than her daughter, and she had cultivated a kind of helpless female look that Maguire found particularly annoying, when he knew that beneath the slightly fluttery surface she was hard as steel. Unlike her daughter, who tried to present a calm, steady mien to hide her complete vulnerability.

“Olivia Thomas,” she said, putting her manicured hand in his big paw. She'd even had her hands taken care of, he thought with distant admiration. You could tell a woman's age by her hands and her neck, but Olivia's neck was swathed in a silk scarf, and her slender hand was spot-free and unlined.

“Thomas? Charlie said you'd been married a dozen times,” he said.

“Seven,” she corrected him with a touch of that inner steel. “And it makes it simpler to go by Thomas. Besides, I don't have a husband right now. I'm completely available.”

She hadn't released his hand. He almost wanted to laugh. This was the second time in a matter of hours that someone was coming on to him, for the simple reason that they thought Charlie wanted him. Charlie wanted him at the bottom of a well, and he was about to point that out to Olivia when he thought better of it. After all, he had a job to do. If Olivia and Gia wanted to waste their time flirting with him, he could certainly put their attention to good use. He couldn't understand why he'd even hesitate.

“So what were you doing to my daughter?” she continued smoothly, finally releasing his hand and sinking into the chair beside him. “Besides giving her one hell of a hickey. I doubt she's ever had one before.”

“Yeah, right,” Maguire drawled.

“You think I'm kidding? You obviously don't know Charlie very well. She's frigid. Bona fide, diagnosed sexual dysfunction. She's been seeing some doctor in New York, hoping she'd get over it, but so far no luck. I maintain she just hasn't found the right man, but then, she hasn't asked for my opinion. She won't even discuss it.”

Maguire stared at her in fascination. “I don't blame her.”

“Oh, then you've met Henry? No, I don't blame her, either. He's attractive enough, but hardly the type to make a girl hot and bothered. You, on the other hand, have definite promise.”

“I mean I don't blame her for not wanting to discuss it with you. Do you discuss your daughter's sex life with everyone?”

Olivia laughed, a soft, deep chuckle. “You disapprove of me! How utterly delicious. And no, I don't go chatting about Charlie's total lack of libido with strangers. Just men who look at her the way you were. How'd you manage to hold her still long enough to make that mark on her wrist? I know you haven't slept with her—she doesn't look guilty enough.”

“If I had sex with your daughter I don't think guilt would be her foremost reaction.”

“Arrogant, too, aren't you? I like that in a man.” She put her hand on his arm, that bleached, smoothed hand. She was probably very talented, very clever with her hands. Unlike Charlie, who was scared shitless of him. “I like to be outrageous, and I don't beat around the bush. Keep away from Charlie, Mr. Maguire. She thinks I'm the Wicked Witch of the West, but deep down, I care about her. She has enough going on right now and she doesn't need you complicating things.”

“I'm a complicating kind of guy,” he said in a lazy voice.

“Well, leave her alone. Henry's perfect for her—he's got patience and a deep abiding love for her. He's reliable, financially secure, and he'll take good care of her and he won't make demands. What do you have to offer her?”

Maguire snorted in derision. “Lady, have you got the wrong end of the stick! I'm here to do a job, nothing more. I'm not interested in your daughter.”

“Then why did you put that mark on her wrist?” Olivia said archly. “I'm only a little bit older than you are, but I've been around. And I don't trust you.”

“All right, since we're being so honest, I'll admit it. I want to shag your daughter,” he said. Olivia didn't even blink. “It's a natural-enough reaction—that ice princess act is a challenge to any red-blooded male.”

“So you want her because she's a challenge? Hardly a good reason to screw up someone's life.”

“I'm not screwing up her life, lady. I'm not screwing her. I'm just…flirting a little. No harm in that, is there?”

“With Charlie there might be.”

“So what do you suggest I do? Sleep with you instead?”

Olivia laughed lightly. “No, darling. You're too old for me. Unlike Charlie I like my men buff and brainless.”

“Henry's not buff and brainless?”

Olivia shook her head. “Come meet him. I know you'll be enchanted.”

Enchanted
was far from the operative word. Olivia Thomas had just thrown him for a loop. The well-preserved dragon lady had an unexpected weakness for her daughter. Unless, of course, she was playing an even more complicated game. Maguire rose to his feet, towering over her. She had an air of fragility about her that was as deceptive as Charlie's air of serenity. Olivia was as fragile as a bull moose. And while Charlie put on a better act, her acquaintance with serenity probably didn't come any closer than twelve-step wall plaques.

He followed Olivia to the living room, not sure what to expect. He knew one thing, though—he wasn't going to like seeing Charlie curled up next to her beloved Henry. For some inexplicable reason he didn't want to see Charlie curled up next to anyone.

He needn't have worried. They sat, side by side on the ancient, sagging sofa, so deep in whispered conversation that they didn't even realize that Olivia and Maguire had come in.

“Tell me that's not Henry!” Maguire muttered. “He looks like her grandfather.”

“What did you expect, Maguire?” Olivia whispered back. “She wants safety, not sex.”

At that Charlie looked up, a wary expression on her face. She saw him watching her, and defiantly she reached out and took Henry's hand, holding it. She looked as natural as a marionette.

“Henry, dear, this is Mr. Maguire,” Olivia said smoothly, dragging him in. “He's an insurance adjuster, assessing Pompasse's estate. Or what's left of it.”

Henry rose. He was a thin man, with a narrow, elegant face, thinning dark hair, a perfect suit and perfect manners. He was taller than Maguire, a fact that Maguire found irrationally annoying.

“Good to meet you, Maguire,” he said. “I hadn't realized that Honore had sent someone out already. They told me it would be another week before they could spare someone.”

Maguire didn't blink. “With an estate as important as Pompasse's, they made the effort to find someone,” he said. Who the hell was Honore?

“That's good,” Henry said absently, but his pale blue eyes looked wary. “How are things going? I'm afraid I've been so busy catching up with Charlie that I haven't asked about the estate.” Charlie had also risen, standing close beside him, and he reached out and put his arm around her narrow shoulders, drawing her close. She complied, and most people wouldn't have noticed the imperceptible stiffness in her body as she leaned against her fiancé.

“Going slowly,” Maguire said. “Certain paintings are still missing, and I've been unable to find Pompasse's records.”

“Missing?” Henry's high forehead furrowed in dismay. “How can that be? I assumed they'd have turned up by now. What does Honore say about it? Do you think they've been stolen?”

“I haven't finished my investigation.”

“But surely it's time the police were involved? What would you estimate the paintings to be worth? Two million? Three? I'm not sure Pompasse's estate can withstand such a loss.”

“I'm not at liberty to discuss it.”

“Don't be ridiculous—I'm Charlie's fiancé and her lawyer, as well. I can speak for her in all matters….”

Maguire cast an inquiring glance at Charlie's frozen countenance. Olivia was right—the mark on her wrist was glaringly obvious. It gave him a hard-on, just looking at it.

“We don't need to talk business now, Henry,” Charlie broke in, pulling her gaze away from Maguire's. “You and Olivia have just arrived and you must be exhausted. Why don't you get settled and we can discuss this later?”

For a moment it looked as if Henry might argue, but then he smiled down at her with paternal fondness. Maguire half expected him to pat her on the head like a good little girl. “Of course, you're right, my dear.”

“Charlie's always right,” Olivia spoke up. She'd been leaning against the doorway, observing everything. “Where am I sleeping, Charlie? In my usual bedroom? Or has one of Pompasse's newest pets taken up residence?”

“Your room is ready, Olivia. Lauretta had Gia move to a smaller one.”

“That's hardly necessary, darling girl,” Henry broke in. “I can share your room. After all, we are engaged.”

Darling girl, Maguire thought, ready to hurl. Charlie looked like she would have rather slept with a snake. How she thought she was going to marry a man when she couldn't stand him touching her was beyond his comprehension.

“There's no need. Gia has already moved her things. Maguire is staying in the studio, and you'll be in my old room.”

Henry's well-bred features nobly concealed the trace of a pout. “Whatever you want, darling,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Maguire,” he said, dismissing him like the underling he clearly considered him to be.

“Yeah, likewise,” Maguire drawled, watching as Charlie walked from the room with him. Not touching him.

“Lovely couple, aren't they?” Olivia cooed.

Maguire shrugged. “If he makes her happy it's none of my business.”

“Now, you strike me as someone who makes everything your business. And you could hardly say the two of them look happy, could you?”

“What's your problem, lady? You want Henry? I think Gia's going to take a crack at him, but you may as well, too.”

“Gia's going after Henry? What an interesting notion. Who put that idea into her empty little head? No, I don't have to ask. You're a very inventive man, Maguire.”

“Just a working stiff,” he said modestly.

Her eyes dropped to his crotch level with suggestive slowness, and then she smiled. “I suspect we're in for an interesting time over the next few days. I intend to enjoy it tremendously, especially when we lay that old bastard in the ground.”

“You didn't like Pompasse?”

“I despised him,” Olivia said.

“Oh, I forgot. You're the devoted mother, aren't you? You despise him for what he did to your daughter.”

“You're a bastard as well, Maguire,” she said evenly. “I have more than enough reasons to want the old man dead, and I'm not about to share them with the likes of you. Just don't be surprised if I dance on his grave.”

The reporter in him could only hope. Maybe all Pompasse's castoff women would join hands and dance around the old man's resting place.

He had his camera with him. Several, in fact. He'd had them for years, gotten off a CIA acquaintance in the Congo. His favorite was in the cigarette lighter, but since Charlie had decreed no smoking, that was now out of the question.

The other was a pen, small, compact, efficient. He had three tiny disks already downloaded onto his laptop. He'd stay in the background at the funeral, get the grieving widow with her new old man, and make Gregory double his asking price.

Unless Henry poked his long, thin, aristocratic nose where it didn't belong. He'd taken one look at Maguire and sized him up for a commoner, an interloper, someone who didn't belong. The question was, how long would it be before he checked up on him with the mysterious Honore? If he could just hold out through the weekend and the funeral service then he didn't care what happened.

But he wasn't ready to leave, not just yet. Too much unfinished business.

In particular, Charlie Thomas.

“You have a most interesting expression on your face, Mr. Maguire,” Olivia observed. “What were you thinking of just then?”