The Widow (6 page)

He liked the place, particularly at night. For a lapsed Catholic he had a curiously sentimental attachment to the ruins, and it had nothing to do with the strict Jesuit education he'd had in Australia.

No, stretched out on the remnants of a battered old pew that had somehow survived the bombing, Maguire could tilt his head back and look at the stars and remember the lost smell of incense and the lost faith that had once been a false comfort. The car crash that had killed his bickering parents had ended all that, though his kid brother still believed.

Except for his brother, Dan, Maguire had been alone in the world since that day, and the only one who'd ever gotten past his shell was Molly, with her tough talk and her soft heart. She'd been his best friend, his mother, his sister, his lover, until the day he'd seen her blown to pieces by a land mine in Kosovo.

But lying back on the hard wooden pew, he could almost see her up there in the stars. That's where she'd be—not in some traditional heaven wearing white robes and playing a harp. For one thing, the lady was tone deaf. For another, she didn't believe in that sentimental crap.

No, she'd be up there in the stars, looking down at him, telling him what an asshole he was for being sentimental about her. Telling him what a bastard he was for even thinking about using someone like Charlie Thomas. Telling him to stop wasting his life with trashy tabloids and get back to work on a real paper.

He wouldn't listen, of course, but then, she'd been used to that in life. It wouldn't come as any surprise in death. But she'd still be watching, nagging at his conscience. And maybe once he managed this final, monumental score, maybe he'd leave Europe, go back home, find himself a small-city newspaper and a plump wife and forget all his demons.

Maybe.

In the meantime he was going to do one more search of the church ruins. There were all sorts of nooks and crannies, hidden places where someone might stash a fortune's worth of paintings. Finding out where those paintings had gone was at least as important as finding out how Pompasse really died. Given the monetary value, it was probably even more important to his pragmatic public.

One thing, though—Maguire needed to concentrate on the task at hand and keep his mind off the widow. There'd be time enough to deal with her.

 

Even with the heavy damask cover stripped from her bed, the old room still brought Charlie almost suffocating memories. The windows, wide open to the warm autumn air, did nothing to make the room inviting—it felt both cold and claustrophobic.

She swept the makeup and perfume into the trash, not even hesitating, and by accident some of the scent spilled, filling the room with its cloying fragrance. Pompasse had had it blended especially for her on her eighteenth birthday, and it had never suited her. It was too heavy, too sophisticated a scent for the child that Charlie had never really been, and now it was too strong and melodramatic. She put the waste bin in the hall and closed the door, then moved to the window to breathe in the fresh air.

The perfumer who'd made the scent had been one of Pompasse's lovers, she remembered. A thin, secretive woman who'd watched her out of dark, hungry eyes. Pompasse had insisted she accompany him to Rosa's shop. “How else will she know what will be the right scent for you?” he'd said, and Charlie had already known it was useless to argue. Pompasse had always gotten his own way.

So his former mistress had blended a fragrance for the cherished wife, and Charlie used to dream that Rosa had put poison in it, to eat into her skin and her soul. Not that Rosa would have hesitated, had she had the ability, but she was no medieval poisoner, and the thick scent of her perfume was the only revenge she could take.

Charlie was jet-lagged and worn-out. And she really didn't want to lie down on that bed. It was a huge, carved affair, brought from some
castello
in the north. She pushed against it with all her might, but it wouldn't budge—it might as well have been nailed to the floor.

On impulse she walked through the adjoining bathroom and knocked on the door that had once led to Pompasse's bedroom. It now housed the unsettling Mr. Maguire, but she hadn't heard or seen him come upstairs, and she expected the room was abandoned.

She knocked again, then pushed it open, wondering what she'd do if Maguire were standing there.

The room was deserted. But that wasn't what surprised her. If the studio had been a shock, the bedroom was even more so. It had been stripped of everything—including the paintings that Pompasse had surrounded himself with. His own, of course. Pompasse had firmly believed that no artist even came close to his own talent, and he insisted he found other painters boring.

He'd even done a mural on the far wall, one of delicate charm. It was gone, painted over with a flat white paint, as were all the walls. Pompasse's bed was gone as well, replaced by a utilitarian double bed with plain sheets and blankets. All the antique furniture had vanished, and in its place were cheap IKEA knock-togethers. Pompasse would never have slept in such a place.

But Charlie would. It looked cool and peaceful and entirely new, and she would have given anything to stretch out on that bed and sleep.

But she was no Goldilocks, and Maguire had more of the makings of a Big Bad Wolf than a displaced bear. She could just imagine his reaction if he walked into the bedroom he was occupying to find her asleep in his bed. It would seem like an invitation.

She started to back away when something caught her eye. The duffel bag under the window was hardly the type of luggage she would have expected an insurance adjuster to use. As a matter of fact, Maguire hadn't seemed like any kind of insurance official she'd ever met. Maybe things were different in Italy, but she didn't think so. Bureaucrats and businessmen were the same the world over, and Maguire didn't strike her as either.

She didn't hesitate, didn't think twice. She went straight to the duffel bag and unzipped it, looking for answers.

She only found more questions. Jeans and T-shirts and denim—not the sort of clothing she connected with business consultants. He wore briefs instead of boxers. Typical. There were a couple of books about Pompasse—that was understandable since he was here to catalog his works. If he could ever find them, of course.

She zipped the bag closed again. It wouldn't do any good to be caught pawing through his belongings. It wasn't as if she really doubted he was who he said he was.

Except that she did. Something about Maguire didn't ring true. He was far too brash, too argumentative, too…earthy to be an expert on artworks and dead men's estates. Henry was much more the type. Maguire should be out doing something physical, not chasing ghosts.

And she was letting her imagination run away with her, seeing conspiracies where none existed. Maguire was an insurance consultant, nothing more, nothing less. Even if he seemed just a bit like a pirate.

He must have set up work somewhere else—there was no sign of a laptop or a briefcase. She'd ask Tomaso—he was probably working in the study. Sometime when it was safe she'd take a little peek at what was on his laptop. Just to reassure herself. After all, she had responsibilities. To the estate, to the women whom Pompasse had left behind. It was her duty to make sure that Maguire was exactly who he said he was.

She rose, casting one last longing glance at the small, pristine bed. If she didn't get at least a short nap she'd fall apart completely. She was going to have to put up with her old bed and its ghostly memories, whether she liked it or not.

She closed Maguire's door and the door to the intervening bathroom, and lay down on the mattress, trying not to think about the other times she'd slept there. Just an hour or two of sleep before dinner, and then she'd be able to face anything. The hostile, defensive Gia. Madame Antonella, if she was well enough to leave her cottage.

And Maguire, who for some inexplicable reason was the greatest threat of all.

T
he room was filled with shadows when Charlie awoke. She'd slept heavily, so heavily she hadn't dreamed, but she was disoriented, suddenly afraid, and she sat up quickly, squinting in the darkness, fighting off the panic.

She was back in Tuscany. But Pompasse was dead—she had still managed to escape him. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all.

Her hair had come loose and it was hanging around her shoulders, her clothes felt too tight, and her stomach was growling. She could smell Lauretta's cooking, snaking up from the kitchen through her open window. With luck she'd missed dinner and Lauretta would feed her in the kitchen. And then she wouldn't have to face everyone all at once.

She needed a shower to wake her up. She climbed off the bed and pushed open the bathroom door, then let out a muffled shriek.

At least he wasn't entirely nude. Maguire stood there, a towel around his waist, equally surprised to see her.

“There aren't any locks on the door,” he said. “You're going to have to learn to knock.”

The door opened inward, and for her to grab it and slam it shut again, as she desperately wanted to do, would mean that she had to get closer to him. And that was one thing she wasn't going to risk.

“I can have locks put on,” she said in a shaken voice.

He seemed absolutely huge in the small, steam-filled bathroom, and yet she knew that Henry was taller than he was. Maguire was muscular, with broad shoulders, the dark hair on his chest and his stomach arrowing down beneath the towel. How could one man be so unsettling, so…there?

“You look like you've never seen a seminaked man before, princess,” he said. “You want me to put more clothes on or less?”

“This isn't going to work,” she said abruptly. She was struggling for that center of calm that had served her so well, but in her half-asleep state it seemed to have deserted her.

“What isn't?”

“You'll have to sleep elsewhere. I need that room, and I'm not going to share a bathroom with you.”

“Honey, it's Europe. Everyone shares bathrooms. There are only two in this house, and there are too many people. Why do you want my room?”

“Then one of the bathrooms will be for the women and one for the men,” she said stubbornly. The steam from the bathroom was wafting out toward her, an unnerving combination of fragrances. Soap and shampoo, though he hadn't bothered to shave.

“How Victorian. I thought Americans were more relaxed about these things. You still haven't told me why you want my room.”

“There are too many memories in this one.” It was the honest answer, telling him far more than he had any right to know, but she was too shaken to be guarded. Besides, what did it matter what he knew or didn't know? He was just a surprisingly ill-mannered stranger. In a few days he'd be back in his office at some international insurance conglomerate and the twisted history of Aristide Pompasse and his women would be nothing more than a good bar story.

“I'd offer to share mine but the bed's too small,” he said.

“Thanks, but I prefer to sleep alone,” she said. “We'll find you another place to sleep.”

She half expected an argument, but she didn't get one. He was watching her out of half-closed eyes, a dreamy, speculative expression on his face. He was good-looking, she suddenly realized. In a rough-hewn, craggy sort of way. Most women would find him quite attractive. But then, she wasn't most women. She liked older men, secure, gentle men who never made demands.

“All right,” he said finally. “I'm yours to command. And I don't blame you for not wanting to sleep in that room.”

She shouldn't have fallen for it, but she did. “Why?”

“According to Lauretta, once you left the old man moved in. He slept in your bed, usually with one of your nightgowns in his arms. Hell, maybe he even wore them.”

“You're disgusting.”

“Hey, I didn't break the old goat's heart.”

“He wasn't an old goat. He was a great artist.”

“He liked little girls, love. Calling him an old goat is giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

It was like a dash of ice water on a hot day. She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. “He slept with my mother,” she said abruptly. “She was hardly a little girl.”

“Did he? He probably did it just to get back at you.”

Why the hell had she told him that? At least he seemed almost bored by the information, and for some reason she couldn't keep from talking. Maybe it was all that hot, damp flesh filling the doorway. She was babbling to keep her mind off it.

“It was before we…before he painted me.”

“Then he slept with her to get to you. Your mother must have loved that once she figured it out.”

It hadn't taken Olivia long to realize Pompasse wasn't interested in painting her mature charms—he was mainly focused on her seventeen-year-old daughter. Charlie still didn't like to think about that horror scene in the hotel in Venice, when she told Olivia she was going to marry him.

“My mother was more concerned about me than about her own ego,” Charlie said smoothly. It was a good lie, the right lie, and she'd practiced it for the last thirteen years. It was even the same lie Olivia had told her, but Charlie had never been able to believe it.

“Yeah, sure,” Maguire said.

“And what the hell business is it of yours? Why am I telling you these things?” She didn't know who she was madder at—Maguire or herself.

His grin was slow, wicked and devastating. She'd never had a good-looking, mostly naked man grin at her, and her stomach knotted. “Maybe I'm just a good listener,” he said.

“Could you at least put some clothes on?” she said irritably.

“Sure thing, lady.” He reached for the knot of the towel, but she spun around before he could drop it.

“And close the damned door.”

“Sure thing,” he said again. “Next time knock and you'll preserve your maidenly blushes.”

She waited until she heard the door close. Maidenly blushes, my ass, she thought. Just because she didn't like muscle-bound men swaggering around in skimpy towels…

Not that he was actually muscle-bound. He was definitely strong, but not like some of the men she'd seen on the beaches, with their carefully delineated muscles. Maguire just looked like a man who'd done hard, physical labor for a good portion of his life.

She looked back at the bed. Why hadn't Lauretta told her about Pompasse? That he'd ended up crawling into her bed, wrapped in her clothes, mourning her desertion? But then, what good would it have done? She was beyond feeling guilty. Pompasse had been like a huge, devouring spider, and most of the women who'd been caught in his web were still there, numbed, no longer struggling to break free.

At least she had gotten away. Even if she was back now, she was no longer trapped. Pompasse was dead—he couldn't reach out from beyond the grave.

She sank down on the small wooden bench beneath the window, staring at the bed. She couldn't wait until this was finished—until Pompasse's ashes were buried in the gardens of the place he'd loved, until the will was read and the estate settled. If it was like America it would take forever for the financial details to be worked out, but once she could put it in the hands of the lawyers she could forget about it. Go back to Manhattan, to her East Side apartment and her lovely little restaurant. Go back to her safe, secure life where no one could hurt her, no one could break through her iron calm. She'd marry Henry eventually—though she was in no hurry. For now she just needed her safety back. The cocoon of a life she'd built for herself, which Pompasse's death had ripped open once more.

The sharp rap on her bedroom door tore her from her abstraction. “Bathroom's clear, princess. I'm heading downstairs.”

She took the fastest shower on record, both because she was afraid he might come back, and because he'd used most of the hot water in the old house's outdated water system. She grabbed the first thing she could find in her suitcase—a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and leaving her hair hanging wet down her back she raced barefoot down the wide stone stairs in the center of the farmhouse, knowing that if she had hesitated she'd never have left her room.

The main floor of the house consisted of four main rooms—the huge living room, with its massive fireplace, rustic furniture and windows, the formal dining room with a table that could easily seat twenty, the large kitchen and the smaller study. Everyone was gathered in the living room, and when she appeared in the doorway a sudden hush fell over the ill-assorted group.

Maguire was there, of course, watching her. Gia was beside him, dressed in a clingy silk dress that displayed her angular charms. Madame Antonella sat by the empty fireplace, dressed in voluminous black, a lacy shawl around her hunched shoulders, her white hair piled artfully on her head. She gazed up at Charlie with a blank, disapproving gaze.

“Who are you?” she demanded in soft, querulous French. “Are you one of the servants?”

“That's Charlie,
madame,
” Lauretta said patiently. “She was the master's wife.”

Madame Antonella let out a genteel snort. “At La Colombala we dress for dinner.”

Gia's malicious laugh floated over the room.

“Now, Madame Antonella, you know that's not polite,” Lauretta said, casting an apologetic glance in Charlie's direction.

“I'm old. I don't have to be polite,” Antonella announced smugly.

“You haven't changed,
madame,
” Charlie murmured. Thirteen years ago she'd been wary of the old lady, and the last five hadn't improved her manners.

Antonella's eyes were mere slits beneath the crepey wrinkles, but they summed up Charlie with one disparaging glance. “Who are you?”

“It's Charlie,” Lauretta said again. “You remember her.”

“Don't tell me who I remember! I don't remember a damn thing!” She pushed herself out of her chair, with more strength than Charlie would have suspected. In her youth Antonella Bourget had been a spectacular creature—tall, voluptuous, powerful. Now that power had degenerated into fat as her mind had slipped into forgetfulness, but she was still surprisingly agile. “Young man!” she called out to Maguire. “Come here and take my arm. You're dressed in rags as well, but you may as well prove yourself useful. At least you have better manners than she does.”

Under any other circumstances Charlie would have laughed at the absurdity, but for some reason her sense of humor had fled.

Maguire moved to Antonella's side, proffering his arm, and he gave Charlie an ironic grin. “Cozy little house party, isn't it?” he muttered under his breath.

“What did you say?” Antonella demanded. “I hate it when people talk behind my back.”

“No one's talking behind your back,
madame,
” Lauretta said calmly, taking her other arm. “I've prepared something lovely for dinner. You know how you love my gnocchi. The best in Tuscany, you've always told me.”

Antonella's response was an unimpressed snort. She clung tightly to Maguire's arm as she tottered into the dining room, the rest of the mismatched house party trailing after her. She went straight for the head of the table, but Lauretta caught her arm, pulling her back.

“You sit here,
madame,
” she said.

“What do you mean? I always sit at the head! Except when Pompasse is here. Where is he?”

“He's dead,
madame.
You remember. And now Charlie is here. She is the master's wife. She takes precedence.”

“Oh, for God's sake, let the old witch sit where she wants,” Gia said bitterly.

“Madame should sit at the head…” Charlie began at the same time, but Maguire had already seated the old lady at the foot of the table. He looked up at Charlie and smiled wickedly.

“You're the matriarch now, Mrs. Pompasse,” he said. “Might as well enjoy it.”

“I don't want…”

“Will you sit down, for Christ's sake!” Gia said, grabbing the chair on Maguire's left. “I'm starving, and we've already spent too long waiting for you.”

There was nothing she could do but sit. Madame Antonella sat at the foot of the table, Gia on one side and Maguire on the other. Charlie grabbed the chair and sat.

It had always been Pompasse's chair, huge, oversize like the personality of the man himself. She felt small, trapped, and for a moment she half expected the arms of the chair to wrap around her, holding her prisoner. But of course it was only a chair—there were other things that were keeping her trapped.

The dinner was miserable, despite Lauretta's excellent cooking. The majority of Gia's conversation was directed at an unresponsive Maguire, although occasionally she sent out a barb in Charlie's direction. Madame Antonella said nothing, eating everything in sight and dribbling half the food on her massive, black satin bosom, and Maguire simply watched them all out of his cool, dark eyes.