The Widow

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.

  6

  The 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.

  It was amazing to Charlie that she could manage to choke down anything.

  “This is an inferior wine,” Antonella announced at one point after downing her fourth glass. “Where is Pompasse? He never would have allowed such garbage to be served at his table. It’s your fault,” she said, glaring at Charlie.

  Five years ago Charlie might have been tempted to argue—but now she was past the need. “We’ll have Tomaso see if there’s anything better,” she said.

  “I like it,” Gia pronounced. “Don’t you, Maguire?”

  Maguire hadn’t touched his wine, a detail that hadn’t escaped Charlie’s attention. In fact, she’d been watching him too much. It was purely for lack of something better to look at. Antonella’s table manners were far from appetizing and Gia was too hostile. And the walls were bare.

  “Where did the paintings go?” Charlie asked abruptly.

  Gia didn’t even bother looking around. She had managed to down a fair amount of wine herself and, if anything, her malicious mood had only deepened. “You mean your portraits? They’ve been gone for a long time. I don’t know whether he burned them or sold them, but your glorious face hasn’t been seen anywhere around here for the past five years.”

  “Burned them?” Charlie echoed, horrified.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Antonella piped up. “He knew the value of his work—he would never have burned anything. And why do you think he would, you stupid little tramp?”

  Since that had been Antonella’s form of address to every one of Pompasse’s models for the past fifty years, Gia didn’t bother to take offense. “Because he loved Charlie and she abandoned him, you old bitch,” she shot back.

  Charlie set her fork down. She’d barely eaten a thing since she’d heard of Pompasse’s death, and this kind of atmosphere wasn’t doing much for her appetite. “Could we not fight…?” she began in a faint voice.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. All we ever do is fight in this household,” Gia snapped. “That’s
the way Pompasse wanted it. Or have you forgotten that along with everything else?”

  “He wouldn’t have burned his paintings, even those of that whore,” Antonella said flatly. “Someone must have hidden them.”

  “And where would that be?” Maguire broke in softly. He’d been watching, listening to the ensuing conversation with all the rapt attention of a gossipmonger.

  Madame Antonella shrugged her massive shoulders. “Ask Pompasse.”

  “He’s dead, you old witch!” Gia snapped, her voice ragged.

  “Of course he is.” Antonella’s voice was waspish. “I know that. The question is, who killed him?”

  7

  The crash that followed the old lady’s question couldn’t have been timed worse, Maguire thought irritably. One bombshell was perfect—he could have sat there and watched everyone’s expression once Antonella had brought up the idea of murder, and within a matter of moments he would have learned a great deal. Maybe even who could have done the deed.

  But Lauretta was on her way out to the kitchen, and the plate she was carrying smashed to the floor, drawing everyone’s gaze, giving them all a chance to hide their initial reaction. A moment later Tomaso appeared behind her, looking unnaturally disturbed.

  Maguire was fast enough, well trained enough to have caught lightning-fast impressions. Gia must have suspected he’d been murdered—she barely blinked when Madame Antonella asked who killed him.

  There was no doubt about Lauretta’s reaction, of course. Shock and horror made her drop the platter, and she stepped over the cake to Antonella’s side, an angry expression on her plain face. “You shouldn’t say such things, madame,” she said fiercely. “Pompasse’s death was an accident. Who would want to kill him?”

  “Probably everyone who ever met the man,” Maguire said, just to see what kind of reaction he would get.

  Lauretta turned on him in a fury. “How would you know? You didn’t meet him, did you?”

  “Never had the pleasure,” he said. “If I had, I’d probably be a suspect along with the rest of you.” He was doing a piss-poor job of acting like an insurance investigator but he didn’t care. He’d be gone before they figured it out, and in the meantime he liked putting the cat among the pigeons.