He’d found her leather-bound Day-Timer and filched it, knowing he’d have to slip it back into her suitcase before she noticed it was gone. It made dry reading. No emotional outbursts—it was a record of her appointments, work schedule and social engagements, mostly with the mysterious Henry. She worked surprisingly hard—she kept meticulous track of the time she put in at the restaurant, both cooking and overseeing the operation. He couldn’t imagine a skinny, chilly creature like Charlie being able to cook. It was too physical an occupation for someone out of touch with her body.
Then again, he couldn’t imagine her making love, either. Couldn’t imagine her doing anything but sitting behind a desk in her designer sweaters and staring at him out of her exotic eyes.
He was particularly interested in the week of the nineteenth, when Pompasse died. Her schedule was devoid of an alibi—there were no dates, no work, no appointments during the five days surrounding her husband’s death. He wondered if anyone had bothered to ask her where she was when the old man bit the big one? He had every intention of doing so when he got the chance.
The rest of the room had proved to hold little of interest, despite the fact that it had been kept like a shrine to Charlie’s lost memory—the five-year-old clothes still hung in the closet, the drawers were still full. She used to favor a different sort of underwear, he’d noticed with great interest. Aristide’s wife had worn silk and lace, in exotic colors. Aristide’s widow wore cotton.
Of even more interest were the paperback romances stuck in the drawer of the bedside table. They were a greater contradiction than the silky underwear. Charlie must have once believed in passion, or at least been vaguely interested.
He turned off the light, sinking down in the bed. He didn’t like the idea of Charlie and the old man doing the nasty in this bed, and he couldn’t blame her for preferring the other room. He just wished he had a good excuse to join her there.
He was running out of time. It was Wednesday night—he had until Saturday at the latest to find out all the dirt he could dig up on Pompasse, Charlie and the myriad of women who still clustered around the villa. He needed to find what had happened to the lost paintings, and who had murdered the old goat. If he could come up with that information he’d be set for life.
It was possible a real insurance adjuster would appear on the doorstep, in which case he’d just have to get the hell out of there before Charlie went after him with a shovel. He had to admit the thought of seeing her startled out of her unruffled calm, blazing mad, was tempting. But he was counting on the notoriously slow workings of the Italian bureaucracy to keep him safe for a long enough interval. By the time a real insurance adjuster showed up he’d be gone.
Besides, if he had to choose between seeing Charlie lose her self-control and the big bucks that would be coming his way when he finished the book for Gregory, there was no contest.
He didn’t need much sleep, and he worked best in the early hours of the day. He’d catch a few hours, then head down to the study he’d claimed as his work space and get more written. He was a journalist—he could work fast under pressure, and the bigger the delay on this the less valuable it might turn out to be. He wasn’t the only tabloid reporter on the trail of this story, though he had the inside track. But in the news and trash business, timing was everything. He needed to capture Charlie on paper, now that he’d met her. He needed to describe her eyes, the long, slender body, the touch-me-not calm to her that needed to be shaken free. He needed to understand both her mysterious strength and her indefinable uncertainty. He needed to capture her in words.
And then maybe she wouldn’t haunt him.
Charlie woke early, before anyone else. She showered quickly, half-afraid that Maguire would wander in while she was undressed, but the room beyond the adjoining bathroom door was silent. She thought he would have been the kind of man who snored, but the night had been pleasantly silent.
Even Lauretta and Tomaso were still asleep—a small blessing. She loved them dearly, but she liked to make her own coffee, and Lauretta would want to weep and talk about Pompasse, and at least for one morning Charlie didn’t want to talk about her dead husband.
Where the hell had those paintings disappeared to? Had he sold them? He couldn’t have—his work was highly valuable for a living artist, and the kind of money they’d bring in would make news. Would he have given them away? Not Pompasse. He reveled in the fame and money—he knew his own worth to the last penny and cherished the power it brought him. He wouldn’t have given anything away unless he’d had an ulterior motive.
She had no idea what he’d been painting in the last five years. Probably dour portraits of Gia.
She’d done her best to avoid news of the art world, but there’d been no new records set for a work by a living artist. Not since Charlie in Her Dressing Gown.
It should have embarrassed her, but then, Pompasse had painted her in every state of dress and undress. She remembered sitting for the damned thing, out on the terrace with the sunlight caressing her damp skin. He’d seen her coming from the shower and insisted she pose for him when she hadn’t posed in months. He wanted her skin and hair wet, the robe falling off her shoulders, exposing her tanned skin. And she’d complied, even to the point of letting him spray her with water when the sun dried her hair and face.
It had been a masterpiece, they said. The skin tones were worthy of a Renaissance master. If it hadn’t been for that painting she might never have left him.
But she had been young, and still capable of being childishly flattered by all the attention it got. She’d read the newspapers, the magazines, the fawning praise and learned critique, and she’d preened like a teenager—until she’d read the description in the Art News of Italy.
“Much has been made of the glorious use of texture in the model’s skin tones, but what truly makes Charlie in Her Dressing Gown a masterpiece and Pompasse the foremost living painter is the expression in the model’s eyes. Pompasse has captured her doubts, her sexual ambiguity, her desperate attempts at serenity. It has always been said that the eyes are the window to the soul, and the soul Pompasse has captured is empty, helpless, completely dependent on whoever views the painting.”
She’d left the next morning.
They all assumed it was because he’d left her bed for Gia’s a year earlier. Her mother thought her pride was damaged, Pompasse was certain he’d broken her heart and pleasure warred with panic inside him. He’d been trying to make her jealous for years, and now he thought he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
But Pompasse’s infidelities had nothing to do with it. She hadn’t cared when he left her bed, she’d been desperately relieved. She hadn’t cared when he brought Gia into the household.
His betrayal had been far worse. She kept remembering the old story about primitive people who were afraid of cameras. They thought the photographer stole their souls.
That’s what Pompasse had done. Not stolen it, exactly—she’d handed it to him on a silver platter and he paraded his trophy for the world to see. Anyone who looked at that painting would see what a lost, empty shell of a human being she’d become. But far worse was accepting the knowledge herself. That she’d given herself away, till there was nothing but a pretty shell remaining.
So she’d run. It was past time to reclaim her life, her soul, and she’d found them in New York. Nothing on earth could lure her back, not threats, not her mother’s constant phone calls, not Pompasse’s pathetic suicide attempts. Gia would take good care of him. So would the other women who still surrounded him. She was the one who escaped and she would never go back, even if a part of her soul still remained in Tuscany. The part that Pompasse had stolen from her.
She shook herself, as if to rid herself of the power of memories. That was one painting she never wanted to find. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Pompasse had sold it to a private collector, and she had no idea where it was now. At least it wasn’t on view for the world to stare at and judge, though photos
of it still cropped up in articles about Pompasse. Some twisted soul could gloat over it in private, and she could forget that lost little girl ever existed.
Even if she knew that she was still hiding, somewhere deep inside her cool defenses.
She liked her coffee strong, black and sweet, and she poured herself a mug, shoving her still damp hair back from her face. One of her favorite things to do at La Colombala was drink coffee on the terrace, but this morning the memories were too strong. She would curl up in one of the huge leather chairs in the study and drink it there, looking out the back windows up toward the ruins of the old church.
She moved silently along the stone floors on bare feet. The door to the study was half closed, and she pushed it open, then paused. She’d forgotten that Maguire had claimed the space for his own. The intruder sat at Pompasse’s desk, hunched over a laptop computer, his face intent in the glow from the screen, his fingers flying. He wasn’t a touch typist, but he was incredibly fast, which seemed odd to her.
He had headphones on, and the music was so loud she could hear the muffled strains. Rock and roll. Loud, noisy rock and roll as he pounded on the keys of the laptop.
He didn’t even notice her, he was so intent on whatever he was typing. She took a sip of her coffee, watching him. He was rumpled, unshaven, totally lost in his work, and he reminded her of someone. It took her a moment to realize who it was. He was young and good-looking in a rough sort of way, she supposed, and Pompasse had been old and elegant. And yet Maguire had something of the same expression Pompasse had had when he was in the midst of painting. Yet insurance reports were a far cry from creativity. How could a man get lost in something so dry?
She pushed away from the door and entered the room, but he was still unaware of her presence. He didn’t even realize he was being watched. His attention was elsewhere as he stared intently at the computer screen. She came up behind him.
She saw her name on the screen. Others as well, words that didn’t seem to belong in an insurance adjuster’s report, but a second later he slammed the lid down on the computer, ripped off the earphones and turned to glare at her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that?” he demanded.
“Walking through my husband’s house,” she replied, taking a sip of coffee. “And I made plenty of noise. What is that awful stuff you’re listening to?”
“Metallica. I work best listening to heavy metal.”
“Writing insurance reports?”
“Something’s gotta make them interesting,” he replied. “Is there any more of that coffee?”
“In the kitchen. Help yourself.” Anyone else, even Gia, and she would have offered to get it for them. But not Maguire. Besides, she wanted to see what he was writing.
He moved back from the table, pushed a button on the portable compact disk player and the noise stopped. “Have a listen if you’ve a mind to,” he said cheerfully, and left the room. Leaving her alone with the computer.
The kitchen was a good ways from the study, but Charlie didn’t hesitate. She set her half-empty cup of coffee down and moved behind the desk, lifting the lid of the computer.
Cartoon figures danced across the screen. Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner in their endless chase. Odd that Maguire would have that as a screen saver, but then, Maguire was a difficult man to figure out.
She pushed a key, but instead of bringing the text back she was rewarded with a blank screen. And a demand for a password.
By the time he returned she was curled up in the leather chair, both hands wrapped around her coffee mug, wishing it were Maguire’s neck. He sat back down at the closed computer. “Find out anything interesting?” he asked lazily.
She considered denying everything but Maguire was doing his best to unsettle her, and the least she could do was respond in kind.
“That you like Warner Brothers cartoons and you’re paranoid enough to need a password,” she said. “I didn’t have enough time to get any further.”
“You think you can crack my password? I doubt it. I change it every day or so,” he said.
“Why?”
“To keep nosy little girls like you out of my business.”
“I’m not little, I’m not a girl, and it happens to be my business as well, doesn’t it?”
“Honey, you’re like Peter Pan. I don’t care how old you are, you’ve never grown up.”
She managed a very convincing laugh. “If you think I’m childish then you haven’t been in this household very long.”
“You’re not childish. You’re a child.”
“Fuck you.” The words came out totally unexpected, shocking her.
It only seemed to amuse him. “You ever said that to anyone before?”
“No,” she admitted.
“You ought to. Starting with me, and going right on down the line to anyone who annoys you. You’re someone who hasn’t told the world to piss off, and you need to.”
“Thank you for that sensitive analysis of my character,” she said in an icy voice. “Anything else you want to add?”
“You make a great cup of coffee.”
“Yes, I do,” she shot back. “I’m also an excellent cook.”
“You’ll have to convince me on that one.”
“I’m not cooking for you, Maguire. I want to get you out of here as soon as possible.”
“Why? Do I bother you?” he asked in his soft, rough voice.
They both knew the answer. He bothered the hell out of her, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “I need the space. I’m expecting a full house for the funeral.”
“Then help me find the journals. They’ll tell me what paintings are missing, and they may even reveal what he did with them. The sooner I find them the sooner I’m done.”
“I’ve got things to do….”
“You want me out of here? I’m not leaving till I catalog everything Pompasse owned. Including his women.”
“He didn’t own me, Maguire.”
“Body and soul, babe.”
She stared at him stonily. “All right,” she said. “We’ll start in the old church.”
He started to protest, then nodded. “When?”
She set her empty mug down on the delicate French table that had come from an old château. The table was spindly, just a bit unsteady, and the earthenware mug looked out of place on the intricately painted top. “There’s no time like the present,” she said. “If we find them right away you can have them cataloged and be gone by nightfall.”
“Honey, I’m good but I’m not that good,” he said. “I like to take my time when it comes to beauty. Give it all the attention it deserves.”
“Is that a sexual innuendo?” She was getting tired of his double meanings.
“Only if you see it as one, babe. Sex is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Is it?”
He came around the table, moving toward her. He hadn’t shaved in several days—obviously he was one of those men who didn’t think daily shaving was necessary. Henry didn’t even have much of a beard and yet she knew for a fact that he shaved twice a day. He was a very fastidious man.
Maguire probably knew that his stubble only made him more attractive. He leaned over her, and she could see the green in his eyes. Annoying, she thought. She’d always liked green eyes.
“Then you’re a blind woman, honey,” he said in a soft, seductive voice.
She didn’t move, trapped by his voice, his eyes, his body. He was too close, looming over her, and she felt the familiar tendrils of panic start to build inside her. Combined with something else, something odd and clenching that had nothing to do with fear.
“Back off, Maguire,” she said in a cool voice.
To her amazement he did. But the wry smile on his face was even more disturbing. “I’m ready if you are, Charlie,” he said.
“For what?” she snapped.
“For searching the old chapel. Isn’t that what we decided to do?” he asked i
nnocently.
She stood up, but he didn’t back away, and she was much too close to him. He was taller than she was, but not by much, and their eyes were almost level. She had to get him the hell out of there, as fast as she could. She had enough stress in her life right now—she didn’t need a testosterone-poisoned Australian making her even more unsettled.
“Yes,” she said. “And we won’t stop until we’ve found them.”
But Maguire only smiled.
9
In centuries past La Colombala had been the center of a thriving little hamlet, complete with its own marketplace and church. But time had eroded the stone buildings. The people had left, for war, for factory work, for more prosperous times. When Pompasse had bought the place in the 1970s he’d had most of the ruined old houses torn down. He’d kept the sturdiest ones, turning one into a cottage for Madame Antonella, another a place for Lauretta and Tomaso. He’d left the church to tumble into disrepair and decay. It amused his artistic, atheistic sensibilities, he often said. He saw it as the forced faith of his childhood tumbling into ruins.
But Charlie had always loved the place. The path that led up to it was steep in places, though there was a more winding way that looked like nothing so much as a goat path. If goats went to mass.
When Charlie was young she would wait until Pompasse was occupied with something before she could escape. Even when he no longer painted her, no longer slept with her, he kept close tabs on her, and it was only on rare, precious occasions that she managed to slip away. Charlie had always hiked the steep trail through the towering cypresses and she would sit beneath the open roof and feel safe, protected.