The Widow

by Anne Stuart

  It wasn’t the first time he’d dismissed her when she’d asked uncomfortable questions. Henry was a man who preferred the appearance of calm over every other consideration. It had been one of the things that had most attracted her to him.

  It was now one of the things that annoyed her.

  “All right,” she said, letting a touch of coolness creep into her voice. “We’ll talk later. In the meantime I’d appreciate it if you’d at least be polite to Maguire. He may not be your kind of person but he’s here to do a job, and the sooner he’s finished the sooner we’ll be rid of him. It’ll just slow things down if you interfere.”

  “I have no intention of interfering, precious,” Henry said. “I’m just going to do a little research, once I’m rested. Surely you can’t object to that?”

  Surely she couldn’t. And yet oddly enough she did. She didn’t want Henry making phone calls to his old boys’ network, checking out Maguire’s bona fides. Which was ridiculous—if there was something suspicious about her unwelcome guest, then the sooner she found out the sooner she could get rid of him. Which was her main goal in life, wasn’t it?

  “Of course not,” she said. “Have a good rest, Henry.”

  “Kiss?” he said plaintively, proffering his angular jaw.

  She crossed the room and planted a dutiful peck on his smooth-shaven cheek. He was the only man she knew who could travel halfway around the world and still manage to be freshly shaven.

  Unlike Maguire’s ever-present stubble. His rough beard had scratched her face when he’d kissed her mouth. She’d felt it against her wrist, and she cast a hurried glance at the blazing red mark. Henry hadn’t noticed, thank God. But then, Henry wasn’t a particularly observant man—he saw what he wanted to see.

  “Sleep well, Henry,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  She was alone in the hallway, and she leaned her forehead against the wall, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. How had things gotten so terribly confusing? All she had wanted was for Henry to be there, so that she could lean on him, let him take care of things.

  And now that he was here she was filled with a vast, unfocused annoyance. Everything he said, everything he did set her nerves on edge.

  It was all Maguire’s fault, of course. He’s the one who’d unsettled her. By putting his hands on her, his mouth on her, he’d stirred up all sorts of troubled feelings.

  Oddly enough he hadn’t stirred up disgust. The one time she and Henry had tried to make love Charlie had ended up in Henry’s black-tiled bathroom, trying to stifle the sounds of her retching. She couldn’t even think about sex and Henry’s pale body without breaking out in a cold sweat.

  And yet with Maguire she wasn’t cold and clammy. She was angry, filled with rage and heat and passion….

  Not that kind of passion, she reminded herself. She just wanted to kill him. It was a simple, well-deserved reaction.

  She pushed away from the wall. She had the oddest feeling someone was watching her, and she looked around, into the shadowy hallway leading to the right and to the left. There was no one in sight, all the doors were closed.

  She was getting skittish, she thought, shaking her head. Too much stress. She needed to lie down and listen to some soothing music, something to calm her, bring back that cool wall of stillness she kept around her. The last thing she wanted was to go back down to her mother and Maguire.

  She reached for the handle on her door, then pulled it away in shock and disgust. There was something wet and sticky on the doorknob, and in the shadowy light of the late afternoon her hand looked covered in blood.

  She didn’t hesitate, she simply shoved the door open, and whatever had been holding it closed toppled to the floor with a dull thud.

  And Charlie looked down at what lay in her path, and her mouth opened in a silent scream.

  14

  The portrait lay on its back in the middle of the room. Charlie could just recognize it—it was the very first that Pompasse had done of her. Awakening, one of the missing paintings. She had looked even younger than her sixteen years—though it was hard to tell at this point. Someone had slashed the portrait down the middle and covered it with blood.

  She backed out of the room, shaking all over. For a moment she couldn’t understand why the entire household hadn’t come running, and then she realized that she hadn’t made a sound. She pulled the door closed again, her hand sliding on the wet knob, and she stared down at the red in horror. She turned and stumbled blindly down the stairs, not even knowing where she was going.

  The living room was empty—her mother must have gone to her room, thank God. No one on the terrace, either, and without thinking she headed straight for the studio. She couldn’t knock—the red would get all over the whitewashed door. She simply pushed the door open with her shoulder, not caring what she’d find.

  Maguire had moved his computer and his CD player into the room, and he was immersed in his work, but this time he heard her approach, and he looked up, an expression of vague annoyance on his face that vanished the moment he got a good look at her.

  By that time she was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering, and when he crossed the room and caught her arms in his strong hands she was beyond noticing or caring.

  “What’s happened?” He shook her slightly when she didn’t, couldn’t answer. “Charlie? Are you hurt?”

  Through her dazed mind she was slightly surprised that he’d even care. She shook her head. “My room…” she said. “Blood…”

  He released his hold on her, and for a moment she thought she might collapse. His strength had been holding her up. But she stiffened, trying to stop the shaking.

  “You stay here,” he said, starting for the door.

  He’d left his computer on, but she was past caring. “No!” She shook her head violently. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  He gave her an odd look but simply nodded. He didn’t touch her again, and she led him back through the empty house, up to her bedroom.

  “There’s blood on the doorknob,” she said in a strained voice. “It’s on my hands.”

  “Let me see.” Without waiting for her to offer he reached down and caught her wrist, pulling her hand up. The red was still bright, thick on her palm, and she shuddered.

  He brought her hand to his face and sniffed it. “It’s not blood,” he said. “Blood smells different, almost metallic. It’s probably paint.”

  “How do you know what blood smells like?” It was a stupid question, but that was all she could think of as she tried to wipe her hands against her shirt. Her white shirt, now streaked with telltale red.

  “A misspent youth,” Maguire said, reaching for the doorknob. Most of the paint had already come off on Charlie’s hands, and he pushed it open.

  The painting was still there, viciously slashed and splattered, but now that she knew it wasn’t blood she should have felt marginally better. She didn’t. Maguire tugged her into the room and closed the door behind her, then turned to stare down at the painting.

  “One of the missing paintings, I assume. Which one?” He sounded only slightly curious.

  “Awakening.” She was still shivering. The red wouldn’t come off her hands, and she couldn’t stop shaking. “It was the first one he painted of me,” she said through chattering teeth.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He took her arm and pulled her into the bathroom, and she was in no shape to fight him. He drew her to the bathroom sink and began to run the water, but she simply stared at her reflection in the mirror ahead.

  She looked like a stranger. Her hair had come loose, her face was pale, and her white shirt was streaked with blood. No, paint, she reminded herself. She reached up to push her hair out of her face and saw the red on her fingers.

  She tried to turn away, but Maguire was behind her. He simply put his arms around her, catching her hands in his and putting them beneath the running water, like a parent teaching his child how to wash her hands. H
e scrubbed at the paint, using the soap, and she watched the red leave her fingers and swirl down the drain like blood.

  Gradually she stopped shivering, the warmth of his body behind her slowly penetrating into her iciness. He felt strong, safe, and she had the strange need to close her eyes and lean back against him.

  She didn’t, of course. And when the red was finally gone from her hands he stepped back, leaving her cold and unprotected. “Take off your shirt,” he said brusquely.

  “What?”

  “It’s covered in paint. Take it off.” He didn’t wait for her answer, since she just stared at him numbly. He caught the hem of her shirt and tugged it over her head, leaving her standing there in the bathroom in her plain white bra.

  At least he didn’t mock her or leer. For all the attention he paid she might as well have been a marble statue. “I’ll find you something else to wear,” he said. “Put that in the trash.”

  He started out into the bedroom, then stopped, blocking the door.

  She’d wrapped her arms around her body in a vain effort to cover herself, but his sudden stillness startled her. “What is it?” she asked. “Is someone in there?” Maybe he’d been wrong about the paint, maybe there was a dead animal, or worse….

  “No,” he said, and moved out of the way, letting her pass.

  She saw it immediately, of course. The word Murderer was splashed in red on the inside of the door.

  “I—I didn’t…” she stammered.

  “Get dressed,” Maguire said. “I’ll clean it up.”

  She didn’t even stop to think. By the time she’d pulled a clean shirt over her head he’d managed to wash most of the paint from the door, leaving only an illegible smear of red behind. She sat down in the chair, watching him as he worked, too numb to do anything else.

  “Why would someone do this?” she asked finally.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t realize anyone…”

  “Suspected you?” he supplied.

  “Hated me,” she corrected him. “Hated me that much.”

  “Well, Gia certainly isn’t your biggest fan. And the old lady seems to think you’re some ancient enemy. I bet if we looked further we could find some other people who aren’t too happy with you.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “I’ve never harmed anyone—at least, not on purpose. Who could have…?”

  “Where’s Lover Boy?” he interrupted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The fiancé. Henry. Where is he?”

  “He’s asleep next door.”

  “And he didn’t hear the noise we were making?” Maguire asked. “Sounds suspicious to me.”

  “Henry sleeps very heavily.”

  “How would you know? Your mother says you’ve never slept with him.”

  She jerked her head up in outrage, the last of her panic fading. “I don’t tell my mother the intimate details of my sex life, Maguire,” she snapped.

  “She says you don’t have a sex life. Looking at Henry, I can see why. Don’t you think you ought to try someone a little closer to your own age, instead of men with one foot in the grave?”

  “Leave me alone, Maguire. I’m not in the mood for this.”

  “You’re the one who came and got me. As a matter of fact, why did you? It would have been easy enough to wake up old Henry to provide moral support. Or didn’t you want him to see the word on the door?”

  “I didn’t see the word myself until you showed me,” she said in a weary voice. “And I don’t know why I didn’t go to Henry. It was one of the missing paintings, and you were looking for them. I just went on instinct.”

  “And your instincts sent you to me,” he said in a thoughtful voice. Before she could protest he went on. “You all right now? Stopped shaking?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine. I was just…surprised.”

  “To put it mildly. Why don’t you go curl up next to Henry while I finish up in here? Distract him so he doesn’t notice any noise I make.”

  “No,” she said flatly, cold again.

  “He doesn’t do it for you, does he? Poor old Henry. Maybe a little Viagra would do the trick.”

  “Stop it!” Charlie said, desperate. Her last ounce of calm was disappearing beneath Maguire’s skillful prodding.

  “Well, if Henry doesn’t appeal to you, then go down to the kitchen and find someone to talk to while I take care of this mess. I’d rather not have any witnesses.”

  “I want you to burn it.”

  “Hell, no. This is still worth a pile of money,” Maguire protested.

  “It’s been ruined.”

  “You’d be surprised to see what an art restorer could do with something like this,” Maguire said. “Go and find Lauretta and talk about cooking. By the time you come back everything will be cleaned up.”

  “What if Henry wakes up and hears you? How are you going to explain being in my bedroom?”

  He grinned at her. “Sweetheart, I leave that up to you.”

  Without another word she fled, averting her eyes from the ruined painting and the red smear on the doorway. Averting her eyes from Maguire’s cynical gaze. She’d run, all right. But not to the kitchen, where she might run into anyone. She needed peace and quiet, some place to restore her hard-won, vanished serenity. Maguire was making her crazy. She’d go up to the ruined church, and not come down till she was good and ready.

  Maguire closed the door behind her silently, then reached in his pocket for the camera. He’d been a quixotic fool to clean off the damning word from the door before he could take photos, but Charlie had been so panicked, so distressed, that he’d been uncharacteristically noble. He took some photos of the smear, anyway, contemplating whether he could re-create that damning word long enough for a decent photo. It would make a helluva dust jacket.

  In the end he didn’t bother. The ruined painting on the floor was dramatic enough.

  He took his time, using different angles, propping it against the bed. He took a few shots of the paint-spattered sink and her stained blouse for good measure—he’d learned from Molly that some of the least-expected photos turned out to be prizewinning shots. Though what the hell would Molly think of him now that he’d sunk to the level of spying on the rich and famous? He didn’t know whether she would have laughed or wept.

  He knew one thing, though. She would have kicked his butt for what he was doing to Charlie. She would have told him what a son of a bitch he was, and he would have listened.

  But Molly had died, covering one too many battles, and he’d stopped caring what anyone thought.

  By the time he was finished the sky was beginning to darken into the early autumn twilight, and he could hear voices on the terrace below.

  He peered out, and they were all congregated out there. Olivia and Henry and Gia, with Madame Antonella holding court. There was no sign of Charlie, but that didn’t worry him. She was probably in the kitchen with Lauretta and Tomaso, discussing garlic and pesto. No one would see if he hauled the ruined painting out of the villa to someplace secure.

  He still couldn’t figure out why Charlie had come to him. And it hadn’t been an accident—she’d been heading straight for him and no one else. She said it had been instinct, knowing he was trying to find the missing paintings. It was instinct, all right, but of a much more basic nature. She may not like sex, or kissing, or men. She may not like him very much at all. But she was drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, like an iron filing to a magnet, like a dog to a bone. Which was exactly what he wanted.

  He lucked out—no one spotted him as he spirited the ruined canvas down the stairs. He couldn’t stash it in the studio—the entrance was down from the terrace and he’d have to carry it straight past the curious inhabitants of La Colombala. Besides, Gia had already proved that the studio was far from secure. He’d pointed her in Henry’s direction, and if his glance from Charlie’s window was anything to go by, she’d already
zeroed in on him, but you never could tell who might decide to pay him a little visit.

  Instead he propped the painting behind the house, hidden in the underbrush, hoping that no one would notice it in the gathering twilight. After it was dark and the household was asleep he’d take it up to the old church—there were plenty of dry, empty rooms there to store it.

  The question was, who had left it for Charlie to find? It was a good-size painting—about two feet by three feet, and heavily framed. It would take some effort to haul it into Charlie’s room without anyone hearing.

  And why would they do it? The slashed painting seemed more like a death threat, the scrawled word on the door an accusation.

  Of course the police could find out who did it in short order. Fingerprints, questioning, would narrow it down immediately. Too bad he wasn’t about to involve them, but he had his priorities straight. If the police started investigating Pompasse’s death, then half the paparazzi in Europe would be on the trail. He already had one hell of an advantage, but he wasn’t about to give that up readily. Besides, it wasn’t as if Charlie was in any particular danger. So someone had put a torn, paint-splattered painting in her room. Someone was just trying to spook her.

  He paused in the doorway to the terrace, looking out at them all, wondering who could have done it and why. Maybe Henry, who was deep in conversation with the fawning Gia. No one slept that heavily in the middle of the day, even with jet lag, and he had the most to gain. The painting should have thrown Charlie into his arms, and he could have been strong and protective and she could have been pathetically grateful.

  Except that she hadn’t turned to Henry. And he hadn’t come to investigate.

  Still, it was interesting that it happened the moment he and Olivia arrived at the villa.

  Which brought him to Charlie’s mother. He couldn’t see any reason why she would have done it, though she was probably strong enough to haul the painting around. He wasn’t sure whether she would have had time or not. It would depend on how long everyone had been there before Olivia came out to the terrace. Besides, the paintings had been missing for a while now, and nothing suggested that either Olivia or Henry had anything to do with that.