Widow - Anne Stuart [103]
“You called me Mama up in that chamber of horrors,” Olivia said calmly. “I rather liked it. You haven’t called me Mama in years.”
“Where is he, Mama?”
“He’s fine, dearest. He went back to Florence. He said you wouldn’t be needing him anymore.”
“He did?” She didn’t know whether to be depressed or furious.
“If I know Maguire he’s probably in a hurry to file the story of tonight’s macabre little escapade. He didn’t say a word to the police, but you know how untrustworthy these people are. You do have wretched taste in men, my sweet. First, that ghastly old man, then a tabloid journalist.”
“You forgot Henry,” Charlie pointed out forlornly.
“Henry is eminently forgettable,” Olivia said. “Are you going to let him do it?”
“Let him do what?”
“Let Maguire get away with it. Let him write his tabloid trash?”
It took a moment for it to sink in. “No,” she said. “Of course I’m not.”
“Then you’d better go after him, hadn’t you?” Olivia said in a dulcet voice. “You can take my car if you want.”
“That’s all right. I’ll take Maguire’s. I’m used to it by now.”
This time she grabbed her purse and a heavy sweater on her way out the door. She was halfway across the terrace when she stopped. She turned back to see her mother standing in the door, watching her.
She sprinted back across the terrace and enveloped her mother in a bear hug. “Thanks, Mama,” she said.
Olivia’s smile was slightly crooked, and her beautiful blue eyes were shiny with tears. “My pleasure, love. I’ve always wanted to be a heroine.”
24
His shoulder hurt like bloody hell. It didn’t help having seventeen messages on his answering machine, all from Gregory. He went from threats to bribes to pleas, and Maguire deleted each one at the opening words. No messages from anyone else, but then, why should he have expected it?
Charlie would be sound asleep by now, dreaming innocent dreams and thanking heaven she’d escaped, not from a crazy, murdering old woman, but from a man who was no good for her. She’d run away the first time, and if he hadn’t come after her she would probably have been happy never to see him again.
Well, she wouldn’t. He was getting the hell out of Italy, heading back home for the first time in fifteen years. Thomas Wolfe said you couldn’t go back home again. Maguire intended to prove him wrong.
He’d find himself a nice big Australian girl and have babies. Maybe he’d forget all about Charlie Thomas. In a year or ten.
He had a hell of a time packing with only one arm. They’d set his shoulder, and it was no more than a hairline crack, but it still hurt like crazy, and he had it strapped to his body to keep from using it. Just as well—if it had been free he probably would have punched the wall.
He threw his clothes in his suitcase, then on impulse tossed in her shoes and bra. He wasn’t sure why—maybe some crazy sentimental streak. Maybe he could hold them hostage and force her to come to Australia and get them. And maybe he’d finally lost it for good.
He had the zip disk in his hand, staring down at it. He’d be a total fool to toss it—he could count on it as his old-age security. It could come in handy as blackmail material if things got dicey. Or he could simply print off the pictures of Charlie and stare at them.
He’d told Olivia he wasn’t going to write the book. It was a long wait at the hospital, more than enough time for Olivia to give him a piece of her mind and then some.
“I warned you, Maguire,” she’d said. “She’s a precious girl, and I don’t want you smashing her heart.”
“I’m never going to see her again,” he’d said. “Scout’s honor. I’m dropping the book and heading back home and I never want to hear Pompasse’s name again.”
For some reason Olivia didn’t look pleased. “You care, Maguire. Be a man and admit it. She’s afraid, you know,” she’d added. “Afraid she’ll turn out like me.”
She’d managed to lure him into the conversation, against his better