Widow - Anne Stuart [104]
“She’s afraid that if she lets herself love someone she’ll be just like her mother. Going through men, pathetically self-absorbed. She doesn’t realize that she’s nothing at all like me. She’s a person who gives, not one who takes. And it’s all right for her to take, every now and then.”
“Don’t look at me,” he’d growled. “She won’t want anything to do with me once this is over.”
“You really think so, Maguire?” she’d murmured. “Maybe you’re not quite as clever as I thought you were.”
They’d come to stitch up her leg then, and he hoped to hell they didn’t numb her before they used the needle. No wonder Charlie was such a pain in the butt. But he believed Olivia—Charlie wasn’t anything like her mother. Except in her ability to be annoying.
He looked down at the disk in his hand. He was damned if he was going to be sentimental. He’d hold on to it—you could never tell when something like this might come in handy one day. He was about to tuck it into his pocket when he heard the door open. He hadn’t bothered to lock it—he seldom did. He was big enough to take on most of the unsavory characters that haunted his neighborhood, and most of them knew to leave him safely alone.
It was no unsavory character. It was Charlie standing in his doorway, furious, glaring at him.
He wanted to grin, but he didn’t. She’d come after him. Maybe she hadn’t thought better after that giddy time in the crypt. Maybe she was ready for him, after all. “What?” he said in an irritable voice. “What is it this time?”
“You aren’t writing the story,” she said, walking into the room and slamming the door behind her. It made a nice solid thump. He liked a woman who slammed doors. Hell, he liked everything about Charlie, including her glower. She’d gone from a pale, colorless mouse to a holy terror, and the truth of it was, he was stupidly, damnably in love with her. And he was going to have to tell her so, whether he liked it or not. But not until he was forced to.
“There’s no story to write, sweetheart,” he drawled instead. “You trashed my computer, remember?” He shoved the zip disk into his pocket.
“You aren’t going to write about last night, either. I don’t know whether the police believed what we told them, but they’re closing the investigation.”
“Gullible of them,” Maguire observed. “And you expect me to sit on the story of my life, just because it’s a little messy?”
“You’re not writing the story.”
“All right. I told your mother I wouldn’t, anyway. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you that.”
She looked startled, as if she hadn’t expected him to be so amenable. “That’s not exactly what she told me, but then, my mother can be quite surprising at times,” she said after a moment. “You know you’ll probably lose your job.”
“Already lost it,” he said cheerfully.
She looked at him speculatively. “Then how are you going to support me?”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Fine,” she said breezily, moving past him. She spied his open suitcase on the bed. “You’re packing? Where are we going?”
He managed to pull himself together. “We’re not going anywhere,” he said sternly. “I’m going back to Australia.”
“If ‘we’re’ not going anywhere then why are my shoes and my bra in your suitcase?” she asked in a dulcet tone.
He started to shrug, but his shoulder screamed in pain. “Souvenir?” he suggested. “I like to keep a little something from every woman I’ve nailed.”
She crossed the room, coming up to him. She looked beaten down, exhausted, nervous and uncertain, and more alive than he’d ever seen her. She flashed him a bright smile. “Sorry, pal. It’s not that easy. You promised me we’d have days to make love once we got out of that tomb, and I expect a man to keep his promises.”
“I was just trying to distract you,” he said.
“Consider me distracted. You’re not getting rid of me, Maguire. Let’s face it, I’m a cold-blooded, heartless woman and you’re the only man who’s ever managed to turn me on in my entire lifetime. I don’t intend to let you get away.” Some of her bravado faded slightly. “Unless, of course, you don’t want me?”
He