Widow - Anne Stuart [12]
Charlie repressed her start of surprise. Maguire was rude and abrasive—hardly the type of man suited for this kind of diplomatic work.
“I loved my husband, Mr. Maguire. I don’t care much for you.”
If she’d hoped to annoy him even half as much as he was annoying her, she was doomed to failure. He merely nodded, but there was a faint gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.
“So where do you think his journals are?” he said.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. If I were you I’d be more interested in the lost paintings than the journals. They’re worth more.”
“Maybe,” Maguire said. “I asked the housekeeper, but she says she has no idea where they could be. As far as I can figure out either he destroyed them, or one of his harem did.” He let his dark eyes sweep over her. “This place is full of women. No one ever leaves him, do they?”
“I left him,” Charlie said, knowing her voice sounded hollow.
“But you came back.”
“To bury him, Maguire. And then I’m gone once more.”
“Who’s his heir?”
“Presumably his widow.”
“You?” he said.
“Me.”
“You don’t sound very excited about the idea. Which is a good thing—at this point it doesn’t look like you’re getting much. Any reason why he might have been selling things off? Giving them away?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I guess I can assume you didn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of his valuables. Since I got here before you.”
“His valuables?” she echoed, startled. “What about the silver? And I left behind a fair amount of jewelry—it must still be here.”
She’d managed to startle him. “The jewelry’s already yours. You don’t need to pay inheritance tax on it.”
“I gave it back to him.”
“Tell it to the tax people, lady. Not me.”
“I thought you were the tax people.”
“I’m an independent insurance consultant. I just make lists.”
“You don’t look like a list-maker to me.”
She could have bit her tongue the moment the words were out of her mouth. His eyes met hers, and for the first time she realized they weren’t brown, but a very dark green, so dark they were almost black. He took a step closer to her, and the bright sun overhead seemed to dance behind a cloud.
“What do I look like to you, lady?” His voice was soft, rough, earthy, and he was close enough to touch. She didn’t like touching people. Especially not men like Maguire.
But she wasn’t going to flinch. “A man of action,” she said coolly. “Not a man of words.”
His laugh was short, abrupt. “Now, that’s where you couldn’t be more wrong, Mrs. Pompasse. I’m very much a man of words.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said.
“Bothers you, does it? You call me Maguire, I’ll call you Charlie. When’s the funeral?”
“We already had one service in New York, and I believe there was one in Florence and Paris as well. We’ll be having a simple committal service here on Saturday.”
“He’s not buried yet?”
“His ashes will be buried in the vineyard as he requested,” she said stiffly.
“I thought the old man was Catholic. No cremation, no unsanctified ground.”
“You’re Catholic, Maguire? Somehow that surprises me.”
“I’m about as lapsed as you can be, lady.”
“So was Pompasse. If his life hasn’t condemned him to an eternity in hell then I doubt simply being buried the wrong way will do it. At least, not in my beliefs.” Again, she’d said too much to a stranger.
But he simply nodded, seemingly unsurprised. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll try to have the inventory done by Saturday. That way I’ll leave right after the committal service and you won’t have to put up with me anymore. Of course, then you’ll be dealing with the tax people and you might end up thinking I wasn’t so bad, after all.”
“Saturday?” she echoed. “I’m expecting a full house by then. My mother, my fiancé…” The words trailed off before his implacable gaze. He really was the most annoying man, Charlie thought, and that was saying a lot, considering she’d lived with Pompasse for eight years. And she couldn’t get over the irrational feeling she’d seen him before.
“If things get too crowded I can always camp out in the studio. Or the ruins of the old church.