Widow - Anne Stuart [17]
For some reason he thought she’d be different face-to-face. When he’d looked at her from across the crowded church he’d felt an odd connection. Even attraction. He reached in his jacket and pulled out the mangled postcard. He couldn’t figure out why he was carrying it with him—it wasn’t his style to be impulsive or sentimental. But the reproduction of the portrait fascinated him. He’d done a blitz of research before showing up at the villa, and Charlie When She Left was legendary. He stared down into Charlie’s lost golden eyes, so different from the cool gaze he’d just looked into. And then he shoved the postcard back into his pocket, crumpling it further.
He’d had a busy few days. First the rushed trip to New York, then a flurry of last-minute research when he’d gotten back. For once Gregory had come through with a decent amount of information, including a packet of postcards with Pompasse’s work on them dating back to his early years in Paris. Including three postcards featuring the most well-known portraits from Pompasse’s Gold Period.
Two of which were hanging in Pompasse’s apartment. One he’d never seen before, and he’d been half tempted to crumple up the shiny print and toss it. He stopped himself, staring down at the tiny rectangle of glossy color.
Mrs. Pompasse again, older this time. She was wearing some sort of ratty sweater, though he suspected Pompasse had dressed her in designer clothes, and her luminous golden eyes were no longer innocent. Still wary, but by the time this portrait was painted she had known what to be wary of. There was a “to hell with you” twist to her soft mouth, a firmness to her jaw that hadn’t been there before. But he could still see the warmth in her shadowed eyes.
He turned it over to read the back. Charlie When She Left was the name of the painting, and it was quite recent. Only five years old. And according to Maguire’s expert sources, everything since then had been garbage.
Had the old man just let her go, or had he tried to get her back? Maybe he had hoped Gia would provide a suitable distraction and he wouldn’t miss Charlie. If so, it hadn’t worked. The last Maguire had heard, Pompasse had moved on to someone even younger, more innocent.
Charlie’s eyes still haunted him. The real ones, with their defenses in place. He wanted to spark some kind of emotion, and he’d been as obnoxious as he could be when she’d found him in the vineyard. Well, maybe he was capable of being even more obnoxious, but it would have been a stretch. She was the most self-contained ice princess he’d ever met, an anathema to him. She should have been a Nordic blonde, not a tawny cat.
He could exert considerable charm when he chose to, but he’d known instinctively that someone like Charlie would be immune to something as facile as charm. He wouldn’t be able to lie and flirt and flatter his way into her confidence—she was too well guarded. The best angle of attack was to act as if he didn’t give a shit.
He would have to walk a fine line if he was going to carry off his impersonation. He knew as well as anyone that he wasn’t the typical insurance type, and he had to remember to tone down his natural instincts just enough to keep her from throwing him off the property.
But he still wanted, needed, to keep her off guard. She was a strong woman, a survivor—he could tell by the way she carried herself, by the determination in her generous mouth. She had all her defenses and boundaries in place, and it was going to require a concerted effort on his part to break past them.
He hadn’t even been able to annoy her, though for some contrary reason he’d done his best. He’d annoy the hell out of her once she found out why he was really here. Of course, he expected to be long gone by then, so he wouldn’t have the pleasure of watching Madame Pompasse explode. He’d have to settle for his imagination.
Maguire stripped off his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder.