Widow - Anne Stuart [18]
And why was he feeling guilty? Mrs. Pompasse could take care of herself—beneath that cool exterior he suspected that she was as tough as nails. But he’d looked into her remote golden eyes and suddenly felt like a piece of dog shit, forcing his way in here under false pretenses, lying, as he always lied. He’d looked at her and had wanted to tell her he was sorry. Tell her he wouldn’t use the dirt he’d been amassing so steadily. He’d wanted to…
He wasn’t going to think about the crazy things he suddenly wanted to do with the ice princess. He was staying put. No way would he miss the story of his lifetime. No way. Gregory would kill him. His old pal Molly would rise up in her grave and kick his sorry butt. He’d spent ten years moving from war zone to war zone, cataloging horrors and tragedy and disaster and the deaths of innocents. And then he’d turned his back on it, burned out so profoundly that he wasn’t sure he could even keep living. When what little money he’d saved had run out he’d hooked up with the first dirty job he could find, one that happened to be for Marc Gregory’s sleazy tabloid.
Dealing with the lives and deaths of the selfish rich was a walk in the park compared to the horrors of war, and he intended to use everything he could find and then get the hell out. Gregory had promised him the moon and more, and if there was one thing Gregory was willing to pay for, it was sleaze. He could see a book, excerpts in tabloids all over the world. He could see a bloody fortune coming his way.
And he told himself he didn’t give a rat’s ass if the way to riches was strewn with the bodies of Pompasse’s castoffs. Including the self-controlled, luminous widow who for some goddamned reason he wanted to touch.
He started back toward the house, taking his time. He had the perfect excuse for ferreting around the place. There were valuable paintings missing, as well as important records, and as a so-called insurance consultant it was his duty to find out what had happened to them. He already had a pretty clear sense of Pompasse’s financial picture, and it wasn’t good. The widow was going to be damned unhappy when she discovered what kind of mess the old man had left her. Too damned bad he wasn’t going to be around to comfort her in her distress.
But then, she’d have her fiancé. He didn’t know why that annoyed the hell out of him, but it did. She’d left Pompasse years ago—a woman like that wouldn’t be long without a man to look out for her. He wondered what kind of man she’d chosen this time. A Euro-stud with rippling pecs and not much brainpower? A New York stockbroker dressed in Armani who’d made his first million by age thirty?
He was betting on the stockbroker. Someone young and ruthless, as Pompasse had been old and ruthless. A worthy adversary for someone like Maguire.
Though there was no damned reason why he’d have anything to do with Charlie’s fiancé. Charlie’s intended wouldn’t have had anything to do with Pompasse.
Maguire reached in his pocket for his cigarettes, only to come up with a crumpled, empty packet, and he began to curse with the fluid invective he’d learned on a thousand battlefields. The only one who could swear better than he could was Molly, his old photographer, and she was dead. She’d laugh if she saw the mess he’d gotten himself into, and a reluctant, wry smile curved his mouth.
It was a helluva time to give up cigarettes, right when he was in the middle of the story of his lifetime. He’d already given up drinking a couple of years ago, finding he couldn’t control it. It wasn’t fair that he had to fight still another addiction. On top of that, now he had Charlie Thomas floating in his subconscious, getting on his nerves as well. It was going to be one god-awful week.
He should be used to it by now. The best stories never came easy, and he ought to count his blessings. He was living, if not in the lap of luxury, at least in beautiful surroundings. Lauretta was a good cook, Tuscany was gorgeous, and something was making him