Widow - Anne Stuart [20]
And he saw her as the lady of the manor. Just the sort of thing to incite his distrust of class issues. He wondered whether her old man had given her a good time in that bed upstairs. Or whether her new one did.
He knew he could. She’d tell him about Pompasse, once he had her underneath him. She’d tell him anything he wanted to know. She was that kind of woman—she held everything in reserve, wary, protected, until she finally gave in. And then she’d give it all.
And he would be a right bastard to take it. But take it he would, before she even realized what she’d lost.
It wasn’t the first time he’d climbed up the hillside to the ruins of the old church. Tuscany, and indeed, all of Italy, was littered with churches, from huge cathedrals to tiny little wayside chapels. The chapel had served the farmhouse that was now La Colombala, as well as the surrounding countryside, but World War Two bombing had put an end to most of the building, including a good portion of the roof and two of the walls. There were still remnants of the place left—some underground storerooms, a couple of hallways, and half the sanctuary sheltered under the remains of the old roofing, while the rest of the building was open to the stars.
He liked the place, particularly at night. For a lapsed Catholic he had a curiously sentimental attachment to the ruins, and it had nothing to do with the strict Jesuit education he’d had in Australia.
No, stretched out on the remnants of a battered old pew that had somehow survived the bombing, Maguire could tilt his head back and look at the stars and remember the lost smell of incense and the lost faith that had once been a false comfort. The car crash that had killed his bickering parents had ended all that, though his kid brother still believed.
Except for his brother, Dan, Maguire had been alone in the world since that day, and the only one who’d ever gotten past his shell was Molly, with her tough talk and her soft heart. She’d been his best friend, his mother, his sister, his lover, until the day he’d seen her blown to pieces by a land mine in Kosovo.
But lying back on the hard wooden pew, he could almost see her up there in the stars. That’s where she’d be—not in some traditional heaven wearing white robes and playing a harp. For one thing, the lady was tone deaf. For another, she didn’t believe in that sentimental crap.
No, she’d be up there in the stars, looking down at him, telling him what an asshole he was for being sentimental about her. Telling him what a bastard he was for even thinking about using someone like Charlie Thomas. Telling him to stop wasting his life with trashy tabloids and get back to work on a real paper.
He wouldn’t listen, of course, but then, she’d been used to that in life. It wouldn’t come as any surprise in death. But she’d still be watching, nagging at his conscience. And maybe once he managed this final, monumental score, maybe he’d leave Europe, go back home, find himself a small-city newspaper and a plump wife and forget all his demons.
Maybe.
In the meantime he was going to do one more search of the church ruins. There were all sorts of nooks and crannies, hidden places where someone might stash a fortune’s worth of paintings. Finding out where those paintings had gone was at least as important as finding out how Pompasse really died. Given the monetary value, it was probably even more important to his pragmatic public.
One thing, though—Maguire needed to concentrate on the task at hand and keep his mind off the widow. There’d be time enough to deal with her.
Even with the heavy damask cover stripped from her bed, the old room still brought Charlie almost suffocating memories. The windows, wide open to the warm autumn air, did nothing to make the room inviting—it felt both cold and claustrophobic.
She swept the makeup and perfume into the trash, not even hesitating, and by accident some of the scent spilled, filling the room with its cloying fragrance. Pompasse had had it blended especially for her on her eighteenth birthday, and