Widow - Anne Stuart [27]
Not that he considered himself much of a reporter these days. Gossip hound, paparazzo, the epitome of yellow journalism, and proud of it. Charlie Thomas didn’t think much of him at this point. By the time she found out who he really was, her contempt would know no bounds.
He could only hope she wasn’t the one who’d killed Pompasse. Because by the time he was done with her, he’d give her more than enough motive to kill him as well, and he preferred his mortal enemies to be nonviolent. He didn’t want to be next on her list.
It was a beautiful night, one of a thousand beautiful nights in the countryside. He’d gotten to the point where he seldom noticed his surroundings, but tonight it got through to his jaded senses. There was a soft breeze riffling through the olive trees, and in the distance he could hear the baying of a sheepdog. The scents were strong in the air, as well—the fragrance of the grapes and the olives, the fall flowers that lined the stone wall of the terrace. And he could smell Charlie—the fresh scent of some subtle perfume, or maybe it was just her shampoo.
She was over in the corner of the stone terrace, hidden from view by the shrubbery that had been too long between prunings, but he had eyes like a cat, and he started toward her, taking his time, giving her the chance to run if she wanted. Her need to escape would have told him almost as much as he expected to get from talking to her.
But she stayed where she was, watching him. In the darkness he couldn’t see her strange-colored eyes, but he had the momentary conceit that they could see in the dark as well as he could, that they could read every expression that crossed his face.
Not that he ever allowed himself a betraying expression. He kept his face bland, polite, as he came up to her, wishing to God he had his cigarettes. He found he wasn’t craving the nicotine as much as wanting to have something to do with his hands. Something to keep his hands off her.
She spoke first, which surprised him. “I’d forgotten how hellish those dinners could be,” she said with a stray shiver that he knew wasn’t caused by the temperature.
“There weren’t usually that many people, were there?” he asked. “He wouldn’t have had Gia there while you were still married….”
He didn’t have to see her ironic expression to know it was there. “Don’t be naive, Maguire. Pompasse’s affairs were legendary—he always had his women. The ones he slept with, the ones he painted, the ones who’d outlived their usefulness, but he wouldn’t let any of them go. And one of his favorite occupations was to set them off against one another. He loved the idea of women fighting over him. It’s probably one reason why he kept his castoffs around.”
“Nice guy,” Maguire said.
Charlie shrugged. “I didn’t mind. My infatuation with him died quickly, but I recognized him for what he was.”
“And what was that? An egocentric pervert?” Maguire offered.
“A great artist,” she said in a calmly reproving voice. “Great artists don’t have to be decent human beings, you know. There’s a price to be paid for brilliance, and Aristide couldn’t be a good man and a great artist.”
“That’s just so much bullshit and you know it,” Maguire said bluntly. “He used his art as an excuse to get his own way, and idiots like you let him get away with it. Would you have sat around and let another man parade his mistresses and castoffs in front of you? Will you let your fiancé do it?”
“Henry would never do anything like that,” she protested. “He loves me—he’d never hurt me.”
“Lady,” Maguire said, “then he’s not the man for you. Love is pain. It’s betrayal and hurt and passion and joy. What you’re talking about is simple affection.”
“Then maybe simple affection is highly underrated.”
“It doesn’t go very far in bed, now, does it?”
She didn’t answer him, of course. He was surprised she was making no effort