Widow - Anne Stuart [30]
There’d been Luisa’s disappearance, of course. Their only child had run away when she was sixteen, never to be heard from again, and the shadows of that loss still lingered. Lauretta would never speak of it, or of her child at all, though she had become even more fiercely religious. Tomaso would talk quietly about his lost daughter when his wife was nowhere around, taking comfort in telling Charlie about the young girl who’d run away long before Charlie and her mother had ever come within Pompasse’s orbit.
And Madame Antonella was senile, cranky, but hardly ruined. She’d lived her life in comfort, enjoying the respect and awe of the art world and Pompasse’s household, and Aristide himself had always made it a duty to have afternoon tea with her when he was in residence.
No, Pompasse wasn’t a destroyer, just, as Maguire had said, a selfish man.
She washed her dishes and set them in the wooden drying rack, then headed up to bed. The door to Pompasse’s old room stood open when she reached the top of the first flight of stairs. The door to her room was solidly closed.
She approached the open door hesitantly, peeking inside to make sure it was deserted. There was no sign of Maguire, and her suitcase was sitting on the low table. He’d propped a chair under the knob of the adjoining bathroom door.
Smart-ass, she thought to herself, closing the door behind her and surveying the strange, denuded room. She didn’t like the idea of him having access to her belongings, but at least she could comfort herself in the knowledge that he’d have no interest in her utilitarian white cotton underwear or anything else. Thank God she hadn’t let Lauretta unpack for her. The thought of Maguire’s big, strong hands picking up her clothes gave her the shivers.
She undressed, pulled on the cotton nightshirt she slept in and climbed into bed. It wasn’t until she was drifting off to sleep, in the strange room, in the strange bed, that she remembered that Maguire had been sleeping there. That she was sleeping in Maguire’s bed, between Maguire’s sheets.
The chair was still propped under the doorknob, keeping monsters at bay. It could only keep Maguire out if he tried to come through the bathroom.
But what would keep Aristide’s memory from haunting her? Ghosts could wander through walls, invade dreams, torment the living. But she didn’t believe in ghosts.
And when she slept, she dreamed of Maguire.
8
Maguire settled down in the big old bed, the Day-Timer in his hand. He’d struck pay dirt, and not where he’d expected it. He’d searched Charlie’s suitcase with the care and thoroughness of a professional, coming up with little of interest. She favored jeans and sweaters and T-shirts, though they all had impressive labels. She wasn’t sleeping with anyone—the plain white underwear simply solidified his belief that she was either celibate or uninterested. Sex clearly had no part in her life right now.
He’d found her leather-bound Day-Timer and filched it, knowing he’d have to slip it back into her suitcase before she noticed it was gone. It made dry reading. No emotional outbursts—it was a record of her appointments, work schedule and social engagements, mostly with the mysterious Henry. She worked surprisingly hard—she kept meticulous track of the time she put in at the restaurant, both cooking and overseeing the operation. He couldn’t imagine a skinny, chilly creature like Charlie being able to cook. It was too physical an occupation for someone out of touch with her body.
Then again, he couldn’t imagine