Widow - Anne Stuart [33]
She moved silently along the stone floors on bare feet. The door to the study was half closed, and she pushed it open, then paused. She’d forgotten that Maguire had claimed the space for his own. The intruder sat at Pompasse’s desk, hunched over a laptop computer, his face intent in the glow from the screen, his fingers flying. He wasn’t a touch typist, but he was incredibly fast, which seemed odd to her.
He had headphones on, and the music was so loud she could hear the muffled strains. Rock and roll. Loud, noisy rock and roll as he pounded on the keys of the laptop.
He didn’t even notice her, he was so intent on whatever he was typing. She took a sip of her coffee, watching him. He was rumpled, unshaven, totally lost in his work, and he reminded her of someone. It took her a moment to realize who it was. He was young and good-looking in a rough sort of way, she supposed, and Pompasse had been old and elegant. And yet Maguire had something of the same expression Pompasse had had when he was in the midst of painting. Yet insurance reports were a far cry from creativity. How could a man get lost in something so dry?
She pushed away from the door and entered the room, but he was still unaware of her presence. He didn’t even realize he was being watched. His attention was elsewhere as he stared intently at the computer screen. She came up behind him.
She saw her name on the screen. Others as well, words that didn’t seem to belong in an insurance adjuster’s report, but a second later he slammed the lid down on the computer, ripped off the earphones and turned to glare at her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that?” he demanded.
“Walking through my husband’s house,” she replied, taking a sip of coffee. “And I made plenty of noise. What is that awful stuff you’re listening to?”
“Metallica. I work best listening to heavy metal.”
“Writing insurance reports?”
“Something’s gotta make them interesting,” he replied. “Is there any more of that coffee?”
“In the kitchen. Help yourself.” Anyone else, even Gia, and she would have offered to get it for them. But not Maguire. Besides, she wanted to see what he was writing.
He moved back from the table, pushed a button on the portable compact disk player and the noise stopped. “Have a listen if you’ve a mind to,” he said cheerfully, and left the room. Leaving her alone with the computer.
The kitchen was a good ways from the study, but Charlie didn’t hesitate. She set her half-empty cup of coffee down and moved behind the desk, lifting the lid of the computer.
Cartoon figures danced across the screen. Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner in their endless chase. Odd that Maguire would have that as a screen saver, but then, Maguire was a difficult man to figure out.
She pushed a key, but instead of bringing the text back she was rewarded with a blank screen. And a demand for a password.
By the time he returned she was curled up in the leather chair, both hands wrapped around her coffee mug, wishing it were Maguire’s neck. He sat back down at the closed computer. “Find out anything interesting?” he asked lazily.
She considered denying everything but Maguire was doing his best to unsettle her, and the least she could do was respond in kind.
“That you like Warner Brothers cartoons and you’re paranoid enough to need a password,” she said. “I didn’t have enough time to get any further.”
“You think you can crack my password? I doubt it. I change it every day or so,” he said.
“Why?”
“To keep nosy little girls like you out of my business.”
“I’m not little, I’m not a girl, and it happens to be my business as well, doesn’t it?”
“Honey, you’re like Peter Pan. I don’t care how old you are, you’ve never grown up.”
She managed a very convincing laugh. “If you think I’m childish then you haven’t been in this household very long.”
“You’re not childish.