Widow - Anne Stuart [35]
But Charlie had always loved the place. The path that led up to it was steep in places, though there was a more winding way that looked like nothing so much as a goat path. If goats went to mass.
When Charlie was young she would wait until Pompasse was occupied with something before she could escape. Even when he no longer painted her, no longer slept with her, he kept close tabs on her, and it was only on rare, precious occasions that she managed to slip away. Charlie had always hiked the steep trail through the towering cypresses and she would sit beneath the open roof and feel safe, protected.
She never considered how odd that was. In Pompasse’s home she was so protected that she was practically smothered. He allowed no one to talk to her, he wanted to know where she was and what she’d been doing, what she was reading, what she was buying, what she was dreaming and what she was thinking. And she’d told him.
Some of it.
The rest she kept for the empty church with the shattered windows letting in the clear Tuscan light.
The early-morning air was cool and damp, and she took Maguire the steep way, hoping his affection for cigarettes would have him wheezing before they were halfway there. He was disgustingly fit, and if she hadn’t been so set on ignoring him he would have probably kept up a running conversation.
She hated having to bring him up here. Hated to spoil the ruined sanctity of the place with his annoying presence. But it was a small price to pay to get rid of him. Once they found the journals and the missing paintings, and once he left, then she could reclaim it. At least for the short time she was here.
“What’s that over there?” he demanded. He wasn’t even panting—he must be in better shape than she’d realized. And then she remembered what he looked like in a towel, and she realized he was in very good shape indeed. And she didn’t want to be thinking about that.
Charlie took a surreptitious gulp of air. She’d forgotten how steep it was on this rocky path. She really should have taken him the longer way, but that would have meant more time in his company, and she wanted to avoid that.
She glanced toward the little cottage. “That’s where Madame Antonella lives.”
“The old bat? How long’s she been there?”
“Since Pompasse bought the place. She was his first model, and she never left his side.”
“Not many women did,” he said. “He must have been quite the stud. Ruined you for other men, did he?”
She turned. The path fell away beneath him, and she could look out over the rich valley. “One push, Maguire, and with luck you’d break your neck.”
“Is that how Pompasse was murdered?”
It was like a slap in the face. “He wasn’t murdered, Maguire. He fell. Madame Antonella is senile—she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“She may be senile but she makes sense. Admit it, Charlie. There are too many people who wanted Pompasse dead. Including you.”
“I didn’t want him dead. I didn’t care. I’d left him. Divorced him, or so I thought.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she could have bitten her tongue, and of course he was on them immediately.
“So you thought?” he echoed. “He never signed the papers? Sounds like the Pompasse we all know and love. So he kept you on a string, after all, just like all the others. Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Leave it, Maguire,” she said wearily. “All that matters is that I thought I was divorced. I hadn’t seen him in five years—he was part of my past.”
“Not yet, he isn’t. Maybe when you bury his ashes in the vineyard he will be. Or maybe he’ll never let you go. You’ll be like Madame Antonella, crazy as a loon, wandering around mourning your lost Pompasse.”
“At least you won’t be around to witness it,” she said in her calm voice. “Do you want to keep baiting me or do you want to look for the goddamned paintings?”
He grinned, and she cursed herself for letting him see that he’d gotten to her. But the fact was, he had. Easily. He knew just what buttons to push