Widow - Anne Stuart [38]
“As I remember there are storage rooms all around the sides,” she said. “Why don’t you go that way and I’ll go this way?”
“Because it’s too bloody dark to see which way you’re pointing,” he said. “And I think we ought to stick together. There’s a lot of junk around here—you may need my help clearing the way.”
“I’m quite strong, Maguire.”
“Okay, let’s just say I don’t trust you. You could find the paintings, tell me there was nothing there, and then once I left you could sell them to private collectors without paying estate tax.”
“But then I couldn’t get rid of you as quickly. Trust me, Maguire, when you weigh the thought of millions of dollars against getting you out of my hair a couple of days early then it’s a small price to pay. Money’s overrated.”
“You know, I’m touched. I don’t know that anyone’s ever found me that annoying. I’m damned near priceless.”
“Damned near,” Charlie said agreeably. “There’s also the fact that I happen to be an honorable person.”
“Are you?” He sounded genuinely surprised by the notion.
She glanced back at him, but in the murky shadows she couldn’t see his expression. It didn’t matter. For some obscure reason he was going out of his way to annoy her. He’d say anything he could to get under her skin.
“You don’t like me very much, do you?” she said, not moving.
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s your delightful manners,” she said. “Did I do something terrible to you in a former life? Do I remind you of your mother or ex-wife or something?”
“Honey, my mother is the last thing I think about when I look at you,” he drawled. “And why do you care what I think about you? Looking for my good opinion, are you?”
He was having a very negative effect on her equilibrium, she thought, trying to stifle the little surge of irritation. She worked hard at being calm, unruffled, and Maguire seemed adept at stripping away her hard-earned serenity.
“Not particularly,” she said, making an effort not to grit her teeth. “I just don’t like being baited and I wonder why you seem so determined to do it?”
“Partly it’s my charming nature,” he said genially. “And part of it is simply third-grade dynamics.”
“Third-grade dynamics?”
“Remember the little boy who sat behind you in third grade and dipped your pigtails in the ink?”
“I never had pigtails, children haven’t used ink in schools in ages, and for that matter I never went to school. I had private tutors. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Private tutors? La-di-da. You have led a charmed life, haven’t you?”
“Absolutely peachy,” she replied. “Are you going to explain yourself?”
“Nope.”
Maguire was wrong about one thing, she thought as she turned from him and picked her way over the rubble to the first storeroom. He’d said everyone who’d ever met Pompasse had reason to kill him. She’d never, in her life, felt even the slightest murderous impulse. Until she’d had to spend time with Connor Maguire.
Fortunately Maguire kept relatively quiet during the next hour, hauling stones and debris out of the way with deceptive ease, following behind her as she made her way systematically through the cells. At one point Pompasse had kept his wine here, but that chamber was equally empty, devoid of even a broken wine rack or an empty bottle. Whatever had been up here was long gone. Including the paintings.
“All right,” she said finally. “They’re not here. They probably never were.”
“What’s down that way?” Maguire demanded, gesturing toward a huge pile of wood and rubble.
“If anything’s behind there, no one’s seen it in years,” Charlie said. “It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. As a matter of fact, the whole area looks on the verge of collapse. There’s no way anyone would be able to get inside there. They must be somewhere else.”
“So why did we just spend the last hour grubbing in the dirt looking