Widow - Anne Stuart [46]
“I really didn’t want to know that,” he said.
“Why not? You seem to have an avid fascination for everything involving Pompasse’s life. You have tabloid sensibilities, Maguire. You probably read those garbage newspapers for your view of the world.”
This was getting too close for comfort. “I don’t read newspapers, love. I don’t have time.”
“Stop calling me that!” she snapped. “You seem to have plenty of time to hang around here and bother me.”
“Priorities,” he said with a grin. “Simple priorities.”
She was going to kill him, Charlie thought, once she’d left him at the empty studio. Tomaso had already brought a double bed down from somewhere and set it up in the middle of the room. The windows were open to the bright sunlight, the dust had vanished, and there was even a vase of wildflowers on the small table beside the bed. The same as the flowers in her room. She wanted to spit.
His battered duffel bag was there, and fresh towels hung in the tiny bathroom off the back of the room. She had managed to escape before he annoyed her enough to do something about it.
She still wanted to kill him.
His unnerving curiosity shouldn’t have surprised her. The world had been fascinated with Pompasse—he’d cultivated his outlandish reputation with assiduous care. Never a month had gone by while Charlie had been in exile in New York that she hadn’t seen an article or heard a news story about the Great Artist and his eccentric ways. Once people knew who she was they would usually pelt her with questions. What was it like to be married to the great man? How had it felt with all his legendary womanizing? And worst of all, they always wanted to know why she’d married him in the first place. And she could never come up with an answer, not when she wasn’t sure of the reason herself.
She’d soon learned to stop telling people about her background. It was a lot easier if they simply thought of her as Charlie Thomas, owner of La Chance, and not the relict of a legend.
So Maguire’s incessant curiosity shouldn’t surprise her. And he was a man—a rough, no-nonsense type without the sensitivity to realize that there were some questions you shouldn’t ask, some subjects that shouldn’t be discussed. There was nothing unusual or suspicious about that.
But it didn’t feel right.
She needed a shower almost as badly as he did, but she detoured by way of the study. His laptop was still there, unguarded, and she slipped behind the desk and opened the lid.
Once more the cartoon figures raced across the screen, a touch of whimsy that was totally unlike Maguire. She tried a few buttons haphazardly, rebooting the computer to see if it would help, but it just returned to the demand for a password. Charlie groaned.
She typed Maguire. Too easy, of course. What was his first name? Connor, right? She went through the gamut of possibilities, meeting only with an invalid-password message. Why hadn’t she spent more time learning how to mess with computers and less time with solitaire and Free Cell, she thought grumpily. There was something that Maguire was hiding in this computer and she wanted, needed, to find out what it was.
But she wasn’t going to find out what it was today, that much was certain. Besides, she was dusty and dirty and starving—one always had better luck at spying if one was showered and well fed. Or maybe she could just sneak up on him again when he didn’t realize she was there. Have someone call him away and she could race back in. Except there was no one here she could trust.
The shower was a blessed relief, almost as wonderful as finding the door open to her empty room. At least Maguire wouldn’t be walking in on her—she could hog the hot water to her heart’s content. Despite the fancy improvements Pompasse had insisted on, the supply of hot water was limited, and no one was allowed to shower on laundry day, or when Lauretta had to do the dishes. But for now she could drain the tank and hopefully freeze Maguire