Widow - Anne Stuart [50]
He stretched out on the bed that she’d thoroughly rumpled, putting his shower-damp head against the pillow and humming to himself. He was a thoroughly nasty SOB at heart, and he didn’t feel the slightest trace of guilt. If Charlie Thomas had found true love in the arms of her lawyer, then a conniving little gold digger wouldn’t stand a chance.
And if there was trouble in paradise, then Gia was just the sort of serpent to be tossed into the mix.
Or maybe he was the serpent, and Gia was the forbidden fruit. And maybe he was wasting a hell of a lot of time being biblical. He should save his flights of fancy for the book. Gregory wasn’t going to wait forever—he’d been foaming at the mouth already because Maguire hadn’t checked in often enough for his peace of mind. He wanted photos, he wanted text, he wanted everything and he wanted it now, but the last thing Maguire was going to do was tie up the villa phone lines e-mailing incriminating photos of the residents. Gregory would just have to hold his horses.
Still, he’d better go grab his laptop and set up shop in here. Pompasse’s old study was far too public a place for his scandalous tell-all, even protected by a password. Charlie had been just itching to see what he was writing, and he imagined the rest of the household was just as nosy. He changed the password daily, just to be on the safe side, and Charlie didn’t strike him as any sort of computer geek, but you could never be too careful. Closet nerds lurked behind the most unlikely exteriors.
He saw the dusty handprints the moment he entered the study. The laptop was still closed, but on the textured black case he could see the white outline of a woman’s hand. She hadn’t wasted any time in trying to get back into his computer.
He sat down and opened it, but he already knew she hadn’t been able to breach it. If she had, she would have found out exactly what he’d been writing, and he would no longer be here. Hell, he might not still be alive.
He’d bet his life that someone in this household was a murderer. Whoever killed Pompasse would probably have just as strong a reason to kill him, once they found out what he was doing. He was going to have to be more careful.
Not that he imagined he was in any kind of danger from Charlie’s slender hands. If killing him meant that Charlie had to touch him, then he knew he was safe. Unless, of course, she was proficient with a gun.
Gia, on the other hand, would have no qualms about killing, and she’d probably prefer to use her hands. And Lauretta was strong and beefy enough to wring a chicken’s neck—she probably could have snapped the old man’s without much more effort.
Tomaso was a possibility, though he couldn’t imagine why he would care, and he could rule out the senile old lady. God knows who else could have been around with a grudge to settle.
But he needed to watch his back. He wasn’t in the mood to find a knife between his shoulder blades.
Charlie stayed in her room the rest of the day. It was nothing but sheer cowardice and she knew it, but right then she needed to give herself permission to be a coward. Besides, this room was one part of La Colombala that was completely different from when she’d lived here. It had no memories, no history. The walls were whitewashed, the bed was small and covered with a plain white duvet. The only color in the room was the countryside beyond the open casement window, and that was color enough.
She stretched out on the bed, alternating between sleeping and daydreaming. It was hard work with so many things she wanted to keep at bay, but she’d learned early on how to keep her mind off things that might disturb her. She lay on the bed and devised recipes in her head, mentally adding the ingredients, stirring a great copper pot with a wooden spoon, visualizing it so strongly she could practically smell the food. Then she moved to setting the table, choosing just the right linens, the proper plates, reveling in the earthen tones and the splash of flowers