Widow - Anne Stuart [51]
The fantasy was shattered, and she sat up, cursing. The smells, however, were real—Lauretta had set lunch out on the terrace beneath her, and the fragrance of tomatoes and herbs carried upward. Charlie’s stomach growled in response, and she realized it was midafternoon and she hadn’t had anything but coffee all day.
Her window overlooked the terrace and the valley beyond. The table was deserted—the meal consumed, and all the stragglers were gone. If she hurried down she could snag some of the remains and not have to deal with anyone in the house. Not Gia or Madame Antonella nor the curious Lauretta. And most particularly, she wouldn’t have to deal with Maguire.
There was no one in sight when she reached the terrace. A platter still held some bruschetta, a dish of pasta remained, and even the bottle of wine stood open on the table. Lauretta must have been escorting Madame Antonella back to her cottage before clearing up the mess.
She sat down at the table, filled an empty plate with the leftover food, and poured herself a glass of wine. It was a delicious Chianti, and she told herself she should savor it.
But she would have killed for a Diet Coke.
Pompasse had outlawed what he termed “belly wash” from his household. Wine was the only civilized thing to drink with meals, and he’d trained her well. She knew a Bardolino from a Valpolicella, she could even identify what part of Italy the grapes were from. This Chianti complemented the meal perfectly.
And she would have killed for a Diet Coke.
There was no denying that a few sips of wine soothed her jangled nerves almost as effectively as herbal tea. She leaned back in the chair, looking down over the valley, watching the breeze ripple through the olive trees, tossing the changing leaves.
She knew she ought to wonder where everyone else was, but she didn’t. She was simply glad to have a moment of peace out on the terrace she’d once loved.
It didn’t last long.
He came up behind her. She didn’t turn to look, hoping in vain that she could ignore him, but she could feel his presence, the heat of his body, the smell of the soap from his shower. He wasn’t touching her, but he was too close, willing her to turn around, and she wasn’t going to move. She sat there, frozen, praying he’d go away.
“I doubt that view has changed in the last five years,” Maguire said. His voice was low, slightly raspy, though that was probably from all the cigarettes. She still didn’t turn, but she knew she couldn’t ignore him.
“Probably not in the last five hundred years,” she said. “But I haven’t been here to enjoy it. Which I prefer to do alone. Go away.”
He moved then, taking the chair beside her and straddling it, his arms on the scrolled backrest. “Don’t you get tired of telling me that, Charlie?”
“Don’t you get tired of staying where you’re not wanted?” she replied, still keeping her gaze averted.
“You want the estate settled, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have to put up with me. At least for a few more days. Would it help if I apologized? Said I was sorry I was overcome by the passion of the moment and your rare beauty and kissed you?”
She could see a car approaching, up the winding road to La Colombala, and she concentrated on it, still refusing to look at Maguire.
“It would help if you never mentioned it again,” she said stiffly.
“So you can pretend it didn’t happen. What’s wrong with kissing, Charlie?”
She turned then, unable to help herself. “Any number of things,” she said. “One, I don’t like you. Two, I’m engaged. Three, I don’t like you. Four, you’re supposed to be doing a job here, not flirting. Five, I don’t like you. Six, I’m in mourning. Seven—”
“You don’t like me,” he supplied lazily. “You’re trying awfully hard to convince me.”
She’d been fiddling with the stem of the wineglass, trying to hide her nervousness, but at that she spilled it, and the red wine spread over the white tablecloth