Widow - Anne Stuart [52]
“I don’t like you,” she said, exasperated. “Can’t you get it through your thick head? I don’t like you, I don’t like anything about you. I don’t like being pawed, I don’t like being mocked, I don’t like flirting, and I don’t like you.”
His shaggy dark hair was still wet from the shower. He was wearing khakis and a denim shirt, far too casual for her taste. He hadn’t bothered to shave, and she thought beard stubble was pretentious. He sat there looking at her, that cool, assessing expression in his dark eyes, totally at ease with the world and her discomfort, and she wanted to slap him.
“Convince me,” he said softly.
She wanted to cry from frustration, when she hadn’t cried since she’d first heard about Pompasse’s death. She pushed away from the table, starting to rise, when he caught her wrist, pulling her back. He was very strong.
“Take your hands off me,” she said in an icy voice.
“Then tell me why you’re so damned interested in what’s in my laptop. You left your dusty handprints all over it this morning.”
“I wanted to see how you’re doing with your investigation.”
“You could have asked.”
“I don’t trust you. Are you going to let go of me?”
“I don’t think so, Charlie.” His lazy voice sent little shivers down her backbone despite the bright Italian sunlight. He was rubbing his thumb against her wrist, and he could probably feel her pulse hammering wildly. “Not until you tell me the truth.”
“You’re hurting me,” she said, her voice shaking. In fact, he wasn’t. He was simply holding her there, his skin against hers, warmth against her icy-cold flesh.
“Sorry,” he said. And before she realized what he intended he brought her wrist to his lips, pressing his open mouth against her sensitive skin.
It was like an electric shock, straight to the heart, the caress of his lips, his tongue against the fragile veins of her wrist, and she was too astonished to move. He looked up at her, and his dark green eyes were compelling. “I can taste your pulse,” he whispered against her skin, and the electric shock sizzled down between her legs. “Why don’t you taste me?”
In a daze she heard a noise, but it was a roaring, rushing sound that simply might have been inside her own head. She could feel her body sway toward him, almost of its own volition, and she couldn’t stop herself, she was mesmerized by his eyes, by his mouth on her skin, by the warmth of the afternoon and the drugging effect of the Tuscan sunshine—
“God, I’ve missed this place!” Olivia’s arch tones preceded her through the open French doors. “There’s nothing like Tuscany.” She paused, admiring the view, giving the two of them plenty of time to admire her if they were so inclined. All Charlie could do was thank God her mother’s self-absorption enabled her to escape from Maguire’s touch, unnoticed.
“You got here sooner than I expected,” she said awkwardly.
“And aren’t you delighted, darling?” Olivia demanded archly. “Come give me a kiss, and then introduce me to your gorgeous young man.”
“He’s not mine,” Charlie said, skirting the table to keep out of Maguire’s way. Though why she thought she had to worry was beyond her. He’d hardly grab her with her mother watching. Just because he’d kissed her the last two times they’d been together didn’t mean she wasn’t perfectly safe as long as someone else was around to make sure he behaved himself.
She kissed her mother’s smooth, unlined cheek, inhaling the usual sent of Joy. It always seemed such an odd fragrance for her mother to favor, since she spent so much of her life dissatisfied, looking for a joy that always seemed to elude her.
Before she could slide away Olivia’s gaze narrowed, and she caught Charlie’s hand in her perfectly manicured one. “What did you do to your wrist, darling? Did you burn yourself?”
The mark was red, still damp from his mouth, and without thinking she cast a furious glance at Maguire, sitting there smugly.
A glance her mother didn’t miss. “Oh, really?” she said. “Then maybe now is the moment to tell you that Henry’s here, as well. Don’t you want to greet your fiancé?”
Escape