Widow - Anne Stuart [55]
“Missing?” Henry’s high forehead furrowed in dismay. “How can that be? I assumed they’d have turned up by now. What does Honore say about it? Do you think they’ve been stolen?”
“I haven’t finished my investigation.”
“But surely it’s time the police were involved? What would you estimate the paintings to be worth? Two million? Three? I’m not sure Pompasse’s estate can withstand such a loss.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—I’m Charlie’s fiancé and her lawyer, as well. I can speak for her in all matters….”
Maguire cast an inquiring glance at Charlie’s frozen countenance. Olivia was right—the mark on her wrist was glaringly obvious. It gave him a hard-on, just looking at it.
“We don’t need to talk business now, Henry,” Charlie broke in, pulling her gaze away from Maguire’s. “You and Olivia have just arrived and you must be exhausted. Why don’t you get settled and we can discuss this later?”
For a moment it looked as if Henry might argue, but then he smiled down at her with paternal fondness. Maguire half expected him to pat her on the head like a good little girl. “Of course, you’re right, my dear.”
“Charlie’s always right,” Olivia spoke up. She’d been leaning against the doorway, observing everything. “Where am I sleeping, Charlie? In my usual bedroom? Or has one of Pompasse’s newest pets taken up residence?”
“Your room is ready, Olivia. Lauretta had Gia move to a smaller one.”
“That’s hardly necessary, darling girl,” Henry broke in. “I can share your room. After all, we are engaged.”
Darling girl, Maguire thought, ready to hurl. Charlie looked like she would have rather slept with a snake. How she thought she was going to marry a man when she couldn’t stand him touching her was beyond his comprehension.
“There’s no need. Gia has already moved her things. Maguire is staying in the studio, and you’ll be in my old room.”
Henry’s well-bred features nobly concealed the trace of a pout. “Whatever you want, darling,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Maguire,” he said, dismissing him like the underling he clearly considered him to be.
“Yeah, likewise,” Maguire drawled, watching as Charlie walked from the room with him. Not touching him.
“Lovely couple, aren’t they?” Olivia cooed.
Maguire shrugged. “If he makes her happy it’s none of my business.”
“Now, you strike me as someone who makes everything your business. And you could hardly say the two of them look happy, could you?”
“What’s your problem, lady? You want Henry? I think Gia’s going to take a crack at him, but you may as well, too.”
“Gia’s going after Henry? What an interesting notion. Who put that idea into her empty little head? No, I don’t have to ask. You’re a very inventive man, Maguire.”
“Just a working stiff,” he said modestly.
Her eyes dropped to his crotch level with suggestive slowness, and then she smiled. “I suspect we’re in for an interesting time over the next few days. I intend to enjoy it tremendously, especially when we lay that old bastard in the ground.”
“You didn’t like Pompasse?”
“I despised him,” Olivia said.
“Oh, I forgot. You’re the devoted mother, aren’t you? You despise him for what he did to your daughter.”
“You’re a bastard as well, Maguire,” she said evenly. “I have more than enough reasons to want the old man dead, and I’m not about to share them with the likes of you. Just don’t be surprised if I dance on his grave.”
The reporter in him could only hope. Maybe all Pompasse’s castoff women would join hands and dance around the old man’s resting place.
He had his camera with him. Several, in fact. He’d had them for years, gotten off a CIA acquaintance in the Congo. His favorite was in the cigarette lighter, but since Charlie had decreed no smoking, that was now out of the question.
The other was a pen, small, compact, efficient. He had three tiny disks already downloaded onto his laptop. He’d stay in the background at the funeral, get the grieving widow with her new old man, and make Gregory double his asking price.
Unless Henry poked his long, thin, aristocratic nose where it didn’t belong.