Widow - Anne Stuart [57]
“I have no intention of interfering, precious,” Henry said. “I’m just going to do a little research, once I’m rested. Surely you can’t object to that?”
Surely she couldn’t. And yet oddly enough she did. She didn’t want Henry making phone calls to his old boys’ network, checking out Maguire’s bona fides. Which was ridiculous—if there was something suspicious about her unwelcome guest, then the sooner she found out the sooner she could get rid of him. Which was her main goal in life, wasn’t it?
“Of course not,” she said. “Have a good rest, Henry.”
“Kiss?” he said plaintively, proffering his angular jaw.
She crossed the room and planted a dutiful peck on his smooth-shaven cheek. He was the only man she knew who could travel halfway around the world and still manage to be freshly shaven.
Unlike Maguire’s ever-present stubble. His rough beard had scratched her face when he’d kissed her mouth. She’d felt it against her wrist, and she cast a hurried glance at the blazing red mark. Henry hadn’t noticed, thank God. But then, Henry wasn’t a particularly observant man—he saw what he wanted to see.
“Sleep well, Henry,” she said, closing the door behind her.
She was alone in the hallway, and she leaned her forehead against the wall, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. How had things gotten so terribly confusing? All she had wanted was for Henry to be there, so that she could lean on him, let him take care of things.
And now that he was here she was filled with a vast, unfocused annoyance. Everything he said, everything he did set her nerves on edge.
It was all Maguire’s fault, of course. He’s the one who’d unsettled her. By putting his hands on her, his mouth on her, he’d stirred up all sorts of troubled feelings.
Oddly enough he hadn’t stirred up disgust. The one time she and Henry had tried to make love Charlie had ended up in Henry’s black-tiled bathroom, trying to stifle the sounds of her retching. She couldn’t even think about sex and Henry’s pale body without breaking out in a cold sweat.
And yet with Maguire she wasn’t cold and clammy. She was angry, filled with rage and heat and passion….
Not that kind of passion, she reminded herself. She just wanted to kill him. It was a simple, well-deserved reaction.
She pushed away from the wall. She had the oddest feeling someone was watching her, and she looked around, into the shadowy hallway leading to the right and to the left. There was no one in sight, all the doors were closed.
She was getting skittish, she thought, shaking her head. Too much stress. She needed to lie down and listen to some soothing music, something to calm her, bring back that cool wall of stillness she kept around her. The last thing she wanted was to go back down to her mother and Maguire.
She reached for the handle on her door, then pulled it away in shock and disgust. There was something wet and sticky on the doorknob, and in the shadowy light of the late afternoon her hand looked covered in blood.
She didn’t hesitate, she simply shoved the door open, and whatever had been holding it closed toppled to the floor with a dull thud.
And Charlie looked down at what lay in her path, and her mouth opened in a silent scream.
14
The portrait lay on its back in the middle of the room. Charlie could just recognize it—it was the very first that Pompasse had done of her. Awakening, one of the missing paintings. She had looked even younger than her sixteen years—though it was hard to tell at this point. Someone had slashed the portrait down the middle and covered it with blood.
She backed out of the room, shaking all over. For a moment she couldn’t understand why the entire household hadn’t come running, and then she realized that she hadn’t made a sound. She pulled the door closed again, her hand sliding on the wet knob, and she stared down at the red in horror. She turned and stumbled blindly down the stairs, not even knowing where she was going.
The living room was empty—her mother must have gone