Widow - Anne Stuart [58]
Maguire had moved his computer and his CD player into the room, and he was immersed in his work, but this time he heard her approach, and he looked up, an expression of vague annoyance on his face that vanished the moment he got a good look at her.
By that time she was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering, and when he crossed the room and caught her arms in his strong hands she was beyond noticing or caring.
“What’s happened?” He shook her slightly when she didn’t, couldn’t answer. “Charlie? Are you hurt?”
Through her dazed mind she was slightly surprised that he’d even care. She shook her head. “My room…” she said. “Blood…”
He released his hold on her, and for a moment she thought she might collapse. His strength had been holding her up. But she stiffened, trying to stop the shaking.
“You stay here,” he said, starting for the door.
He’d left his computer on, but she was past caring. “No!” She shook her head violently. “I don’t want to be alone.”
He gave her an odd look but simply nodded. He didn’t touch her again, and she led him back through the empty house, up to her bedroom.
“There’s blood on the doorknob,” she said in a strained voice. “It’s on my hands.”
“Let me see.” Without waiting for her to offer he reached down and caught her wrist, pulling her hand up. The red was still bright, thick on her palm, and she shuddered.
He brought her hand to his face and sniffed it. “It’s not blood,” he said. “Blood smells different, almost metallic. It’s probably paint.”
“How do you know what blood smells like?” It was a stupid question, but that was all she could think of as she tried to wipe her hands against her shirt. Her white shirt, now streaked with telltale red.
“A misspent youth,” Maguire said, reaching for the doorknob. Most of the paint had already come off on Charlie’s hands, and he pushed it open.
The painting was still there, viciously slashed and splattered, but now that she knew it wasn’t blood she should have felt marginally better. She didn’t. Maguire tugged her into the room and closed the door behind her, then turned to stare down at the painting.
“One of the missing paintings, I assume. Which one?” He sounded only slightly curious.
“Awakening.” She was still shivering. The red wouldn’t come off her hands, and she couldn’t stop shaking. “It was the first one he painted of me,” she said through chattering teeth.
“Never mind,” he said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He took her arm and pulled her into the bathroom, and she was in no shape to fight him. He drew her to the bathroom sink and began to run the water, but she simply stared at her reflection in the mirror ahead.
She looked like a stranger. Her hair had come loose, her face was pale, and her white shirt was streaked with blood. No, paint, she reminded herself. She reached up to push her hair out of her face and saw the red on her fingers.
She tried to turn away, but Maguire was behind her. He simply put his arms around her, catching her hands in his and putting them beneath the running water, like a parent teaching his child how to wash her hands. He scrubbed at the paint, using the soap, and she watched the red leave her fingers and swirl down the drain like blood.
Gradually she stopped shivering, the warmth of his body behind her slowly penetrating into her iciness. He felt strong, safe, and she had the strange need to close her eyes and lean back against him.
She didn’t, of course. And when the red was finally gone from her hands he stepped back, leaving her cold and unprotected. “Take off your shirt,” he said brusquely.
“What?”
“It’s covered in paint. Take it off.” He didn’t wait for her answer, since she just stared at him numbly. He caught the hem of her shirt and tugged it over her head, leaving her standing there in the bathroom in her plain white bra.
At least he