Widow - Anne Stuart [59]
He started out into the bedroom, then stopped, blocking the door.
She’d wrapped her arms around her body in a vain effort to cover herself, but his sudden stillness startled her. “What is it?” she asked. “Is someone in there?” Maybe he’d been wrong about the paint, maybe there was a dead animal, or worse….
“No,” he said, and moved out of the way, letting her pass.
She saw it immediately, of course. The word Murderer was splashed in red on the inside of the door.
“I—I didn’t…” she stammered.
“Get dressed,” Maguire said. “I’ll clean it up.”
She didn’t even stop to think. By the time she’d pulled a clean shirt over her head he’d managed to wash most of the paint from the door, leaving only an illegible smear of red behind. She sat down in the chair, watching him as he worked, too numb to do anything else.
“Why would someone do this?” she asked finally.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You tell me.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t realize anyone…”
“Suspected you?” he supplied.
“Hated me,” she corrected him. “Hated me that much.”
“Well, Gia certainly isn’t your biggest fan. And the old lady seems to think you’re some ancient enemy. I bet if we looked further we could find some other people who aren’t too happy with you.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “I’ve never harmed anyone—at least, not on purpose. Who could have…?”
“Where’s Lover Boy?” he interrupted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The fiancé. Henry. Where is he?”
“He’s asleep next door.”
“And he didn’t hear the noise we were making?” Maguire asked. “Sounds suspicious to me.”
“Henry sleeps very heavily.”
“How would you know? Your mother says you’ve never slept with him.”
She jerked her head up in outrage, the last of her panic fading. “I don’t tell my mother the intimate details of my sex life, Maguire,” she snapped.
“She says you don’t have a sex life. Looking at Henry, I can see why. Don’t you think you ought to try someone a little closer to your own age, instead of men with one foot in the grave?”
“Leave me alone, Maguire. I’m not in the mood for this.”
“You’re the one who came and got me. As a matter of fact, why did you? It would have been easy enough to wake up old Henry to provide moral support. Or didn’t you want him to see the word on the door?”
“I didn’t see the word myself until you showed me,” she said in a weary voice. “And I don’t know why I didn’t go to Henry. It was one of the missing paintings, and you were looking for them. I just went on instinct.”
“And your instincts sent you to me,” he said in a thoughtful voice. Before she could protest he went on. “You all right now? Stopped shaking?”
She nodded. “I’m fine. I was just…surprised.”
“To put it mildly. Why don’t you go curl up next to Henry while I finish up in here? Distract him so he doesn’t notice any noise I make.”
“No,” she said flatly, cold again.
“He doesn’t do it for you, does he? Poor old Henry. Maybe a little Viagra would do the trick.”
“Stop it!” Charlie said, desperate. Her last ounce of calm was disappearing beneath Maguire’s skillful prodding.
“Well, if Henry doesn’t appeal to you, then go down to the kitchen and find someone to talk to while I take care of this mess. I’d rather not have any witnesses.”
“I want you to burn it.”
“Hell, no. This is still worth a pile of money,” Maguire protested.
“It’s been ruined.”
“You’d be surprised to see what an art restorer could do with something like this,” Maguire said. “Go and find Lauretta and talk about cooking. By the time you come back everything will be cleaned up.”
“What if Henry wakes up and hears you? How are you going to explain being in my bedroom?”
He grinned at her. “Sweetheart, I leave that up to you.”
Without another word she fled, averting her eyes from the ruined painting and the red smear on the doorway. Averting her eyes from Maguire’s cynical gaze. She’d run, all right. But not to the kitchen, where she might run into anyone. She