Widow - Anne Stuart [61]
He paused in the doorway to the terrace, looking out at them all, wondering who could have done it and why. Maybe Henry, who was deep in conversation with the fawning Gia. No one slept that heavily in the middle of the day, even with jet lag, and he had the most to gain. The painting should have thrown Charlie into his arms, and he could have been strong and protective and she could have been pathetically grateful.
Except that she hadn’t turned to Henry. And he hadn’t come to investigate.
Still, it was interesting that it happened the moment he and Olivia arrived at the villa.
Which brought him to Charlie’s mother. He couldn’t see any reason why she would have done it, though she was probably strong enough to haul the painting around. He wasn’t sure whether she would have had time or not. It would depend on how long everyone had been there before Olivia came out to the terrace. Besides, the paintings had been missing for a while now, and nothing suggested that either Olivia or Henry had anything to do with that.
No, Olivia was unlikely and Madame Antonella too old and too spacey. Though, in fact, the act had been one of almost deranged rage. Still, he couldn’t believe that Madame Antonella would ever have been able to manage it.
Which left Gia, the obvious choice. Gia, who hated Charlie and would delight in tormenting her. He bet if he looked hard enough he’d find a trace of red paint on her hands.
The question was, why? Sheer malice on her part? Did she really believe Charlie had killed the old man? If so, why hadn’t she gone to the police? Fear of scandal wouldn’t stop her—Gia would revel in the attention of the press.
Maybe it was as simple as a war of nerves. Gia was a better fighter—she had no scruples.
On impulse he headed toward the kitchen, looking for Charlie. But instead he found Tomaso and Lauretta, hard at work, and there was no sign of Charlie.
“She’s gone for a walk, Signore Maguire,” Tomaso told him. “She said she needed some time to think, and not to hold dinner for her. I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Charlie knows these hills well—she won’t get lost, even in the dark. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
Not what he wanted to hear. At least he knew she’d be relatively safe—everyone who might want to do her harm was out drinking Pompasse’s liquor and enjoying the Tuscan evening.
Everyone, that is, but him.
His brand of Scotch was on the makeshift bar, and Gia was smoking. Two of his favorite vices, and Charlie wasn’t around to complain. He was half tempted to bum a smoke from the little bitch, except that he wasn’t in the mood to ask her any favors. He had a score to settle with her.
And the Scotch wouldn’t improve matters, either, tempted as he might be. He wasn’t about to throw away two years of sobriety at a time when he needed all his wits about him.
He headed straight for Gia. He had to admit she was damned good. She had one hand on Henry’s arm, and she was looking up at him out of her dark, melting eyes, speaking earnestly in a hushed voice. Henry was swallowing it whole, basking in her attention, and he probably didn’t even remember he had a fiancée somewhere out in the night.
“I need to talk to you,” he said abruptly.
“Certainly, old man,” Henry began.
Maguire allowed himself an irritated growl. Henry annoyed him already—his upper-class affectations made him feel downright murderous. “Not you, Henry. Gia.”
Gia was smart enough to know she was in trouble. “Maybe later,” she said airily, holding tighter to Henry’s arm. “We’re just about to go in to dinner.”
“Maybe now,” Maguire said, clamping his hand down on her wrist and removing her.
“See here, Maguire…” Henry protested.
“Don’t worry, I’ll bring her right back to you,” Maguire replied, dragging Gia off with him.
Gia was cursing him out in Italian, trying to pull back without making a scene. Olivia arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow, then turned back to her conversation with Madame Antonella, dismissing them. Maguire pulled her through the house, out the back door and into the underbrush, pushing her up