Widow - Anne Stuart [66]
He wanted to see her laugh. Had she ever been a child, ever felt playful? She always seemed to be on her best behavior, even with him doing his best to irritate her. What would it take to break through that unnatural calm of hers? Make her laugh, make her cry?
The moon was shining down through the broken roof of the abandoned church, providing plenty of light for him to make his way down into the cellars and put the painting in one of the driest rooms. He didn’t even see Charlie until he came back up.
She was sound asleep, curled up on the pew where he himself had stretched out. Her hair had come loose around her face, and a shaft of moonlight shone down on her, like a ridiculous spotlight.
He wanted to laugh at the romantic absurdity of it. He wanted to go over and shake her and wake her up, get her annoyed and fighting again.
He did neither. He crossed the rubble, more quietly now that he knew she was there, but she didn’t wake up. He could see the lines of exhaustion on her pale face, and he figured jet lag and the entire mess must have finally caught up with her. She’d be stiff as a board when she woke up, and he ought to give her a good shake and send her back to the villa.
Instead he sat down at the other end of the pew. Even the weight of his body hitting the seat didn’t disturb her. She was out for the count, and he stared at her in the moonlight, unable to look away.
She was the strangest combination of opposites. Strong yet fragile. Frigid, yet there was a streak of powerful sensuality beneath her repressed surface. He’d watched the way she touched the flowers, smelled the food, lifted her face to feel the soft breeze against her skin, and he could almost feel her reactions.
She could stand up to her mother, survive a powerhouse like Pompasse, and yet she was afraid of men. It didn’t make sense. Nothing about her added up.
He leaned back against the armrest, watching her. So he wanted her—it was no crime, no weakness on his part, he told himself. She was pretty. Gia was prettier, but he wasn’t particularly interested in beauty.
Maybe it was just the challenge.
Or maybe it was the look in her eyes and the feel of her body against his when she finally relaxed. Maybe it was the taste of her mouth. What would it taste like if she kissed him back?
She slept for another two hours—by the time she awoke the moon had sunk low. He’d watched over her the entire time, oddly content. Tomorrow they’d battle again. For now he could keep her safe.
It was dark in the church, and he could tell by her movements that she was awake, that she’d seen him. He caught her before she started screaming, clamping a hand over her mouth to silence her.
“It’s just me,” he growled.
She relaxed, no longer fighting, and he had a moment to wonder that they both considered him a safe alternative before he released her and moved away.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Being a proper little gentleman and watching over you while you slept. I stashed the painting in one of the rooms down below—it seemed the best spot to keep it out of sight until we find out where the others are.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” he said irritably.
“Why were you watching over me?” She was trying unsuccessfully to pin her hair back, but it kept coming loose around her face and eventually she gave up.
“Maybe I didn’t want Pompasse’s killer to make you his second course. At least, not until I find the paintings.”
She leaned back against the pew. “Why does everyone keep insisting he was murdered? There’s been no hint of suspicion.”
“Maybe because he was.”
“Then why haven’t the police been out to the villa? Why hasn’t anyone been asking questions? As far I know you’re the only one who’s the slightest bit curious….” Her voice trailed off. “You’re not an undercover