Widow - Anne Stuart [68]
She knew he’d follow her. He loomed over her in the darkness, huge, silent, and she couldn’t read his expression. Which was just as well.
“So?” he said finally.
“So what? So Gia managed to get Henry in bed. It’s not surprising. She’s a beautiful woman, and Henry’s been…frustrated recently. It’s no wonder he succumbed.” She looked up at him, and some of her anguish broke through. “I thought she was going to go after you.”
“Yeah, so she told me. Guess you thought you’d kill two birds with one stone by setting her on me. Problem is, it didn’t work. I told her I wasn’t interested.”
“Why not? She’s young and beautiful.”
“Let’s just say I have more taste than that old horn dog you think you’re going to marry.”
“I’m not going to marry him,” she said.
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all night.”
“I have no right.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Maguire exploded. “Don’t be such a bloody fool. The bastard took the first piece of ass offered to him, in your house, in your bed, and you say you have no right. Get over it, lady. You’re well rid of him.”
“I wouldn’t sleep with him.”
“So what? A grown man deals with it. He doesn’t go after the first bit of pussy that comes his way.”
“Maguire!” she said, shocked.
“Don’t like my language? I can get a lot more crude. You’re better off without him. Tomorrow morning you tell him to pack his bags and get the hell out of here. You’re good at doing that—you’ve had lots of practice with me.”
“Yes, but you don’t listen,” she said mournfully.
“Yeah, but I’m not Henry. Don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re anything alike.” There was a strange undertone to his voice in the darkness, one she couldn’t recognize. Didn’t want to recognize.
“I don’t want you feeling sorry for me,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You probably think this is funny.”
“Not particularly. Look, sweetheart, it’s the middle of the night and even though you took a lengthy snooze you still need your rest. As do I. You want me to go kick Gia out so you can get some peace and quiet?”
“No,” she said. “I want to sleep in your bed.”
There was a moment of silence. “Isn’t that a bit of a drastic turnaround?” he said finally. “Not that I’m unwilling, but under the circumstances…”
“Not with you, asshole!” she said. “I mean I want to sleep in the studio and you can sleep somewhere else. Go up to my room if you want.”
“No, thank you. I’m not interested in listening to the moaning, either.”
“I’m taking your room.”
“Fine. I’ll sleep in a chair. I’ve slept worse places. Though it would help if I had a pack of cigarettes.”
“Sorry, I’m fresh out.”
He couldn’t see her face in the darkness, her doubtlessly woebegone expression. She felt as if the air had been knocked out of her—everything she’d been so sure of had vanished. She’d waited too long. She didn’t want to blame Henry—he was only human. And she already knew Gia was an alley cat out to take anything that belonged to Charlie.
“I can see you’re brokenhearted,” he drawled, and for a moment she wondered what he meant.
She headed for the studio, half expecting him to follow, but he stayed where he was at the edge of the terrace. “Do you need anything?” she felt compelled to ask. “Covers? A pillow?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, sugar. I can find what I need.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, and shut the French doors behind her, closing him out in the night air.
She didn’t start crying until she got into the bed. It was a saggy old double bed—Charlie had no idea where Tomaso had found it, but it enfolded her like an old friend, and she sank into the softness with a sigh that somehow caught on a sob. And once she started she couldn’t stop.
She didn’t even know why she was crying. Was it for Pompasse? Was it for her seemingly safe future with Henry? Was it for her lonely childhood or her empty present? It didn’t matter. She buried her face in the pillow, trying to stifle the sobs that were shaking her body, but the more she fought them the stronger they became,