Widow - Anne Stuart [74]
Yeah, and how far would that get him? Gregory was no fool, and Maguire had been keeping him up-to-date on the stuff he’d been uncovering. Missing paintings, a harem of castoff women, a murder and a world-famous artist were elements too juicy to be ignored. If Maguire didn’t give Gregory the goods, then chances were he’d hire someone to take those elements and make something up.
There were a dozen reporters after the same story, and making some kind of quixotic gesture would do little good. Besides, nobility wasn’t part of Maguire’s makeup. Charlie had chosen to marry the old man, and she’d benefited from it, hadn’t she? People make their choices in this world, and then they have to pay the price. So what if Charlie’s price was a little too steep? So what if he’d gone in there and upped the ante? It wasn’t his problem any longer.
He didn’t expect to see her again, which was nothing but a blessing. She annoyed him, she got under his skin, and she made him start thinking about things that had no place in his self-sufficient life.
No, to be honest he couldn’t blame her for everything. He’d been burned-out for a while now, ready to chuck it all and head back to Australia. He’d been counting on this story, and the ensuing book deal, to keep him in style for the rest of his life.
He didn’t need money to go back to Australia. There were jobs waiting—he could have his pick of newspaper work if he wanted, or he could just go out to the cattle station he owned with his brother and become a rancher and screw everything. Right now that seemed the best bet.
In the meantime, though, he had to finish with this mess. He couldn’t just drop it, not until the questions were answered. Where were the paintings? Who killed the old man?
And what the hell was he going to do if he never saw Charlie again?
He needed to get back to his apartment and call Gregory. So why the hell was he circling around, stashing his battered Fiat in a back alley and sitting in a café, watching the road to La Colombala?
Charlie did what she always did in times of stress. Once the police had finished their brief and respectful questioning, she had headed straight for the kitchen. By the time her mother strolled in, the tabletops and countertops were littered with ingredients, and Charlie was kneading bread with a vengeance, her face streaked with flour, her clothes covered with everything else.
“You always were an extremely messy child,” Olivia remarked. “I should have sent you to the Cordon Bleu. At least there you would have learned to clean up after yourself.”
Charlie didn’t even look up from the dough. “At the Cordon Bleu you have people to do the dirty work and the cleanup,” she said. “Besides, by the time I was old enough to go I was already married to Pompasse.”
“To my regret, yes,” Olivia said. There was one tiny section of counter that was uncluttered, and Olivia hoisted herself up onto it, obviously preparing for a chat. “I remember when we lived in that awful place in the suburbs, when I was married to what’s-his-name. Greenwich or Rye or someplace. You were seven years old and I bought you one of those tacky little play ovens. You spent every spare minute turning out tiny little cakes that tasted like cardboard and you kept wanting me to eat them.”
“And you were on a diet and couldn’t be bothered,” Charlie said.
“You’re just lucky you didn’t end up with an eating disorder, given that you turn to food for comfort at the drop of a hat.”
“I wouldn’t call this situation ‘at the drop of a hat,’ I turn to food preparation, not eating, and I came here to be alone,” Charlie pointed out coolly, concentrating on the dough.
“I know you did. I didn