Widow - Anne Stuart [78]
“Neanderthal?” she interrupted.
“Maguire.” His voice held all the contempt of generations of Ivy League entitlement. “That ruthless, sleazy journalist couldn’t keep his eyes off you. And you didn’t seem to mind. I couldn’t believe it—you’ve always placed a high value on yourself, and yet you didn’t even notice that man was stalking you.”
“Stalking me? I don’t think so, Henry,” she said calmly. “You were imagining things. I have no idea why you’d be jealous, but I can assure you that Maguire wasn’t the slightest bit interested in me, apart from his goddamned story.”
“I’m not trying to excuse myself,” Henry said, ignoring her protest. “I’m just trying to explain. I’d just flown halfway around the world for you, and you didn’t care. You didn’t want or need my help. Or me, for that matter. You disappeared, and Gia was looking at me, talking to me the way you used to, as if I were the center of the universe, and I suppose I was flattered. And I admit it, I was attracted. I was tired of being made to feel like I was disgusting. Gia saw me as a man she wanted, rather than someone making impossible demands.”
“Gia saw you as someone she could take away from me,” Charlie said. “A new meal ticket with the added advantage of hurting me.”
“She’s in love with me, Charlie.”
She turned to look at him. He was absolutely serious, and for once Charlie couldn’t think of a single response.
“Well?” he said after a moment.
“I hope you’ll be very happy together,” she said.
“I don’t want it to be this way, Charlie,” he cried. “This wasn’t what I planned. Let me tell you about the first time I fell in love with you.”
“Please don’t,” she said wearily. The rain had begun to spit down from the sky, beating against the old house. She should get up and close the casement window, but Henry was still stroking her hand as if he thought if he rubbed it hard enough he’d get his three wishes.
“Humor me,” he said. “I’ve never told you this, and it’s past time. We didn’t just happen to meet at La Chance, you know. I came looking for you.”
“Really?” She tried to summon an ounce of interest. He wasn’t going to release her until he got it all off his chest, and she owed him that much. To hear him out.
“You see, I’d fallen in love with a painting. A painting of you, Charlie. I’d fallen in love with the look in your eyes and the expression on your face. I paid a fortune for the damned thing, telling myself it was an excellent investment because it was a Pompasse, but the real reason was because I wanted you. The girl in the painting. I wanted you to look at me like you looked at the painter. I wanted you in my house, not just the oil and canvas.”
“I’ve never seen any of Pompasse’s work in your apartment,” she said.
“I didn’t want you to see it. I didn’t want you to know how…obsessed I’d become. And once I met you I knew the real thing could be so much better. That you could become my Charlie, that you’d look at me with all that need and longing. But you never did.”
“Which painting?”
He frowned. “Does it matter?”
“Pompasse did dozens of me over the years. I want to know which painting you bought, that you thought captured my soul.” She already knew the answer, knew it with a sinking dread, but she had to hear him say it.
“It was called Charlie in Her Dressing Gown,” he said.
She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. Remembering the empty soul that portrait revealed, the naked need and helplessness.
“So you fell in love with the painting and set out to find me,” she said calmly. “And you call Maguire the stalker.”
He looked affronted. “You don’t understand. It was your purity that I fell in love with. That’s why I didn’t mind when you