Widow - Anne Stuart [79]
“I understand,” she said. Let go of my hand and go away, she thought. I can’t stand this anymore.
“I’m not giving up, Charlie,” he said, his voice ragged. “We were meant to be together, I’ve always known it. You will become that girl in the picture again, I can feel it. We can be happy, darling girl, you know we can, and…”
“Henry,” she said softly, moving his hand away from hers. “Not now, not ever.”
He blinked in disbelief. “You don’t mean that.”
“Go away, Henry. Go to hell and take Gia with you.”
“Charlie!” he said, shocked.
But Charlie was past worrying what Henry thought. “Take Gia and go back to the States. You need someone to adore you and I’m sure Gia will fill the bill, at least for a while. Just support her in the manner to which she’s been accustomed and things should be just fine.”
He rose from the bed, and she could feel the anger in him. “You’re jealous,” he said.
“Not particularly.”
“Not of me,” Henry said bitterly. “I wouldn’t be fool enough to think I was ever that important to you. No, you’re jealous of Gia. You know that she’s a real woman and you’ll never be more than a cold, lifeless, frigid bitch. That painting has more warmth than you do.”
The last trace of guilt slipped away. “Thank you, Henry,” she said. “Now fuck off.”
He slammed the door behind him, odd behavior for a mature man, Charlie thought absently. But then, Henry was far less mature than his years might suggest. He was a spoiled boy in an old man’s body, and she didn’t want any part of him.
The rain was splattering into the room, and the plain white curtains, now soaking wet, flapped in the breeze. She should get up and close the window, she thought, but she couldn’t make herself move.
She stared down at her hands almost absently. There was still flour beneath her short fingernails. Better than bloodred paint. She looked up, and the smear on her door was a faint rosy color. And she knew she had to move.
Even the studio offered more respite than this place. She paused long enough to slam the window shut and grab some clean clothes, and then she raced down the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t run into yet another person intent on unwanted conversation.
The house was deserted. She was half tempted to climb back up to the deserted church, but even though part of the roof remained to shelter her from the storm, the path itself would be a slippery trail of mud.
Which left the studio. She could take a shower, and even sleep there tonight if she had to. Maguire was gone, with his lies and his tricks and his wicked hands. If anything, she should be grateful to him. In a few short moments he’d proved to her that she wasn’t nearly as repressed as she thought she was. He’d touched her, kissed her, and she’d responded. If she could respond to a lying, conniving creature like Maguire, then there was definitely hope for her.
Maybe she should take a cue from her mother and find herself a boy toy. Someone young and muscle-bound without a brain in his head. Someone who existed only to please women, who could teach her to enjoy her body.
Except, when she tried to conjure him in her mind, he looked suspiciously like Maguire.
There was no hurry, she reminded herself, pausing at the French doors leading to the rain-soaked terrace. She was free of one man, and there was definite hope for the future. In the meantime she needed to forget about men and sex and concentrate on the mess that Pompasse had made of his departure. She still refused to believe he could have been murdered, and the police had given her little real information. The past week had taken on an almost nightmarish tinge, and she could only hope that she’d wake up in her own bed in her New York apartment and all of this would be some bizarre fantasy.
That wasn’t going to happen. She no longer believed in happy endings and miracles. Nor did the rain look like it was going to let up any time soon. Clutching her clean clothes in her arms,