Widow - Anne Stuart [80]
She ran inside, slamming the door behind her, shutting out the storm. The huge room was a mass of gloom and shadows, and she tried to remember where the light switch was. She felt her way carefully, running her hand along the wall, when suddenly she realized she wasn’t alone.
Something was moving in there, in the shadowed darkness. Someone was breathing, watching her.
“Who’s there?” she called out sharply.
The lack of response was terrifying. She began to edge her way back toward the door, slowly, trying to get her eyes accustomed to the darkness, half afraid of what she might see. “Is that you, Henry?” she demanded. “Gia? I know someone’s there, I can hear you.”
Still no answer, just the faint rustle of clothing as someone moved closer. There was nothing to be afraid of, Charlie told herself. Someone was playing a trick on her, probably the wretched Gia. But no one would hurt her, no one would touch her….
Something came hurtling toward her out of the darkness, like a huge bat, blotting out what little light there was. She tried to duck, and felt the wood glance against her head, felt the wetness that may have been paint, may have been blood. It was a painting, though in the darkness she couldn’t begin to guess which one, she could only tell that the canvas had been slashed and splattered, just like the other one.
The door was behind her, and her hand felt the knob at the center of her back, and she fumbled with it, desperate, as the huge dark creature kept coming toward her, a mass of shadows. Something else came flying at her head, but she finally managed to open the door and escape out into the rainy afternoon, hearing it clatter harmlessly to the floor.
She slipped on the wet stone terrace, going down hard, and she scrambled up again. The noise of the downpour drowned out the sound of her pursuer, but panic was still searing through her. She ran down the steps to her car, the rain soaking her hair, her clothing, plastering it against her skin.
She jumped inside and slammed the door, locking it. Waiting, waiting for a dark, shadowy figure to appear out of the rain and try to reach her. Then at least she could see who it was who had sent her into such a mindless panic.
But no one came. She was alone, wet and shivering in the tiny car, but no evil figure appeared out of the gloom to threaten her, hurt her.
She took a deep breath, pushing her wet hair out of her face. Her hand came away red with paint or blood, she didn’t know and didn’t care. She had two choices. She could get out of the car and try to make it back into the house, hoping that whoever had been lurking in the studio wouldn’t reach her first.
Or she could drive away.
The keys were in the ignition, her hands were shaking so much she could barely turn them, but it was a no-brainer. She tore away, her tires sliding in the fresh mud, and drove off down the rutted driveway as fast as she dared. The rain was so heavy she could barely see beyond the windshield, and she was shivering, freezing, crying. It didn’t matter. Within five minutes she was off the property, onto the main road that led through Geppi, into Florence. And she didn’t look back.
19
Maguire had never had a psychic moment in his whole pragmatic life. Sitting under a leaking awning in the pouring rain was probably the most irrational thing he’d ever done, and yet three hours later he was still there, drinking his millionth cup of coffee, staring up at the villa through the clouds and mist like some forlorn suitor.
Hell, no, like a reporter on a hot story, he reminded himself. That was what made the difference between the good reporters and the great ones—tenacity. Working the story like a dog with a bone, never letting go until he had everything he needed from it.
And who the hell was he kidding? Maybe he’d been a great reporter once, but now he was nothing but a hack, pandering to the worst instincts in human nature. Either way, it was better than wars.
When Charlie’s little Alfa first appeared he almost didn’t believe