Widow - Anne Stuart [82]
“Florence.”
“Why?”
“I’m getting wet, Maguire. Could we continue this conversation in your car? Since I don’t seem to have any choice in the matter?”
He gritted his teeth. He wasn’t a violent man, but if anyone could drive him to it, it would be Charlie. He didn’t touch her, simply started toward the car, expecting her to follow.
Lucky for her she did. He hadn’t realized how small his car was, once Charlie was inside. He’d dumped his laptop and all his papers into the rubbish-strewn back seat, and he waited until she closed the door before he started the engine again.
“Where’s the seat belt?” she asked.
“Long gone. I figure if you survived the way you were driving, then a couple of hours without a seat belt won’t do you any harm.”
“You know what happens in an accident if you’re not wearing a seat belt? You get thrown around the car like a frog in a blender, crushing everyone,” she said severely.
“Feel free to crush me,” he said, pulling out into the rainy evening. He concentrated on the road, driving in silence, until they got closer to the next town. He glanced over at her, and then swore.
“You told me you weren’t hurt!” he snapped.
“I’m not.”
“Your head is bleeding. You must have hit it on the windshield.”
“I was wearing my seat belt, remember? And it’s not blood, it’s paint. Someone…something threw one of Pompasse’s paintings at me. Another ruined one, I might add. Not that it matters to you, Mr. Insurance Man,” she said bitterly.
He reached out and touched her forehead lightly, and she winced. He glanced at his fingertips. “I hate to tell you, sugar, but this time it’s blood.”
He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he expected. Tears, panic, something. She just breathed a rattled sigh. “Well, it’s stopped by now,” she said, turning away from him to stare out into the rain.
He gave her a few minutes. “What happened?”
For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer. “It was not a good day,” she said, obviously the model of understatement. “I decided I didn’t want to see or talk to anybody anymore, so I went to the studio to take a shower and a nap. Unfortunately something…someone was there.”
“Who?”
“I couldn’t see. There were no lights and the rain had already started. I heard them, sort of shuffling, and I saw a kind of shape. Somebody threw the painting at me, I ran, and here I am. Very simple.”
“Very simple. Why didn’t you go back to the main house?”
“Because there was no one I could turn to there.”
“Not Henry? You didn’t decide to forgive and forget, kiss and make up and all that?”
“Go fuck yourself, Maguire.”
“I guess not,” he said, suddenly feeling a lot more cheerful. “What about your mother? She’s not as bad as she seems.”
“So she tells me. Let’s just say she’s never given me much reason to trust her. I decided to just get the hell away from the place. Spend a night or two at a decent hotel in Florence, then decide whether I’m going back to La Colombala or just flying straight home. I think I’ve had enough of Tuscany. Though Pompasse would have said that’s impossible.”
“And of course he was so very wise.”
“Cut the sarcasm. He was right about some things, wrong about others. For a long while Tuscany was home. But it isn’t anymore.”
“And New York is?”
He could see her thinking about it. At least he was able to distract her enough to forget how righteously pissed off she was at him. “I don’t think I have a home.” She glanced over at him. “You know what they say—home is where the heart is. I have it on good authority that I don’t have a heart.”
“Hmm. Had a few words with our Henry, did you? The man’s an asshole.”
“Thank you for the comforting words but I don’t need them,” she said. If she was as icy as her voice she’d be heading for pneumonia. He punched the heater button, but as usual only cold air came out. He didn’t often need the heater in Italy, but now was one of the few occasions it would have come in handy.
“You’re ice-cold,” he said mildly enough, ignoring her hostility. She had every right to hate him, and all