Widow - Anne Stuart [86]
“Lucky for me,” she echoed dryly. The room was warm and cozy from the fire, despite the clutter and the high ceilings. The vision of that rumpled bed danced back into her brain. She banished it sternly.
“I’ll get you a glass of wine,” he said. “You look like you could use it.”
“I’d rather have whiskey.”
“Too bad, love. I gave it up. I only have wine here because you can’t live in Italy without having wine to offer. My Italian friends would probably drive me out of the country on a rail.”
“First, I don’t believe you have any friends, Italian or otherwise. And second…” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t remember what I was going to say. I’d better not have any wine. I don’t think I’ve eaten all day.”
He didn’t say anything. He was across the room from her, out of reach, and yet still too close. The room was only dimly lit, and she couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t read his expression. But then, she never could.
The silence stretched and grew, until it became an almost palpable thing in the cavernous room. “I’d better get going,” she said. “Did you call the hotel?”
He nodded. “I booked you into the Villa Bovaria. It’s a smaller hotel on the west side of town, but the manager owes me a favor or two. He’ll get you in even without a passport, and he’ll take my credit card.”
“What makes you think I don’t have money?”
“You didn’t have a purse in the car with you, sugar. You didn’t have squat. I told you, I’m your knight in shining armor. Just say the word and I’ll take you over to the Villa Bovaria, get your bill settled and leave you in peace. That’s what you want, right?”
“That’s what I want,” she said. Certain she meant it.
“Did you want some wine first?”
“No wine. I just need to get out of here. I make it a habit not to be self-destructive.”
His laugh was both derisive and offensive. “You really think so? You married a womanizing old fart when you were seventeen, you were about to marry another old man even though you couldn’t bear to have him touch you. You almost had sex with me this morning. I’d call that pretty self-destructive.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but did you ever consider that marrying a womanizing old fart was at least better than the rootless life I was leading? He gave me a home, he gave me security, and he loved me. The good points outweighed the bad for a number of years. But you’re right,” she added. “Don’t worry, I’m turning over a new leaf. Obviously I have terrible taste in men.” She looked him straight in the eye.
“Obviously,” he said, not flinching.
Another silence, long and strained. He finally broke it. “If I’m taking you to the Villa Bovaria you’re going to need your shoes on. Passports and money can be dealt with, bare feet can’t.”
“Sorry. I’ll just be a minute.” She dashed back into the bathroom, unearthing her flats from beneath the pile of clothes. She slipped them on, then paused to look at her reflection once more.
She hadn’t changed. She still looked like Charlie—tawny hair drying softly around her face, wary eyes, straight nose, pale mouth. She hadn’t thought he’d let her go that easily.
It was probably much simpler than she realized. He had been after her for the story. He’d wanted to be able to write what Pompasse’s widow was like in bed. Now that she knew who he was, now that he wasn’t going to be allowed to do that, he had no need to sleep with her.
He probably liked plump women. Healthy, sexual women who took and gave pleasure cheerfully. Neurotic, frigid women wouldn’t be Maguire’s style at all.
He’d turned off most of the lights when she came out. There was just the glow from the fire and the lone lightbulb overhead in the hallway, and he was waiting for her, his hand on the switch.
“You’re not writing that article, you know,” she said, sounding very cool. “The lawyers will stop you—”
“You overestimate the legal system,” he said. “But actually I don’t give a rat’s ass about the fucking story. Someone else can write it.”
She didn’t bother arguing. When