Widow - Anne Stuart [91]
He didn’t dare print it up—the noise might awaken Charlie. He’d take the zip disk into the office later in the day, get it blown up before he printed it, and then maybe he could figure out what it was about the photo that was driving him nuts.
He didn’t know whether she had made some sort of sound, or whether it was his sixth sense. But he knew Charlie was awake, and he made the mistake of going to check on her without putting the computer into hibernation.
She was stirring, moving around in the bed, still asleep but restless. And he looked down at her, decided there were some things that were just too hard to fight, and got back in bed with her, pulling her into his arms.
She quieted immediately, and her soft sigh caught on an errant sob that was still stifled deep inside her. She had a lot of crying left to do, he thought, stroking her hair gently. And for a moment he wished to Christ that it didn’t have to be over him.
Maguire snored. Oddly enough, Charlie didn’t mind. He wasn’t that loud, and there was something vaguely comforting about the sound. She rose on her elbows to look at him in the murky predawn light. His face had gone beyond a stubble to almost a beard, his eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, and he was sleeping like a baby.
She found herself smiling down at him. She was half tempted to wake him again, and she started to move when her body cried out in massive protest. She bit her lip in annoyance.
She wasn’t ready to stop. She remembered something he’d growled in her ear in the middle of the night, something dark and sexy and exciting, and she wanted to try it. But her body wouldn’t let her.
A bath, she thought. She’d soak in a hot bath for half an hour, then climb back into bed with him. Maybe even climb right on top of him. She was feeling wild and strong and dangerous, and she wanted more.
She listened to his snoring all through her bath, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t even know she’d left his side. When she climbed out of the massive tub she wrapped one of the big towels around her, ready to head back into the bedroom, when she noticed a strange blue light from the living room.
She pushed open the door. The room was still warm from the fire, and the windows overlooking the alleyway let in the filtered half-light of a new day. And then she saw the computer sitting open on the desk.
No Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. He must have gotten up in the middle of the night to work. He’d left her alone in the bed to get to his computer. He couldn’t wait to get back to his work.
The sense of betrayal was strong enough, and then she saw what was on the screen.
It was a photograph of Antonella, Lauretta and Tomaso. They didn’t know they were being photographed, but Maguire had done a good job. You could practically taste the old lady’s fury emanating from the image on the computer screen.
Tucking the towel more tightly around her, Charlie sat down at the computer. She liked technology, and it didn’t take her long to access the menu of photos, to see the damning ones of her, looking lost.
The text was already open in another window—all she had to do was click on it. She only read a few sentences—about Pompasse’s frigid wife who’d been ruined for men for all time, and she pushed back from the table, closing the computer lid with a quiet little click.
She dressed quickly, calmly. Her clothes had dried, though her bra was still somewhere on the bedroom floor. It didn’t matter—she wouldn’t wear it again. She’d probably never wear a bra with a front clasp ever again—it would remind her of Maguire’s deft hands.
Her shoes were in the bedroom as well, but she decided not to bother with them. Maguire was still snoring, but the last thing she wanted was to risk waking him up. She’d spent most of her life at the