Widow - Anne Stuart [92]
She pushed open the wide living room windows, looking down at the little alleyway. Maguire’s Fiat was still there, and the keys were on the table next to the computer. Thoughtful of him.
She unplugged the laptop, brought it over to the window, and dropped it. The shattering sound as it smashed onto the pavement below was shocking in the early morning stillness, and Maguire’s snoring stopped with an abrupt snort.
Charlie grabbed the car keys, not daring to wait a moment longer. She closed the door silently behind her, just in case he’d managed to fall asleep again, and ran down the stairs, out into the wet streets.
She had to avoid the metal and glass shards from the smashed computer. By the time she reached his car her bare feet were icy cold, and she remembered too late that his heater didn’t work.
So be it. It wasn’t cold enough for frostbite, just bad enough for misery. If she could concentrate on how cold her feet were, maybe it would take her mind off whatever else felt irreparably damaged. Her soul? Her heart?
To her amazement the car started at the first try. She shoved it into gear and took off, driving over the remnants of the smashed computer, and out onto the early morning roads leading out of Florence, back to La Colombala.
Maguire was pulled out of a heavy sleep by a sound he didn’t recognize. A muffled crash, and his eyes flew open, and he was instantly awake.
Alone in the bed. He sat up and saw Charlie’s shoes on the floor, but he wasn’t reassured. She’d fled, like Cinderella, leaving not one but both glass slippers behind.
He struggled out of bed and pushed open the door to the living room, and a moment of absolute panic knocked the air out of him. The wide casement windows were open onto the alleyway below, and for a second he thought she might have jumped.
And then he saw the computer was gone.
He crossed the room, almost at a run, and looked down into the alleyway below. His car was just disappearing around the corner, and he had no doubts as to who was driving. And directly below his window, smashed into a million pieces, was his state-of-the-art laptop.
He stared at it for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to the road Charlie had taken. And then he did something he hadn’t done in more than five years.
He threw back his head and laughed.
He didn’t pause long enough to think about it. He headed straight to the telephone and punched in a few numbers.
“Gregory?”
“Who the hell is this?” Gregory’s sleepy voice demanded. “It’s the middle of the fucking night. Is that you, Maguire?”
“It’s 6:00 a.m. and it’s me.”
“You better have a helluva good story about Pompasse to wake me up like this.”
“No story.”
There was dead silence on the other line. “You’re shitting me.”
“No story. Everything was dead boring there. The old man died from a fall, all his ex-girlfriends were cozy, and the best you’ve got is a little gossip for the back pages.”
“But you’ve got pictures,” Gregory said. “You told me you had great pictures.”
“Sorry, boss,” Maguire said, totally without regret. “I’m afraid my girlfriend threw my computer out the window. Smashed everything to pieces.”
“But you backed it up?” Gregory was fully awake now, and sounding in a perfect panic. “Of course you did—you’re a professional. You always back things up.”
“Not this time.”
There was a long, charged silence at the other end, and Maguire could hear Gregory lighting a cigarette. A deep craving swept over him, but he batted it away.
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Maguire,” Gregory said after a moment. “You’re going to get in your car and drag your sorry ass back to Pompasse’s villa. I don’t care what excuse you make, how many lies you have to tell, but you get back in there and get me pictures and some kind of goddamned story.”
“Can’t. My girlfriend stole my car.”
Another silence. “Since when have you ever had a girlfriend, Maguire? You’re the love ’em and leave ’em type. Besides, what woman would ever put up with you long-term?”
“I don’t know, boss. But I intend to