Widow - Anne Stuart [96]
At least she wasn’t dead—yet. She’d had one last thought as she fell to the floor in the old kitchen. She was going to die, and at the worst possible time in her life.
A week ago would have been fine. Everyone would have wept, but it really wouldn’t have mattered one way or another. A year from now would be okay, too. Then she’d be over it.
But she didn’t want to die right now, when she was stupidly, crazily in love with that lying, exasperating, treacherous, devious son of a bitch Maguire.
She was crying, and that probably wasn’t a good idea, either. She could feel the tears slide down her cheeks, and she turned her head to wipe them on the rough wool beneath her. It was bad enough that she was in love with him. She was damned if she was going to cry over him, as well.
She squirmed again, and the surface beneath her creaked. It was some kind of narrow bed or cot. She reached out her fingers, testing her bonds. It wasn’t rope but something thicker, something clothlike and incredibly strong. It was…
Duct tape. Someone had wrapped duct tape around her ankles and knees, around her arms and waist, immobilizing her. She knew where they’d gotten it—she’d sent Tomaso a case of the stuff for Christmas last year when he’d expressed his admiration for it. Under any other circumstances she would have laughed at the absurdity of it.
She still couldn’t believe that they had done this. Madame Antonella was one thing—the old lady had obviously gone over the edge. But why in God’s name would Lauretta and Tomaso help her?
“Bloody hell.” The moan came from out of the darkness. “I think she broke my goddamned arm.”
The tears were starting again, damn it. “Maguire?” she asked in a quavering voice.
“You there, Charlie?” He sounded as relieved as she was. “Where the hell are you—I can’t see a thing in this pit.”
“I can’t see you, either. Follow the sound of my voice.”
“I’m in a lot of pain here, Charlie,” he said in a sour voice. “How about you come and find me?”
“Someone duct-taped me to the bed.”
The silence was so long that she wondered whether he’d passed out. “Now, that’s worth moving for,” he said finally, and she could hear the rustle of clothing, the sound of him inching his way closer to her, accompanied by muffled curses and the occasional groan of pain.
She jumped when his hand found her. A moment later there was a flare of light as Maguire lit his lighter. “Forgot I had it,” he said, looking down at her.
The flickering light illuminated him, as well. “You look like hell,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice she’d been crying. He was covered with dust, his shirt was torn, his face was bruised and cut, and he was cradling his left arm. “What happened to you?”
“The old bitch hit me over the head with a two-by-four and knocked me into the cellar hole. I don’t know how I got in here—I don’t think she’s strong enough to drag me.”
“Probably Tomaso did the honors. He and Lauretta are helping her.”
He flicked off the lighter again, plunging them into darkness.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded.
“To conserve fuel. It’s just lucky you stopped me from smoking or there’d be no lighter fluid left.” His hand was traveling over her body in a professional manner, checking out the duct-tape bondage. “You know, a man could find this kind of erotic.”
“Maguire, there’s a crazy old lady trying to kill us, and two not-so-crazy, not-so-old people helping her. This is not the time for sexual innuendo.”
“It’s always the time for sexual innuendo, sweetheart,” he drawled. “Do you know why they’re helping her?”
“I don’t have any idea. I don’t even know why she wants to kill me.”
“I do.”
She waited, but he said nothing more as he fiddled with something in the darkness.
“Well?” she demanded finally. “And what the hell are you doing?”
“Swiss Army knife, love. Never travel without one.”
“You’re a regular Boy Scout,” she muttered.
“Be grateful. I rather like the