The Widow by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online Page B

“Grazie,” she murmured.
    â€œHave a good rest, cara. Sweet dreams.”
    Charlie looked at the bed. For some reason nightmares seemed more likely in a massive old bed that held so many memories.
    But she was back, and Pompasse was gone. There would be no one left who could hurt her, not anymore. All she needed was a little nap and then she could deal with anything, including Pompasse’s angry women and the annoying Maguire.
    Anything at all.

5
    S o that was Madame Pompasse up close, Maguire thought, watching her race out of the vineyard as if the hounds of hell were after her. She wasn’t what he’d expected—he thought she’d be prettier. She was too tall, too thin for his tastes. Years of living in Italy had made him appreciate buxom women, and Charlie Thomas Pompasse was built like a model. She needed to be fattened up.
    Her face was narrow, angular, with those strange golden eyes that had been so luminous in Pompasse’s paintings. They were less vulnerable now, more guarded, and the tawny hair had been pulled back from her face in a sleek chignon. She looked like what she was—the wealthy widow of a world-famous artist.
    For some reason he thought she’d be different face-to-face. When he’d looked at her from across the crowded church he’d felt an odd connection. Even attraction. He reached in his jacket and pulled out the mangled postcard. He couldn’t figure out why he was carrying it with him—it wasn’t his style to be impulsive or sentimental. But the reproduction of the portrait fascinated him. He’d done a blitz of research before showing up at the villa, and Charlie When She Left was legendary. He stared down into Charlie’s lost golden eyes, so different from the cool gaze he’d just looked into. And then he shoved the postcard back into his pocket, crumpling it further.
    He’d had a busy few days. First the rushed trip to New York, then a flurry of last-minute research when he’d gotten back. For once Gregory had come through with a decent amount of information, including a packet of postcards with Pompasse’s work on them dating back to his early years in Paris. Including three postcards featuring the most well-known portraits from Pompasse’s Gold Period.
    Two of which were hanging in Pompasse’s apartment. One he’d never seen before, and he’d been half tempted to crumple up the shiny print and toss it. He stopped himself, staring down at the tiny rectangle of glossy color.
    Mrs. Pompasse again, older this time. She was wearing some sort of ratty sweater, though he suspected Pompasse had dressed her in designer clothes, and her luminous golden eyes were no longer innocent. Still wary, but by the time this portrait was painted she had known what to be wary of. There was a “to hell with you” twist to her soft mouth, a firmness to her jaw that hadn’t been there before. But he could still see the warmth in her shadowed eyes.
    He turned it over to read the back. Charlie When She Left was the name of the painting, and it was quite recent. Only five years old. And according to Maguire’s expert sources, everything since then had been garbage.
    Had the old man just let her go, or had he tried to get her back? Maybe he had hoped Gia would provide a suitable distraction and he wouldn’t miss Charlie. If so, it hadn’t worked. The last Maguire had heard, Pompasse had moved on to someone even younger, more innocent.
    Charlie’s eyes still haunted him. The real ones, with their defenses in place. He wanted to spark some kind of emotion, and he’d been as obnoxious as he could be when she’d found him in the vineyard. Well, maybe he was capable of being even more obnoxious, but it would have been a stretch. She was the most self-contained ice princess he’d ever met, an anathema to him. She should have been a Nordic blonde, not a tawny cat.
    He could exert considerable charm