The Widow (24 page)

“You can't have mine,” Charlie said.

“Yours, eh?” Olivia murmured. “I don't think he knew that.”

Charlie looked up at Maguire. He had a bemused expression on his face, as if he wasn't quite sure he liked what he was hearing.

“Definitely mine,” Charlie said firmly.

“We'll have to discuss that,” Maguire said. “In the meantime, let's get the hell out of here.”

 

The climb back down the hillside was endless. Despite Olivia's jauntiness she was in worse shape than she had admitted. A shard of stone had cut into her leg and she was bleeding down her silk dupioni pants and into her Ferragamos. Maguire couldn't carry her, but he used his good arm to support her down the treacherous path, and Charlie had no choice but to follow after them as best she could in her bare feet.

Their slow pace had one advantage—they had time to come up with a reasonable story. No reason for the police to know what really happened, Olivia had argued persuasively. Think of the scandal. There was no bringing Pompasse back, and besides, he'd deserved what Madame Antonella had dished out. If the three of them just stuck to the same story it would all be over quickly, with a minimum of fuss.

And Maguire said nothing.

The villa was ablaze with lights, providing a precious beacon to guide them down. The
polizia
met them partway up the hill, a strong young sergeant scooping Olivia up in his manly arms and carrying her the rest of the way down. Another one tried to help Charlie, but a dangerous glare from Maguire had him backing away apologetically.

“Did I tell you I called the police before I came after you? I had a feeling something was wrong. Such a terrible accident up there at the old ruin,” Olivia murmured from the young man's arms. She sounded as if she were enjoying herself tremendously. “Very farsighted, don't you think?”

Maguire said nothing.

They took him away from her, before they had a chance to speak. They took her mother, as well—both of them needed the hospital. Which left Charlie to come up with the answers, when all she wanted to do was curl up in a little ball and go to sleep.

It was almost dawn before they finished with her, finished with their endless questions, but they seemed to believe her. Almost dawn before the ambulance came back, bringing her mother. Only her mother.

“Where's Maguire?” Charlie demanded abruptly.

“Yes, I'm fine, so nice of you to be worried,” Olivia said sweetly. “An ungrateful child is sharper than a serpent's tooth or something like…”

“‘How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child.' King Lear. Where is he, Olivia? Why didn't he come back? Was he more badly hurt than I realized? Did he tell them the truth?”

“You called me Mama up in that chamber of horrors,” Olivia said calmly. “I rather liked it. You haven't called me Mama in years.”

“Where is he, Mama?”

“He's fine, dearest. He went back to Florence. He said you wouldn't be needing him anymore.”

“He did?” She didn't know whether to be depressed or furious.

“If I know Maguire he's probably in a hurry to file the story of tonight's macabre little escapade. He didn't say a word to the police, but you know how untrustworthy these people are. You do have wretched taste in men, my sweet. First, that ghastly old man, then a tabloid journalist.”

“You forgot Henry,” Charlie pointed out forlornly.

“Henry is eminently forgettable,” Olivia said. “Are you going to let him do it?”

“Let him do what?”

“Let Maguire get away with it. Let him write his tabloid trash?”

It took a moment for it to sink in. “No,” she said. “Of course I'm not.”

“Then you'd better go after him, hadn't you?” Olivia said in a dulcet voice. “You can take my car if you want.”

“That's all right. I'll take Maguire's. I'm used to it by now.”

This time she grabbed her purse and a heavy sweater on her way out the door. She was halfway across the terrace when she stopped. She turned back to see her mother standing in the door, watching her.

She sprinted back across the terrace and enveloped her mother in a bear hug. “Thanks, Mama,” she said.

Olivia's smile was slightly crooked, and her beautiful blue eyes were shiny with tears. “My pleasure, love. I've always wanted to be a heroine.”

H
is shoulder hurt like bloody hell. It didn't help having seventeen messages on his answering machine, all from Gregory. He went from threats to bribes to pleas, and Maguire deleted each one at the opening words. No messages from anyone else, but then, why should he have expected it?

Charlie would be sound asleep by now, dreaming innocent dreams and thanking heaven she'd escaped, not from a crazy, murdering old woman, but from a man who was no good for her. She'd run away the first time, and if he hadn't come after her she would probably have been happy never to see him again.

Well, she wouldn't. He was getting the hell out of Italy, heading back home for the first time in fifteen years. Thomas Wolfe said you couldn't go back home again. Maguire intended to prove him wrong.

He'd find himself a nice big Australian girl and have babies. Maybe he'd forget all about Charlie Thomas. In a year or ten.

He had a hell of a time packing with only one arm. They'd set his shoulder, and it was no more than a hairline crack, but it still hurt like crazy, and he had it strapped to his body to keep from using it. Just as well—if it had been free he probably would have punched the wall.

He threw his clothes in his suitcase, then on impulse tossed in her shoes and bra. He wasn't sure why—maybe some crazy sentimental streak. Maybe he could hold them hostage and force her to come to Australia and get them. And maybe he'd finally lost it for good.

He had the zip disk in his hand, staring down at it. He'd be a total fool to toss it—he could count on it as his old-age security. It could come in handy as blackmail material if things got dicey. Or he could simply print off the pictures of Charlie and stare at them.

He'd told Olivia he wasn't going to write the book. It was a long wait at the hospital, more than enough time for Olivia to give him a piece of her mind and then some.

“I warned you, Maguire,” she'd said. “She's a precious girl, and I don't want you smashing her heart.”

“I'm never going to see her again,” he'd said. “Scout's honor. I'm dropping the book and heading back home and I never want to hear Pompasse's name again.”

For some reason Olivia didn't look pleased. “You care, Maguire. Be a man and admit it. She's afraid, you know,” she'd added. “Afraid she'll turn out like me.”

She'd managed to lure him into the conversation, against his better judgment. “What do you mean?”

“She's afraid that if she lets herself love someone she'll be just like her mother. Going through men, pathetically self-absorbed. She doesn't realize that she's nothing at all like me. She's a person who gives, not one who takes. And it's all right for her to take, every now and then.”

“Don't look at me,” he'd growled. “She won't want anything to do with me once this is over.”

“You really think so, Maguire?” she'd murmured. “Maybe you're not quite as clever as I thought you were.”

They'd come to stitch up her leg then, and he hoped to hell they didn't numb her before they used the needle. No wonder Charlie was such a pain in the butt. But he believed Olivia—Charlie wasn't anything like her mother. Except in her ability to be annoying.

He looked down at the disk in his hand. He was damned if he was going to be sentimental. He'd hold on to it—you could never tell when something like this might come in handy one day. He was about to tuck it into his pocket when he heard the door open. He hadn't bothered to lock it—he seldom did. He was big enough to take on most of the unsavory characters that haunted his neighborhood, and most of them knew to leave him safely alone.

It was no unsavory character. It was Charlie standing in his doorway, furious, glaring at him.

He wanted to grin, but he didn't. She'd come after him. Maybe she hadn't thought better after that giddy time in the crypt. Maybe she was ready for him, after all. “What?” he said in an irritable voice. “What is it this time?”

“You aren't writing the story,” she said, walking into the room and slamming the door behind her. It made a nice solid thump. He liked a woman who slammed doors. Hell, he liked everything about Charlie, including her glower. She'd gone from a pale, colorless mouse to a holy terror, and the truth of it was, he was stupidly, damnably in love with her. And he was going to have to tell her so, whether he liked it or not. But not until he was forced to.

“There's no story to write, sweetheart,” he drawled instead. “You trashed my computer, remember?” He shoved the zip disk into his pocket.

“You aren't going to write about last night, either. I don't know whether the police believed what we told them, but they're closing the investigation.”

“Gullible of them,” Maguire observed. “And you expect me to sit on the story of my life, just because it's a little messy?”

“You're not writing the story.”

“All right. I told your mother I wouldn't, anyway. I'm surprised she didn't tell you that.”

She looked startled, as if she hadn't expected him to be so amenable. “That's not exactly what she told me, but then, my mother can be quite surprising at times,” she said after a moment. “You know you'll probably lose your job.”

“Already lost it,” he said cheerfully.

She looked at him speculatively. “Then how are you going to support me?”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Fine,” she said breezily, moving past him. She spied his open suitcase on the bed. “You're packing? Where are we going?”

He managed to pull himself together. “We're not going anywhere,” he said sternly. “I'm going back to Australia.”

“If ‘we're' not going anywhere then why are my shoes and my bra in your suitcase?” she asked in a dulcet tone.

He started to shrug, but his shoulder screamed in pain. “Souvenir?” he suggested. “I like to keep a little something from every woman I've nailed.”

She crossed the room, coming up to him. She looked beaten down, exhausted, nervous and uncertain, and more alive than he'd ever seen her. She flashed him a bright smile. “Sorry, pal. It's not that easy. You promised me we'd have days to make love once we got out of that tomb, and I expect a man to keep his promises.”

“I was just trying to distract you,” he said.

“Consider me distracted. You're not getting rid of me, Maguire. Let's face it, I'm a cold-blooded, heartless woman and you're the only man who's ever managed to turn me on in my entire lifetime. I don't intend to let you get away.” Some of her bravado faded slightly. “Unless, of course, you don't want me?”

He was within two minutes of taking her on the floor of his apartment with most of their clothes pulled out of the way. But he wasn't going to give up without a fight. “Do I really have to support you?” he countered.

“Just while I'm having babies,” she said. “The rest of the time I can cook. You'll have to marry me, though.”

“I like a woman who can cook,” he said thoughtfully.

“I'm a very good cook.”

“I like a woman who steals cars. Molly would have approved. Sometime I'll tell you about her. She would have liked you.”

“Do I need to be jealous?”

“Not of Molly, love. Where did you leave the car?”

“It's in the alley. I don't ever want to drive that junker again,” she warned him.

“We won't need it in Australia. We're better off with a four-wheel drive. I like a woman who isn't afraid to say what she wants.”

“I'm here,” she said. “And I want you.”

“Charlie,” he said, pulling her up against his body, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, “you've got me.”

And he bent down and kissed her, letting the computer disk drop in the trash.