interested.
He turned off the light, sinking down in the bed. He didnât like the idea of Charlie and the old man doing the nasty in this bed, and he couldnât blame her for preferring the other room. He just wished he had a good excuse to join her there.
He was running out of time. It was Wednesday nightâhe had until Saturday at the latest to find out all the dirt he could dig up on Pompasse, Charlie and the myriad of women who still clustered around the villa. He needed to find what had happened to the lost paintings, and who had murdered the old goat. If he could come up with that information heâd be set for life.
It was possible a real insurance adjuster would appear on the doorstep, in which case heâd just have to get the hell out of there before Charlie went after him with a shovel. He had to admit the thought of seeing her startled out of her unruffled calm, blazing mad, was tempting. But he was counting on the notoriously slow workings of the Italian bureaucracy to keep him safe for a long enough interval. By the time a real insurance adjuster showed up heâd be gone.
Besides, if he had to choose between seeing Charlie lose her self-control and the big bucks that would be coming his way when he finished the book for Gregory, there was no contest.
He didnât need much sleep, and he worked best in the early hours of the day. Heâd catch a few hours, then head down to the study heâd claimed as his work space and get more written. He was a journalistâhe could work fast under pressure, and the bigger the delay on this the less valuable it might turn out to be. He wasnât the only tabloid reporter on the trail of this story, though he had the inside track. But in the news and trash business, timing was everything. He needed to capture Charlie on paper, now that heâd met her. He needed to describe her eyes, the long, slender body, the touch-me-not calm to her that needed to be shaken free. He needed to understand both her mysterious strength and her indefinable uncertainty. He needed to capture her in words.
And then maybe she wouldnât haunt him.
Â
Charlie woke early, before anyone else. She showered quickly, half-afraid that Maguire would wander in while she was undressed, but the room beyond the adjoining bathroom door was silent. She thought he would have been the kind of man who snored, but the night had been pleasantly silent.
Even Lauretta and Tomaso were still asleepâa small blessing. She loved them dearly, but she liked to make her own coffee, and Lauretta would want to weep and talk about Pompasse, and at least for one morning Charlie didnât want to talk about her dead husband.
Where the hell had those paintings disappeared to? Had he sold them? He couldnât haveâhis work was highly valuable for a living artist, and the kind of money theyâd bring in would make news. Would he have given them away? Not Pompasse. He reveled in the fame and moneyâhe knew his own worth to the last penny and cherished the power it brought him. He wouldnât have given anything away unless heâd had an ulterior motive.
She had no idea what heâd been painting in the last five years. Probably dour portraits of Gia.
Sheâd done her best to avoid news of the art world, but thereâd been no new records set for a work by a living artist. Not since Charlie in Her Dressing Gown.
It should have embarrassed her, but then, Pompasse had painted her in every state of dress and undress. She remembered sitting for the damned thing, out on the terrace with the sunlight caressing her damp skin. Heâd seen her coming from the shower and insisted she pose for him when she hadnât posed in months. He wanted her skin and hair wet, the robe falling off her shoulders, exposing her tanned skin. And sheâd complied, even to the point of letting him spray her with water when the sun dried her hair and face.
It had been a
He turned off the light, sinking down in the bed. He didnât like the idea of Charlie and the old man doing the nasty in this bed, and he couldnât blame her for preferring the other room. He just wished he had a good excuse to join her there.
He was running out of time. It was Wednesday nightâhe had until Saturday at the latest to find out all the dirt he could dig up on Pompasse, Charlie and the myriad of women who still clustered around the villa. He needed to find what had happened to the lost paintings, and who had murdered the old goat. If he could come up with that information heâd be set for life.
It was possible a real insurance adjuster would appear on the doorstep, in which case heâd just have to get the hell out of there before Charlie went after him with a shovel. He had to admit the thought of seeing her startled out of her unruffled calm, blazing mad, was tempting. But he was counting on the notoriously slow workings of the Italian bureaucracy to keep him safe for a long enough interval. By the time a real insurance adjuster showed up heâd be gone.
Besides, if he had to choose between seeing Charlie lose her self-control and the big bucks that would be coming his way when he finished the book for Gregory, there was no contest.
He didnât need much sleep, and he worked best in the early hours of the day. Heâd catch a few hours, then head down to the study heâd claimed as his work space and get more written. He was a journalistâhe could work fast under pressure, and the bigger the delay on this the less valuable it might turn out to be. He wasnât the only tabloid reporter on the trail of this story, though he had the inside track. But in the news and trash business, timing was everything. He needed to capture Charlie on paper, now that heâd met her. He needed to describe her eyes, the long, slender body, the touch-me-not calm to her that needed to be shaken free. He needed to understand both her mysterious strength and her indefinable uncertainty. He needed to capture her in words.
And then maybe she wouldnât haunt him.
Â
Charlie woke early, before anyone else. She showered quickly, half-afraid that Maguire would wander in while she was undressed, but the room beyond the adjoining bathroom door was silent. She thought he would have been the kind of man who snored, but the night had been pleasantly silent.
Even Lauretta and Tomaso were still asleepâa small blessing. She loved them dearly, but she liked to make her own coffee, and Lauretta would want to weep and talk about Pompasse, and at least for one morning Charlie didnât want to talk about her dead husband.
Where the hell had those paintings disappeared to? Had he sold them? He couldnât haveâhis work was highly valuable for a living artist, and the kind of money theyâd bring in would make news. Would he have given them away? Not Pompasse. He reveled in the fame and moneyâhe knew his own worth to the last penny and cherished the power it brought him. He wouldnât have given anything away unless heâd had an ulterior motive.
She had no idea what heâd been painting in the last five years. Probably dour portraits of Gia.
Sheâd done her best to avoid news of the art world, but thereâd been no new records set for a work by a living artist. Not since Charlie in Her Dressing Gown.
It should have embarrassed her, but then, Pompasse had painted her in every state of dress and undress. She remembered sitting for the damned thing, out on the terrace with the sunlight caressing her damp skin. Heâd seen her coming from the shower and insisted she pose for him when she hadnât posed in months. He wanted her skin and hair wet, the robe falling off her shoulders, exposing her tanned skin. And sheâd complied, even to the point of letting him spray her with water when the sun dried her hair and face.
It had been a
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