The Widow by Anne Stuart Page A

masterpiece, they said. The skin tones were worthy of a Renaissance master. If it hadn’t been for that painting she might never have left him.
    But she had been young, and still capable of being childishly flattered by all the attention it got. She’d read the newspapers, the magazines, the fawning praise and learned critique, and she’d preened like a teenager—until she’d read the description in the Art News of Italy.
    â€œMuch has been made of the glorious use of texture in the model’s skin tones, but what truly makes Charlie in Her Dressing Gown a masterpiece and Pompasse the foremost living painter is the expression in the model’s eyes. Pompasse has captured her doubts, her sexual ambiguity, her desperate attempts at serenity. It has always been said that the eyes are the window to the soul, and the soul Pompasse has captured is empty, helpless, completely dependent on whoever views the painting.”
    She’d left the next morning.
    They all assumed it was because he’d left her bed for Gia’s a year earlier. Her mother thought her pride was damaged, Pompasse was certain he’d broken her heart and pleasure warred with panic inside him. He’d been trying to make her jealous for years, and now he thought he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
    But Pompasse’s infidelities had nothing to do with it. She hadn’t cared when he left her bed, she’d been desperately relieved. She hadn’t cared when he brought Gia into the household.
    His betrayal had been far worse. She kept remembering the old story about primitive people who were afraid of cameras. They thought the photographer stole their souls.
    That’s what Pompasse had done. Not stolen it, exactly—she’d handed it to him on a silver platter and he paraded his trophy for the world to see. Anyone who looked at that painting would see what a lost, empty shell of a human being she’d become. But far worse was accepting the knowledge herself. That she’d given herself away, till there was nothing but a pretty shell remaining.
    So she’d run. It was past time to reclaim her life, her soul, and she’d found them in New York. Nothing on earth could lure her back, not threats, not her mother’s constant phone calls, not Pompasse’s pathetic suicide attempts. Gia would take good care of him. So would the other women who still surrounded him. She was the one who escaped and she would never go back, even if a part of her soul still remained in Tuscany. The part that Pompasse had stolen from her.
    She shook herself, as if to rid herself of the power of memories. That was one painting she never wanted to find. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Pompasse had sold it to a private collector, and she had no idea where it was now. At least it wasn’t on view for the world to stare at and judge, though photos of it still cropped up in articles about Pompasse. Some twisted soul could gloat over it in private, and she could forget that lost little girl ever existed.
    Even if she knew that she was still hiding, somewhere deep inside her cool defenses.
    She liked her coffee strong, black and sweet, and she poured herself a mug, shoving her still damp hair back from her face. One of her favorite things to do at La Colombala was drink coffee on the terrace, but this morning the memories were too strong. She would curl up in one of the huge leather chairs in the study and drink it there, looking out the back windows up toward the ruins of the old church.
    She moved silently along the stone floors on bare feet. The door to the study was half closed, and she pushed it open, then paused. She’d forgotten that Maguire had claimed the space for his own. The intruder sat at Pompasse’s desk, hunched over a laptop computer, his face intent in the glow from the screen, his fingers flying. He wasn’t a touch typist, but he was incredibly fast, which seemed odd to her.
    He had