“You see, I’d fallen in love with a painting. A painting of you, Charlie. I’d fallen in love with the look in your eyes and the expression on your face. I paid a fortune for the damned thing, telling myself it was an excellent investment because it was a Pompasse, but the real reason was because I wanted you. The girl in the painting. I wanted you to look at me like you looked at the painter. I wanted you in my house, not just the oil and canvas.”
“I’ve never seen any of Pompasse’s work in your apartment,” she said.
“I didn’t want you to see it. I didn’t want you to know how…obsessed I’d become. And once I met you I knew the real thing could be so much better. That you could become my Charlie, that you’d look at me with all that need and longing. But you never did.”
“Which painting?”
He frowned. “Does it matter?”
“Pompasse did dozens of me over the years. I want to know which painting you bought, that you thought captured my soul.” She already knew the answer, knew it with a sinking dread, but she had to hear him say it.
“It was called Charlie in Her Dressing Gown,” he said.
She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. Remembering the empty soul that portrait revealed, the naked need and helplessness.
“So you fell in love with the painting and set out to find me,” she said calmly. “And you call Maguire the stalker.”
He looked affronted. “You don’t understand. It was your purity that I fell in love with. That’s why I didn’t mind when you weren’t interested in sex. I thought I preferred you like that—pristine and unsullied. Like some chaste Diana. I didn’t realize how human I could be.”
“I understand,” she said. Let go of my hand and go away, she thought. I can’t stand this anymore.
“I’m not giving up, Charlie,” he said, his voice ragged. “We were meant to be together, I’ve always known it. You will become that girl in the picture again, I can feel it. We can be happy, darling girl, you know we can, and…”
“Henry,” she said softly, moving his hand away from hers. “Not now, not ever.”
He blinked in disbelief. “You don’t mean that.”
“Go away, Henry. Go to hell and take Gia with you.”
“Charlie!” he said, shocked.
But Charlie was past worrying what Henry thought. “Take Gia and go back to the States. You need someone to adore you and I’m sure Gia will fill the bill, at least for a while. Just support her in the manner to which she’s been accustomed and things should be just fine.”
He rose from the bed, and she could feel the anger in him. “You’re jealous,” he said.
“Not particularly.”
“Not of me,” Henry said bitterly. “I wouldn’t be fool enough to think I was ever that important to you. No, you’re jealous of Gia. You know that she’s a real woman and you’ll never be more than a cold, lifeless, frigid bitch. That painting has more warmth than you do.”
The last trace of guilt slipped away. “Thank you, Henry,” she said. “Now fuck off.”
He slammed the door behind him, odd behavior for a mature man, Charlie thought absently. But then, Henry was far less mature than his years might suggest. He was a spoiled boy in an old man’s body, and she didn’t want any part of him.
The rain was splattering into the room, and the plain white curtains, now soaking wet, flapped in the breeze. She should get up and close the window, she thought, but she couldn’t make herself move.
She stared down at her hands almost absently. There was still flour beneath her short fingernails. Better than bloodred paint. She looked up, and the smear on her door was a faint rosy color. And she knew she had to move.
Even the studio offered more respite than this place. She paused long enough to slam the window shut and grab some clean clothes, and then she raced down the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t run into yet another person intent on unwanted conversation.
The house was deserted. She was half tempted to climb back up to the deserted church, but even though part of the roof remained to shelter her from the storm, the path itself would be a slippery trail of mud.
Which left the studio. She could take a shower, and even sleep there tonight if she had to. Maguire was gone, with his lies and his tricks and his wicked hands. If anything, she should be grateful to him. In a few short moments he’d proved to her that she wasn’t nearly as repressed as she thought she was. He’d touched her, kissed her, and she’d responded. If she could respond to a lying, conniving creature like Maguire, then there was definitely hope for her.
Maybe she should take a cue from her mother and find herself a boy toy. Someone young and muscle-bound without a brain in his head. Someone who existed only to please women, who could teach her to enjoy her body.
Except, when she tried to conjure him in her mind, he looked suspiciously like Maguire.
There was no hurry, she reminded herself, pausing at the French doors leading to the rain-soaked terrace. She was free of one man, and there was definite hope for the future. In the meantime she needed to forget about men and sex and concentrate on the mess that Pompasse had made of his departure. She still refused to believe he could have been murdered, and the police had given her little real information. The past week had taken on an almost nightmarish tinge, and she could only hope that she’d wake up in her own bed in her New York apartment and all of this would be some bizarre fantasy.
That wasn’t going to happen. She no longer believed in happy endings and miracles. Nor did the rain look like it was going to let up any time soon. Clutching her clean clothes in her arms, she dashed out onto the terrace and headed for the studio.
She ran inside, slamming the door behind her, shutting out the storm. The huge room was a mass of gloom and shadows, and she tried to remember where the light switch was. She felt her way carefully, running her hand along the wall, when suddenly she realized she wasn’t alone.
Something was moving in there, in the shadowed darkness. Someone was breathing, watching her.
“Who’s there?” she called out sharply.
The lack of response was terrifying. She began to edge her way back toward the door, slowly, trying to get her eyes accustomed to the darkness, half afraid of what she might see. “Is that you, Henry?” she demanded. “Gia? I know someone’s there, I can hear you.”
Still no answer, just the faint rustle of clothing as someone moved closer. There was nothing to be afraid of, Charlie told herself. Someone was playing a trick on her, probably the wretched Gia. But no one would hurt her, no one would touch her….
Something came hurtling toward her out of the darkness, like a huge bat, blotting out what little light there was. She tried to duck, and felt the wood glance against her head, felt the wetness that may have been paint, may have been blood. It was a painting, though in the darkness she couldn’t begin to guess which one, she could only tell that the canvas had been slashed and splattered, just like the other one.
The door was behind her, and her hand felt the knob at the center of her back, and she fumbled with it, desperate, as the huge dark creature kept coming toward her, a mass of shadows. Something else came flying at her head, but she finally managed to open the door and escape out into the rainy afternoon, hearing it clatter harmlessly to the floor.
She slipped on the wet stone terrace, going down hard, and she scrambled up again. The noise of the downpour drowned out the sound of her pursuer, but panic was still searing through her. She ran down the steps to her car, the rain soaking her hair, her clothing, plastering it against her skin.
She jumped inside and slammed the door, locking it. Waiting, waiting for a dark, shadowy figure to appear out of the rain and try to reach her. Then at least she could see who it was who had sent her into such a mindless panic.
But no one came. She was alone, wet and shivering in the tiny car, but no evil figure appeared out of the gloom to threaten her, hurt her.
She took a deep breath, pushing her wet hair out of her
face. Her hand came away red with paint or blood, she didn’t know and didn’t care. She had two choices. She could get out of the car and try to make it back into the house, hoping that whoever had been lurking in the studio wouldn’t reach her first.
Or she could drive away.
The keys were in the ignition, her hands were shaking so much she could barely turn them, but it was a no-brainer. She tore away, her tires sliding in the fresh mud, and drove off down the rutted driveway as fast as she dared. The rain was so heavy she could barely see beyond the windshield, and she was shivering, freezing, crying. It didn’t matter. Within five minutes she was off the property, onto the main road that led through Geppi, into Florence. And she didn’t look back.
19
Maguire had never had a psychic moment in his whole pragmatic life. Sitting under a leaking awning in the pouring rain was probably the most irrational thing he’d ever done, and yet three hours later he was still there, drinking his millionth cup of coffee, staring up at the villa through the clouds and mist like some forlorn suitor.
Hell, no, like a reporter on a hot story, he reminded himself. That was what made the difference between the good reporters and the great ones—tenacity. Working the story like a dog with a bone, never letting go until he had everything he needed from it.
And who the hell was he kidding? Maybe he’d been a great reporter once, but now he was nothing but a hack, pandering to the worst instincts in human nature. Either way, it was better than wars.
When Charlie’s little Alfa first appeared he almost didn’t believe his eyes. But there weren’t that many sports cars on the roads this time of year—hell, there weren’t that many cars at all in the pouring rain, so he definitely recognized Charlie’s. She drove through town like a crazy woman, and by the time he’d slammed some lire down on the table and gotten into his car she was out of sight.
He could only guess she was heading toward Florence, though he couldn’t imagine why. She’d been driving so damned fast he couldn’t be certain she was in the driver’s seat, or if she was even alone. Hell, maybe she and Henry had patched it up and they were running off to get married.
It didn’t matter. He headed out of town after her, his bald tires skidding in the mud.
He caught up with her on the hill just outside of town, amazing considering how much more power her car had than his ancient rust bucket. He could see her fishtailing as she headed up the steep curve, and he sped up, trying to get one more ounce of power out of his old engine. His windshield wipers needed replacing, and he could barely see through the downpour, but Charlie’s brake lights were unmistakable as the car slid sideways ahead of him.
“Slow the fuck down,” he muttered beneath his breath, but Charlie wasn’t listening. The road was getting steeper, she was pulling away, and he considered honking his horn. If she knew he was following her she’d probably simply drive faster. He slammed his foot down on the accelerator, trying to catch up with her, and his tires spun.
She disappeared into the rain and mist, and he swore again, trying to get his stubborn old car to behave. By the time he reached the crest of the hill she was already out of sight.
He kept going, telling himself he was headed that way, anyway, telling himself that nothing would happen to her, telling himself to hurry the fuck up and find her.
When he did he almost missed seeing her. The Alfa was off to the side of the road, halfway up an embankment, the lights spearing wildly into the rain.
He slammed on his brakes, sliding on the greasy surface as he struggled to maintain control of his car. He just barely managed to bring it to a stop a few feet from the Alfa, and he jumped out of the car, willing himself not to panic.
She was sitting in the driver’s seat, the window rolled down and rain pouring in. “Go away,” she said in her calm, well-bred voice.
He ignored it, of course. She’d been telling him to go away since she first saw him. “Are you hurt? Can you get out of the car?”
“I’m not hurt, I can get out of the car, but I have no intention of doing so. Go away and leave me alone.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Charlie. You’ve got two flat tires and you’ve probably bent the frame. That car can’t be driven anywhere, it’s pouring rain and getting late. Get out of the damned car and I’ll take you someplace.”
“Go to hell, Maguire.”
He wasn’t in the mood for this. He hadn’t realized just how scared he’d been chasing her up and down these hills in the treacherous rain, and his uncertain temper snapped.
She’d locked the door, but she hadn’t closed the window. He reached in, opened the door from the inside and put his hands on her, preparing to haul her out.
“I’ll scream!” she said fiercely.
“Go ahead. There’s no one around to hear.” He yanked at her with just a trace more energy than he needed.
“At least let me get the damned seat belt off,” she snapped.
“You’re wearing a seat belt? I thought you had a death wish, considering the way you were driving.” She wasn’t making any effort to unfasten the belt, so he unfastened it for her, then pulled her out into the heavy rain. She sagged against him for a moment, and his panic was back in full force.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he demanded. “You didn’t hurt yourself?”
“I’m fine,” she said, pushing him away. “I wasn’t going that fast when I lost control.”
He had no choice but to believe her. “The Fiat’s over there.”
“I don’t want…”
“I know you don’t want, sweetheart. You don’t want anything to do with me. But you’re on a deserted road in the pouring rain, it’s getting dark, and you’re stuck with me. I’ll take you wherever you were heading, drop you off and then leave you alone.”
“Florence.”
“Why?”
“I’m getting wet, Maguire. Could we continue this conversation in your car? Since I don’t seem to have any choice in the matter?”
He gritted his teeth. He wasn’t a violent man, but if anyone could drive him to it, it would be Charlie. He didn’t touch her, simply started toward the car, expecting her to follow.
Lucky for her she did. He hadn’t realized how small his car was, once Charlie was inside. He’d dumped his laptop and all his papers into the rubbish-strewn back seat, and he waited until she closed the door before he started the engine again.
“Where’s the seat belt?” she asked.
“Long gone. I figure if you survived the way you were driving, then a couple of hours without a seat belt won’t do you any harm.”
“You know what happens in an accident if you’re not wearing a seat belt? You get thrown around the car like a frog in a blender, crushing everyone,” she said severely.
“Feel free to crush me,” he said, pulling out into the rainy evening. He concentrated on the road, driving in silence, until they got closer to the next town. He glanced over at her, and then swore.
“You told me you weren’t hurt!” he snapped.
“I’m not.”
“Your head is bleeding. You must have hit it on the windshield.”
“I was wearing my seat belt, remember? And it’s not blood, it’s paint. Someone…something threw one of Pompasse’s paintings at me. Another ruined one, I might add. Not that it matters to you, Mr. Insurance Man,” she said bitterly.
He reached out and touched her forehead lightly, and she winced. He glanced at his fingertips. “I hate to tell you, sugar, but this time it’s blood.”
He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he expected. Tears, panic, something. She just breathed a rattled sigh. “Well, it’s stopped by now,” she said, turning away from him to stare out into the rain.
He gave her a few minutes. “What happened?”
For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer. “It was not a good day,” she said, obviously the model of understatement. “I decided I didn’t want to see or talk to anybody anymore, so I went to the stud
io to take a shower and a nap. Unfortunately something…someone was there.”
“Who?”
“I couldn’t see. There were no lights and the rain had already started. I heard them, sort of shuffling, and I saw a kind of shape. Somebody threw the painting at me, I ran, and here I am. Very simple.”
“Very simple. Why didn’t you go back to the main house?”
“Because there was no one I could turn to there.”
“Not Henry? You didn’t decide to forgive and forget, kiss and make up and all that?”
“Go fuck yourself, Maguire.”
“I guess not,” he said, suddenly feeling a lot more cheerful. “What about your mother? She’s not as bad as she seems.”
“So she tells me. Let’s just say she’s never given me much reason to trust her. I decided to just get the hell away from the place. Spend a night or two at a decent hotel in Florence, then decide whether I’m going back to La Colombala or just flying straight home. I think I’ve had enough of Tuscany. Though Pompasse would have said that’s impossible.”
“And of course he was so very wise.”
“Cut the sarcasm. He was right about some things, wrong about others. For a long while Tuscany was home. But it isn’t anymore.”
“And New York is?”
He could see her thinking about it. At least he was able to distract her enough to forget how righteously pissed off she was at him. “I don’t think I have a home.” She glanced over at him. “You know what they say—home is where the heart is. I have it on good authority that I don’t have a heart.”
“Hmm. Had a few words with our Henry, did you? The man’s an asshole.”
“Thank you for the comforting words but I don’t need them,” she said. If she was as icy as her voice she’d be heading for pneumonia. He punched the heater button, but as usual only cold air came out. He didn’t often need the heater in Italy, but now was one of the few occasions it would have come in handy.
“You’re ice-cold,” he said mildly enough, ignoring her hostility. She had every right to hate him, and all the apologies in the world wouldn’t do a bit of good. Especially since he wouldn’t necessarily mean them. No, he had to concentrate on practicalities for the time being, and worry about the future when it got there. “Why don’t you reach in back and grab a sweater or something from my duffel bag?”