The Widow (20 page)

“Nice neighborhood,” she said.

“Sarcasm doesn't work when your teeth are chattering. Hurry up.”

She didn't dignify that with a response, she simply followed him into the rainy night, her head ducked to avoid the dampness. The old building held four apartments, but he seldom saw his neighbors, and there was no sign of them that night. He made his way up a narrow back staircase, listening to her follow him, and wondered how in the hell he was going to talk her into taking off her clothes. If he suggested it she'd probably hit him.

And she'd have good reason to. He wanted to get her warm. But he was even more interested in getting her naked. Even freezing to death and guilty as hell he was still a horny bastard, all things considered. At least as far as Charlie was concerned.

He'd been a mass of frustrations since he first laid eyes on her, and those tantalizing moments in the sagging bed this morning had brought him to the boiling point. Which was just too damned bad—Charlie was in no condition to be hit on, particularly by him. She'd be lucky if she ever let another man touch her after this morning's betrayal.

Not that it was his fault, he reminded himself, fiddling with the old key and pushing the door open. He switched on the light, then held the door for her, and for the first time he saw his ramshackle apartment through someone else's eyes.

It had high ceilings and large windows overlooking the alleyway where he parked his car. It had a huge bathtub. And that was about it as far as good points. The place was cluttered—he had someone come in and hoe it out every few weeks and, thank God, she'd just been there. Otherwise his discarded clothes would have been scattered all over the place, along with newspapers, filled ashtrays, empty bottles, dirty dishes, you name it. It still looked like a seedy wreck, but it was his wreck, and it was marginally neat.

“Nice place you've got here, Maguire,” Charlie said faintly. “You want to open a window so I don't choke to death from the dead cigarettes?”

Her color wasn't bad, even in the lousy lighting of the bare bulb hanging in the hallway. Her forehead had stopped bleeding, but she was still shivering.

“The bathroom's through there,” he said, jerking his head in the direction.

“I didn't say I needed to use it.”

“There's plenty of hot water, towels, soap. You need to warm up. My sister-in-law left some clothes the last time she and my brother came to visit—she's a little shorter than you but about your size.”

“I don't believe it. You can't have a brother. You were hatched from a spider.”

“Watch what you say about my mother,” he cautioned calmly. “I was very devoted to me old mum.”

“I'm not taking a shower, I'm not changing my clothes. I'll use a towel to dry off a bit and then I'm calling a hotel—”

“Charlie, you don't want me stripping you down naked, do you?” He kept his voice absolutely reasonable. There was nothing he'd like more than the excuse to put his hands on her and strip those clothes from her shivering body. And she knew it.

She glared at him. “Fine,” she said bitterly. “When I come out I want there to be a hotel reservation waiting for me.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “Mary's clothes are in the closet on the right. Take your time.”

“Hurry up,” she countered in a dangerous voice.

And he gave her an affable grin.

S
he wasn't about to admit to Maguire how desperately she wanted to get clean and warm. Or, for that matter, to use the toilet.

The bathroom was huge—a converted room, and the marble tub looked like a cattle water trough. At least the room was relatively clean—she couldn't believe Maguire would be that neat. He must have someone come in.

The bathroom had doors leading into the bedroom as well as the hall, and she found the closet with no problem, keeping her eyes averted from the rumpled-looking bed. There were a couple of long, casual dresses, but of course no underwear. On the off chance, she went to the massive chest of drawers.

No bras, no panties, of course, but she hadn't really expected them. She grabbed a pair of Maguire's briefs, then stopped as she saw the gleam of metal at the bottom of the drawer.

Not a gun, and Charlie would have been more than happy to have found one. They were plaques, of various sizes, weights, dates. They were journalism awards, prestigious ones. She stared down at them in consternation. What the hell had happened to him, to turn him into a gossipmonger, the lowest of the low?

She heard him moving around in the living room, so she quickly shoved the drawer shut and disappeared back into the bathroom. Locks on the door, thank God, and there was a rickety electric heater on the bathroom floor.

She switched it on, fully prepared to die instantly from electrocution and not particularly minding, but after an ominous crackle it started kicking out heat. As the tub filled with hot, steamy water she stripped off her sodden clothes, then turned to look at her reflection in the mirror.

Maguire was right—no hotel would take her in looking like that. She looked like a crazy woman—blood matted in her hair, eyes wide and fearful. She hadn't brought anything with her—no clothes, no makeup, no…

“Shit!” she said out loud.

“What's wrong?” Maguire called from the living room.

“Nothing,” she shouted back. “Call the hotel.”

He didn't reply. She had a new problem now, she thought, sliding into the huge tub and letting the blissfully warm water flow over her. In her desperate flight she hadn't brought her purse. No passport, no identification, no credit cards, no money.

Still, she had her face. Whether she liked it or not, the art world knew her face, and Tuscany did as well, as the favorite model of their favorite adopted son. It would take a bit of talking, but she had no doubt she could get a hotel to advance her credit until she made a few phone calls to…

To Henry? If she had to, she had to. Henry would take care of things—that was why she'd wanted to marry him. She'd wanted someone to fix everything, make everything all right, and Henry was good at that.

He just wasn't the man she wanted to spend her life with. For that matter, she wasn't sure whether she wanted to be taken care of, either. She wanted a partner, not a father. An equal. Or maybe she didn't want anyone at all.

She slid her head underwater, feeling the cut on her forehead sting. It didn't matter—she just had to get clean.

She was changing. She could feel it, like a snake shedding its skin, like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. She was no longer the quiet, controlled woman from New York, Pompasse's former wife, who had forged a peaceful, nondemanding life for herself. She was back in the thick of it, in the midst of life and all its messy demands. She didn't like it—she wanted her serenity back with a need that bordered on desperation.

But she suspected it was gone for good. And a lot of it was the fault of the man in the other room.

She stayed in the tub until the water grew cool, stayed until the room was suffused with warmth from the tiny electric heater.

She took longer to dress than she usually did, probably because she didn't want to go out there again. She was able to get a comb through her tangled hair, avoiding the cut up near her scalp, and her bra was in relatively decent shape. The dress was a little too big, but it was loose and comfortable. Which left the problem of underwear.

She'd grabbed a pair of Maguire's tighty whities. The question was, what would be more unsettling? Going out there with no underwear, or going out there in his shorts? Either way she was too damned vulnerable. She finally decided a layer of cotton, anybody's cotton, was preferable to being naked.

He had a fire going in the marble fireplace. He'd managed to get himself washed and dried while she was hogging the bathroom, and he was wearing a faded pair of jeans with an old sweater. His hair was spiky from the water, and he looked…wonderful.

There, she admitted it. She found him attractive. There was no crime in it, as long as she didn't do anything about it. He was a liar, a pig, a trickster, but he had the seemingly unique ability to turn her on. She should concentrate on that fact. If she'd responded to one man she could eventually find another, better one. Someone to love, someone to trust, someone to be partners with.

“What are you staring at?” he demanded.

“I'm wondering why this place is so neat. You don't strike me as a particularly tidy person.”

“I'm not as bad as you'd think. And I've got a cleaning lady who comes in every few weeks. Lucky for you she came in while I was gone.”

“Lucky for me,” she echoed dryly. The room was warm and cozy from the fire, despite the clutter and the high ceilings. The vision of that rumpled bed danced back into her brain. She banished it sternly.

“I'll get you a glass of wine,” he said. “You look like you could use it.”

“I'd rather have whiskey.”

“Too bad, love. I gave it up. I only have wine here because you can't live in Italy without having wine to offer. My Italian friends would probably drive me out of the country on a rail.”

“First, I don't believe you have any friends, Italian or otherwise. And second…” Her voice trailed off. “I don't remember what I was going to say. I'd better not have any wine. I don't think I've eaten all day.”

He didn't say anything. He was across the room from her, out of reach, and yet still too close. The room was only dimly lit, and she couldn't see his eyes, couldn't read his expression. But then, she never could.

The silence stretched and grew, until it became an almost palpable thing in the cavernous room. “I'd better get going,” she said. “Did you call the hotel?”

He nodded. “I booked you into the Villa Bovaria. It's a smaller hotel on the west side of town, but the manager owes me a favor or two. He'll get you in even without a passport, and he'll take my credit card.”

“What makes you think I don't have money?”

“You didn't have a purse in the car with you, sugar. You didn't have squat. I told you, I'm your knight in shining armor. Just say the word and I'll take you over to the Villa Bovaria, get your bill settled and leave you in peace. That's what you want, right?”

“That's what I want,” she said. Certain she meant it.

“Did you want some wine first?”

“No wine. I just need to get out of here. I make it a habit not to be self-destructive.”

His laugh was both derisive and offensive. “You really think so? You married a womanizing old fart when you were seventeen, you were about to marry another old man even though you couldn't bear to have him touch you. You almost had sex with me this morning. I'd call that pretty self-destructive.”

“Not that it's any of your business, but did you ever consider that marrying a womanizing old fart was at least better than the rootless life I was leading? He gave me a home, he gave me security, and he loved me. The good points outweighed the bad for a number of years. But you're right,” she added. “Don't worry, I'm turning over a new leaf. Obviously I have terrible taste in men.” She looked him straight in the eye.

“Obviously,” he said, not flinching.

Another silence, long and strained. He finally broke it. “If I'm taking you to the Villa Bovaria you're going to need your shoes on. Passports and money can be dealt with, bare feet can't.”

“Sorry. I'll just be a minute.” She dashed back into the bathroom, unearthing her flats from beneath the pile of clothes. She slipped them on, then paused to look at her reflection once more.

She hadn't changed. She still looked like Charlie—tawny hair drying softly around her face, wary eyes, straight nose, pale mouth. She hadn't thought he'd let her go that easily.

It was probably much simpler than she realized. He had been after her for the story. He'd wanted to be able to write what Pompasse's widow was like in bed. Now that she knew who he was, now that he wasn't going to be allowed to do that, he had no need to sleep with her.

He probably liked plump women. Healthy, sexual women who took and gave pleasure cheerfully. Neurotic, frigid women wouldn't be Maguire's style at all.

He'd turned off most of the lights when she came out. There was just the glow from the fire and the lone lightbulb overhead in the hallway, and he was waiting for her, his hand on the switch.

“You're not writing that article, you know,” she said, sounding very cool. “The lawyers will stop you—”

“You overestimate the legal system,” he said. “But actually I don't give a rat's ass about the fucking story. Someone else can write it.”

She didn't bother arguing. When it came right down to it, she didn't give a rat's ass, either.

“Do you want a coat or something?” he asked her. “It's still raining and the night air is cold.”

“No, thank you,” she said politely.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” she said.

He flicked off the switch, plunging them into darkness that the flickering firelight from the living room could barely penetrate. She could be out of here in a matter of moments, she told herself. She would be safe, free.

He hadn't moved. Neither had she. She reached out and put her hand on the tarnished brass doorknob. He put his hand over hers.

She didn't even know how it happened. She turned and leaned her back against the door, looking up at him through the thick shadows. And then the shadows were blotted out, as he placed his body up against hers, hip to hip, chest to breast, mouth to mouth.

She was hungry for it. Hungry for him, when she had thought it was something she'd never feel. He tasted like rain and repentance, of sweet sin and the night air, and she closed her eyes and kissed him back, shivering in response.

He didn't ask, she didn't answer. He pressed his hands on either side of her, holding her against the door, but she didn't feel trapped. She felt entwined, invaded, threatened and yet oddly safe. He put one leg between hers, and she could feel his erection through his jeans, pressing against her belly. She put her arms around his waist, pulling him more tightly against her, and he was strong and solid and warm everywhere she touched him.

He didn't say a word. He picked her up in his arms, and she realized again how very strong he was. And she wasn't afraid.

He carried her through the dark, cluttered apartment, into the bedroom where it was as warm and dark as a cocoon. She liked the darkness, the quiet rustling of her clothing as he pulled the dress over her head, the touch of his hard, deft hands on her skin.

She was standing at the edge of the bed, wearing only her underwear. Her knees were trembling, her whole body was shaking, but she didn't move as he pressed his mouth against the base of her throat, kissing her openmouthed, breathing in her flying pulses.

And then he spoke, breaking through her drugged senses. “Yes?” It was a question, not a demand, asked patiently.

She wanted to hide in the dark, in the silence, leaving it all up to him. She wanted to lie back and close her eyes and let the magic happen, something dreamy and disembodied. But he was standing there, asking her, and she knew she had to answer.

She knew what the answer had to be. A solid, resounding no. She was through with being self-destructive. Going to bed with a liar, a user like Maguire would be the ultimate mistake. There was only one thing she could say.

“Yes.”

 

The room was pitch-black, but he knew she liked it that way. Needed it. He'd gotten her to say yes, to admit she wanted this. But she was still frightened, he could feel it in the hammering heartbeat, the coolness of her skin, the thready pulse beneath.

So be it. He could deal with her fear, lure her beyond her panic into a world of flesh and blood and pleasure. He just needed her agreement.

He slid his hands over her shoulders, hooking his thumbs under her bra straps and pulling them down her arms. He heard her choked gasp, but she didn't protest.

It was the same bra she'd worn this morning, sinfully easy to unfasten. He wanted to see her breasts as he drew the bra from her body, but it was too dark. He'd have to settle for touch.

He kissed the base of her throat again, letting his teeth just brush against her sensitive flesh. And then he kissed her between her breasts, letting his tongue dance over her heartbeat.