The Widow (21 page)

He kissed her stomach. It was flat, and he suddenly had the strange, erotic image of her stomach rounded, swollen with his child, and he almost backed away from her, shocked by the power of that unbidden image.

He had his own fears, too. But not enough to make him pull back from her in the rich, beckoning darkness.

He reached for her panties, ready to draw them down her hips, when his hands faltered. It took him just a moment to realize she'd filched a pair of his briefs from the bedroom. And the thought of her wearing them was almost unbearably arousing. Without giving her any preparation he slid his hand down the front of the shorts, touching her through the thick cotton, and she let out a muffled shriek that was pure panic.

“I've changed my mind.” Her voice broke the velvet silence—nervous, high-pitched, ready to run.

“Have you?” he asked calmly. He didn't take his hand away from her, and she was too frightened to move. He stroked her slowly, gently through the cloth, taking his time. “Why?” He sounded no more than vaguely curious. He still wasn't quite sure how to handle her—whether she needed tender wooing or brute force, whether she was even ready for this. If he made the wrong move…but he wasn't going to. Making love to Charlie had suddenly become the most important thing in the world to him. He wasn't worried about his own pleasure—he could come just from looking at her.

But she needed to know the pleasure her body could give her. Hell, she needed to know the pleasure
he
could give her.

She didn't try to push his hand away, and he kept stroking her through the layers of cloth. There was something perversely erotic about seducing a woman wearing his underwear, and she probably didn't have the faintest idea how turned-on he was. Just as well—she was scared enough already.

“Why?” he asked her again, his voice almost lazy. The cotton was growing damp beneath his stroking fingers, and he could feel the reluctant tremors of reaction sliding across her body.

“I don't want…” she began, and her voice trailed off as she took a little gulp, a shiver of reaction catching her unaware.

“Don't want what?” She was fighting him, fighting the feeling he was coaxing from her. The underwear was now less a turn-on than a hindrance, and he wanted her flesh on his fingers, her dampness, her scent.

She let out a startled yelp when he touched her a little harder. He wanted to rip the briefs off her with his teeth he was so aroused, but he knew he could make her come like this, standing up, half dressed and terrified, and he intended to do it.

He could feel the opened folds of her flesh through the cloth, and he knelt down in front of her, put one arm around her hips to hold her, and pushed his fingers against her clitoris. She was trembling, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, digging into the sweater. He thought she was crying, but he didn't care. He wanted her to cry, needed her to cry with the sheer power of it.

“Don't fight it, Charlie,” he said in a harsh voice. “Do it, Charlie. Do it for me.”

She probably had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn't matter. The orgasm took her by surprise, and she let out a low, keening wail that was the most glorious thing he'd ever heard. He leaned forward and put his mouth where his hand had been, up against the thick cloth that was guarding her, pulling her body against him.

He held her that way until her shaking began to lessen. Then he rose and began stripping off his clothes.

“Get on the bed, Charlie,” he said, reaching for his zipper. His cock jutted out, thick and heavy with need. “Or I'll put you there.”

“Maguire.” Her voice was a raw thread of sound.

“No more games. If you've changed your mind you can leave. Otherwise get on the goddamned bed.”

She got on the bed, kicking off her shoes and sliding up on it. He didn't need to see her face to know that she was watching with fearful eyes, half terrified of what he was going to do to her.

She lay back, crossed her arms over her chest like a martyred virgin, and closed her eyes. His own eyes had grown accustomed to the dark by now, and he could see her quite clearly. The marks of tears on her cheeks. The pale, defenseless skin, the small, perfect breasts. And the incongruous white of the men's briefs that she still wore.

He felt something crack inside him, though he tried to shove it away. Some kind of ice dam finally breaking.

He came around the side of the bed, sat down beside her and took one of her hands in his. “I'm not going to hurt you, Charlie,” he said in a wry voice.

She didn't open her eyes. She probably knew he was naked and aroused and she didn't want to see what she was about to get.

Simple enough. He took her hand, kissed her palm, and placed it on his cock.

Her eyes flew open, and she tried to yank her hand away. He didn't let her, he simply held her there, till she stopped trying to pull away. Her hand gentled, and her fingers encircled him.

“You're too big.” Her voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear her.

He didn't laugh, though he wanted to, from relief and pure joy.

“I'll fit,” he said. Much as he regretted it, he leaned over and slid the briefs down her long legs. He'd seen her naked, huddled, frightened in Pompasse's paintings. The woman lying in his bed, looking up at him with a dizzying combination of need and panic, was far more beautiful, to him at least.

But he needed to wipe that fear from her eyes, from her face, from her soul. And he needed to do it now.

He slid onto the bed beside her, learning her curves, letting his fingers brush the underside of her small, luscious breasts. Her nipples were hard, but he didn't know if it was from fear or desire. She lay still beneath his touch, that martyred look coming over her once more.

“What have you got against sex, Charlie?” he whispered, brushing his lips against the beaded peak of her breast. “Were you ever hurt? Abused? Raped?” Not the most erotic questions, but he needed to know the answers. If she'd been violated he'd have to be even more careful with her.

“No,” she said in a low voice. There was a sexy catch to it when his tongue touched her nipple. “I just…don't like it.”

“Why not?” He liked her hipbones. In general, he liked more flesh covering a woman's hipbones, but this was Charlie and right then she was perfect.

“It was never what I thought it would be,” she said finally. “It was never…magic.”

He slid over her body, pinning her with his strength, catching her face with his hands and putting his forehead against hers, so she couldn't miss the implacable gleam in his eyes.

“Charlie, love, sex isn't magic. It's not making love on a cloud with angels singing and fairies dancing. It's real, it's human, it's wet and sweaty and nasty and the best thing about being alive. And it's past time you learned that.”

He kissed her mouth. He kissed her eyelids and her cheekbones and her nose, and then he pushed himself inside her.

She was wet, and tight, and her fingers clenched his shoulders as she braced herself, obviously expecting the worst. It didn't matter—she felt too good to him. It took all his iron self-control to keep from letting go. He pushed slowly, filling her, taking it slow so that she wouldn't panic. The need to have her was almost primeval, and he had to fight back from the mists in order to slow himself down.

He took a deep, shaky breath when he'd finally sheathed himself completely inside her warmth.

“It fits,” she said in a soft, startled voice.

He let his forehead rest on her shoulder, in both relief and tension. And he slid his hands under her hips, pulled her up tighter against him, and began to move.

She came immediately, a small, shattering orgasm that was over too soon. But he'd waited too long for her, and he wasn't about to spend it too quickly. Once the breathless peak had passed, he started to move again, slowly at first, setting an almost lazy rhythm to lull her into a state of security. The second climax had drained her of the last vestiges of doubt and shyness, but she still didn't know what she had in store for her. What
he
had in store for her.

He was moving a little faster now, and he heard that breathless catch in her voice. She was climbing again, and this time she knew where it would lead. And she wasn't sure if she was ready to go there again.

But he was. He wanted her with him. He wanted her convulsing around him as he spilled inside her, and he wasn't going to come without her.

“No,” she said. The first time she had said no all night.

“Hell, yes.” He reached between their bodies and touched her, hard.

She was absolutely silent this time as the climax hit her, clenching around him, as wave after wave of release drained her body.

And he followed her, letting go, holding nothing back.

He couldn't tell who came down first. She lay in his arms, covered in sweat, panting, heart racing, weeping. He always thought it was strange that some women wept when they climaxed. For the first time he began to understand why.

She wouldn't want words and he knew it. Well, at least not the words he'd say. She'd want him to tell her he loved her. And he wasn't going to lie.

Funny, though. He always told women he loved them. Never had a qualm about it if it would get him laid or get him a story.

But he didn't want to use those easy words with Charlie.

He rolled over on his side, taking her with him, and they fit together perfectly. No awkward arranging of arms and legs and tickling hair. She simply went into his embrace and fell asleep.

Leaving him lying there wondering what the hell he was going to do.

M
aguire was in a thoroughly lousy mood. Charlie slept like a baby in his arms, completely trusting, a fact that annoyed him. Didn't she realize what a jerk he was? What a fraud, what a user? How stupid could she be, to go to bed with him and then fall asleep as if she was in the safest place in the world? No wonder her life was so messed up.

No wonder his life was so messed up, as well. He wanted to sleep, too. He wanted to close his eyes, pull her even closer, breathe in the scent of her, and sleep.

But he hated sleeping with women. He liked sex just fine. Loved it, as a matter of fact. But afterward, once the required amount of snuggling and lies were finished with, he wanted his bed to himself. Which was why he seldom brought women to his apartment. Hard to kick a woman out when she was feeling all cozy and postcoital.

But the damnable thing about Charlie was that he didn't want to kick her out. Didn't want to leave her. He'd already slept with her for an entire night, and he didn't even have the excuse of having sex with her. He'd simply wanted to hold her while she was so miserable, give her some kind of comfort. But he'd slept, wrapped around her.

He wasn't going to make the mistake of doing that again, no matter how much his body cried out for it. He could sleep in a chair—he'd done it before. Or he could simply work all night, catching up on loose ends.

But damn it, he was not going to sleep with Charlie in his arms again. He didn't dare.

He gently slid out of the bed. She reached for him, making a small, protesting sigh, but she didn't wake up. He stood by the bed, staring down at her in the dim light. He'd thought she was beautiful before. That was nothing compared to what she looked like now. Well-loved.

Bad term. Well-fucked is what he meant. He'd given her the ride of her life, and she'd sleep for hours now, just to recuperate. And he could start work on rebuilding his own defenses.

He closed the doors to the bedroom so he wouldn't disturb her. He took a fast, cold shower—she'd taken all the hot water earlier, and then dashed out to his car to get his computer and camera. He hadn't had a chance to upload the digital pictures, and he was curious to see what sort of shots he'd gotten.

He sat for hours at the laptop, uploading the pictures, backing them up on his portable zip drive. He did it automatically—too many years in war zones had taught him the importance of backing up your material. He slid the zip disk into the desk drawer, then flicked back through the last group of pictures.

There was one photo that was nagging at him, and he wasn't sure why. It was a shot of Madame Antonella, Lauretta and Tomaso, and it was a picture full of emotion. Molly would have been proud of him.

Lauretta was doing her usual job of pleading with the old lady. Keeping the old lady in line must be a full-time job, Maguire thought. Lauretta must be run ragged trying to care for a full household, as well. There was something about her face, something that bothered him, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

And that wasn't all. The old lady fascinated him. She was staring at someone or something, and the look of hatred on her face was so intense it was almost diabolical. There was something there, something that was just eluding him, but the longer he stared at the computer screen the blurrier it became.

He didn't dare print it up—the noise might awaken Charlie. He'd take the zip disk into the office later in the day, get it blown up before he printed it, and then maybe he could figure out what it was about the photo that was driving him nuts.

He didn't know whether she had made some sort of sound, or whether it was his sixth sense. But he knew Charlie was awake, and he made the mistake of going to check on her without putting the computer into hibernation.

She was stirring, moving around in the bed, still asleep but restless. And he looked down at her, decided there were some things that were just too hard to fight, and got back in bed with her, pulling her into his arms.

She quieted immediately, and her soft sigh caught on an errant sob that was still stifled deep inside her. She had a lot of crying left to do, he thought, stroking her hair gently. And for a moment he wished to Christ that it didn't have to be over him.

 

Maguire snored. Oddly enough, Charlie didn't mind. He wasn't that loud, and there was something vaguely comforting about the sound. She rose on her elbows to look at him in the murky predawn light. His face had gone beyond a stubble to almost a beard, his eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, and he was sleeping like a baby.

She found herself smiling down at him. She was half tempted to wake him again, and she started to move when her body cried out in massive protest. She bit her lip in annoyance.

She wasn't ready to stop. She remembered something he'd growled in her ear in the middle of the night, something dark and sexy and exciting, and she wanted to try it. But her body wouldn't let her.

A bath, she thought. She'd soak in a hot bath for half an hour, then climb back into bed with him. Maybe even climb right on top of him. She was feeling wild and strong and dangerous, and she wanted more.

She listened to his snoring all through her bath, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't even know she'd left his side. When she climbed out of the massive tub she wrapped one of the big towels around her, ready to head back into the bedroom, when she noticed a strange blue light from the living room.

She pushed open the door. The room was still warm from the fire, and the windows overlooking the alleyway let in the filtered half-light of a new day. And then she saw the computer sitting open on the desk.

No Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. He must have gotten up in the middle of the night to work. He'd left her alone in the bed to get to his computer. He couldn't wait to get back to his work.

The sense of betrayal was strong enough, and then she saw what was on the screen.

It was a photograph of Antonella, Lauretta and Tomaso. They didn't know they were being photographed, but Maguire had done a good job. You could practically taste the old lady's fury emanating from the image on the computer screen.

Tucking the towel more tightly around her, Charlie sat down at the computer. She liked technology, and it didn't take her long to access the menu of photos, to see the damning ones of her, looking lost.

The text was already open in another window—all she had to do was click on it. She only read a few sentences—about Pompasse's frigid wife who'd been ruined for men for all time, and she pushed back from the table, closing the computer lid with a quiet little click.

She dressed quickly, calmly. Her clothes had dried, though her bra was still somewhere on the bedroom floor. It didn't matter—she wouldn't wear it again. She'd probably never wear a bra with a front clasp ever again—it would remind her of Maguire's deft hands.

Her shoes were in the bedroom as well, but she decided not to bother with them. Maguire was still snoring, but the last thing she wanted was to risk waking him up. She'd spent most of her life at the villa barefoot—she could drive back up there barefoot.

She pushed open the wide living room windows, looking down at the little alleyway. Maguire's Fiat was still there, and the keys were on the table next to the computer. Thoughtful of him.

She unplugged the laptop, brought it over to the window, and dropped it. The shattering sound as it smashed onto the pavement below was shocking in the early morning stillness, and Maguire's snoring stopped with an abrupt snort.

Charlie grabbed the car keys, not daring to wait a moment longer. She closed the door silently behind her, just in case he'd managed to fall asleep again, and ran down the stairs, out into the wet streets.

She had to avoid the metal and glass shards from the smashed computer. By the time she reached his car her bare feet were icy cold, and she remembered too late that his heater didn't work.

So be it. It wasn't cold enough for frostbite, just bad enough for misery. If she could concentrate on how cold her feet were, maybe it would take her mind off whatever else felt irreparably damaged. Her soul? Her heart?

To her amazement the car started at the first try. She shoved it into gear and took off, driving over the remnants of the smashed computer, and out onto the early morning roads leading out of Florence, back to La Colombala.

 

Maguire was pulled out of a heavy sleep by a sound he didn't recognize. A muffled crash, and his eyes flew open, and he was instantly awake.

Alone in the bed. He sat up and saw Charlie's shoes on the floor, but he wasn't reassured. She'd fled, like Cinderella, leaving not one but both glass slippers behind.

He struggled out of bed and pushed open the door to the living room, and a moment of absolute panic knocked the air out of him. The wide casement windows were open onto the alleyway below, and for a second he thought she might have jumped.

And then he saw the computer was gone.

He crossed the room, almost at a run, and looked down into the alleyway below. His car was just disappearing around the corner, and he had no doubts as to who was driving. And directly below his window, smashed into a million pieces, was his state-of-the-art laptop.

He stared at it for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to the road Charlie had taken. And then he did something he hadn't done in more than five years.

He threw back his head and laughed.

He didn't pause long enough to think about it. He headed straight to the telephone and punched in a few numbers.

“Gregory?”

“Who the hell is this?” Gregory's sleepy voice demanded. “It's the middle of the fucking night. Is that you, Maguire?”

“It's 6:00 a.m. and it's me.”

“You better have a helluva good story about Pompasse to wake me up like this.”

“No story.”

There was dead silence on the other line. “You're shitting me.”

“No story. Everything was dead boring there. The old man died from a fall, all his ex-girlfriends were cozy, and the best you've got is a little gossip for the back pages.”

“But you've got pictures,” Gregory said. “You told me you had great pictures.”

“Sorry, boss,” Maguire said, totally without regret. “I'm afraid my girlfriend threw my computer out the window. Smashed everything to pieces.”

“But you backed it up?” Gregory was fully awake now, and sounding in a perfect panic. “Of course you did—you're a professional. You always back things up.”

“Not this time.”

There was a long, charged silence at the other end, and Maguire could hear Gregory lighting a cigarette. A deep craving swept over him, but he batted it away.

“I'll tell you what you're going to do, Maguire,” Gregory said after a moment. “You're going to get in your car and drag your sorry ass back to Pompasse's villa. I don't care what excuse you make, how many lies you have to tell, but you get back in there and get me pictures and some kind of goddamned story.”

“Can't. My girlfriend stole my car.”

Another silence. “Since when have you ever had a girlfriend, Maguire? You're the love 'em and leave 'em type. Besides, what woman would ever put up with you long-term?”

“I don't know, boss. But I intend to find out. You'll have to get yourself another flunky. I quit.”

“You quit what? The story?” There was real panic in Gregory's voice now.

“No, mate. I quit the job.” And he placed the telephone back on the cradle very, very gently.

Gregory got tired of calling back after about an hour. Maguire made himself strong coffee and told himself he didn't need cigarettes. He stretched back out on the bed, but it smelled like sex and Charlie, and in the end he left the apartment and the ceaselessly ringing telephone and went out to find something to eat.

It was a cool morning after the rain from yesterday, and he sat at his favorite café, drinking dark, bitter brew and thinking dark, bitter thoughts. He'd basically fucked his life over completely, he thought. At least Charlie had been driven away—that was one good thing. She would have done nothing but drag him down. She made him vulnerable in ways he didn't even want to consider. Now that she had taken off he didn't have to even think about her again. About the sounds she made when she came. About the lost, tentative look in her mysterious golden eyes. About the way…

He swore under his breath, attracting the attention of the passersby. He had to pull himself together. He'd been a fool to tell Gregory everything was gone. Even crazier to quit his job.

Then again, he'd been thinking about it for more than a year. It was time to go back home—he could have his pick of newspaper jobs, from tabloid to respectable, and he could be back in the country, near his brother and his wife and their bratty kids. He did happen to like their monster children. George and Harry were two right hellions, a perfect match for Maguire and Dan when they were growing up. He missed them.

Maybe he'd have a few hellions of his own. Maybe it was time he grew up. Maybe it was time he stopped thinking about whether Charlie could learn to love Australia.