The Widow Read Online Free PDF Page A

forever. But it was definitely a man, and even though he’d disappeared around a corner she knew it hadn’t been Tomaso. This man was younger, taller. And Pompasse had seldom tolerated any men in his household of women.
    Without stopping to think about it Charlie headed into the vineyard. She followed the scent of fresh cigarette smoke. Cigarette smoke was an odd thing—dead nasty when it lingered, but actually pleasant when it was fresh. Only Pompasse had smoked at La Colombala, though Tomaso occasionally indulged in a pipe. Pompasse had considered it a filthy habit, but he himself was above his self-imposed rules. But he was dead now and she no longer had to live in a haze of smoke. Still, the fresh scent of it made her feel oddly nostalgic.
    The sun was hot overhead, despite the fact that autumn was well advanced. The merino sweater was too warm, the sun too bright, and she’d left her sunglasses in the rented Alfa. She was half tempted to go back for them, when she turned the corner to come face-to-face with a mysterious stranger.

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    C harlie stopped short of barreling into him, just barely, doing her best to put a pleasant expression on her face. If she’d learned anything from Olivia it was perfect manners.
    â€œJesus! You scared me! Who the hell are you?” the stranger demanded.
    She halted, astonished. “Charlie Thomas,” she said politely. She held out her hand, and the rings glinted in the Tuscan sunlight as she peered at him. “And you are?”
    The stranger’s manners left something to be desired. He just looked at her, and at her proffered hand, before he finally reached out and took it in a quick, bone-crushing shake. “Connor Maguire,” he said in a cool voice. “Insurance consultant.”
    â€œI didn’t realize they’d sent someone out already,” she said. Italy must have changed more than she’d realized in the past five years. Business in Tuscany usually moved at a snail’s pace.
    â€œWith an estate of this complexity they wanted someone on the scene as soon as possible,” he said. It was reasonable enough, and yet she wasn’t sure she believed him. He had some sort of accent—Australian or New Zealand rather than British. Odd, but she’d assumed the insurance people would be Italian. On top of that, he looked strangely familiar. She’d never met the man before in her life—she knew that with a gut-deep certainty. He wouldn’t be a man who was easy to forget.
    â€œThat’s good,” she said vaguely. “I haven’t been to the house yet so I hadn’t realized anyone was here.”
    â€œYou’re the widow,” he said.
    â€œWe were separated,” she said, determined to be pleasant. She was still having a hard time dealing with the fact that she’d never been divorced at all, but she wasn’t about to share that information with a stranger. “But apparently I’m the executor of his will and as such you’ll be dealing with me.”
    He simply raised an eyebrow at that. Connor Maguire was a far cry from anything she’d imagined an insurance adjuster to be, and she wondered how the household had reacted to him. He was young—mid-thirties, Charlie guessed, with shaggy dark hair that was badly in need of a cut, several days’ worth of stubble, and a rumpled suit on a strong-looking body. Just the sort of man she found least attractive. He couldn’t be much more than six feet tall—she liked men who towered over her own substantial height. She liked slender, elegant men with long, narrow fingers and ascetic faces and cool, charming voices. She liked men with experience and patience and charm, men who didn’t demand or paw. The man in front of her didn’t look like he possessed any of those finer qualities. She found him…unsettling.
    â€œApparently?” he echoed. “I would have thought someone would have figured that out