The Widow Read Online Free PDF Page B

heaven’s name was she doing volunteering information to a man like him?
    â€œYou cook?” He sounded completely skeptical.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I do,” she replied. “On my chef’s days off.”
    â€œFancy that,” he murmured, clearly unimpressed. “Somehow you don’t strike me as the practical type.” He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out beneath his scuffed shoes. He glanced up and met her gaze. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t want me to smoke?”
    â€œHow did you guess?”
    â€œYou look the type,” he said enigmatically.
    â€œWhat type is that?”
    â€œSomeone who doesn’t want a stray ash marring the perfection of her existence.”
    She smiled wryly. “La Colombala has fallen to pieces in the last few years, Mr. Maguire, and even before then I hardly expected perfection. I live in Manhattan, remember? Full of dirt and drugs and crime.”
    â€œBut I imagine you’re safely isolated from all that. You strike me as someone who keeps herself well guarded from the ugliness of real life.”
    â€œI wish.”
    â€œWell, Mrs. Pompasse, you happen to be in luck. I was planning on quitting when I finished the pack, and that’s just happened. You see before you a changed man.”
    Mrs. Pompasse. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d heard that, particularly in the last seventy-two hours with the god-awful press hammering at her every chance they got. But it sounded strange, hostile, terribly wrong in Maguire’s rough voice.
    â€œWe were separated,” she said again. “I go by my maiden name.”
    His entire bearing suggested he wasn’t particularly interested, but he simply nodded. “I’ll go back to work, then,” he said finally.
    A relief, and she should have let him go. But some inner demon stopped her. “How long do you think it will take you?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTo catalog his estate,” she said patiently.
    â€œIf I could find your husband’s records I would be out of here already. At this point, it appears that as few as three paintings are missing, maybe as many as a dozen, but without the journals I can’t tell for sure. He may have sold some. There may be others the art world isn’t even aware of.”
    â€œI doubt it,” Charlie said. “Pompasse didn’t believe in hiding his light under a bushel. When he completed a painting the world was informed.”
    â€œDidn’t care much for the old geezer, did you?”
    Charlie repressed her start of surprise. Maguire was rude and abrasive—hardly the type of man suited for this kind of diplomatic work.
    â€œI loved my husband, Mr. Maguire. I don’t care much for you.”
    If she’d hoped to annoy him even half as much as he was annoying her, she was doomed to failure. He merely nodded, but there was a faint gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.
    â€œSo where do you think his journals are?” he said.
    â€œI haven’t the faintest idea. If I were you I’d be more interested in the lost paintings than the journals. They’re worth more.”
    â€œMaybe,” Maguire said. “I asked the housekeeper, but she says she has no idea where they could be. As far as I can figure out either he destroyed them, or one of his harem did.” He let his dark eyes sweep over her. “This place is full of women. No one ever leaves him, do they?”
    â€œI left him,” Charlie said, knowing her voice sounded hollow.
    â€œBut you came back.”
    â€œTo bury him, Maguire. And then I’m gone once more.”
    â€œWho’s his heir?”
    â€œPresumably his widow.”
    â€œYou?” he said.
    â€œMe.”
    â€œYou don’t sound very excited about the idea. Which is a good thing—at this point it doesn’t look like you’re getting much. Any reason why he might have been selling