when he chose to, but heâd known instinctively that someone like Charlie would be immune to something as facile as charm. He wouldnât be able to lie and flirt and flatter his way into her confidenceâshe was too well guarded. The best angle of attack was to act as if he didnât give a shit.
He would have to walk a fine line if he was going to carry off his impersonation. He knew as well as anyone that he wasnât the typical insurance type, and he had to remember to tone down his natural instincts just enough to keep her from throwing him off the property.
But he still wanted, needed, to keep her off guard. She was a strong woman, a survivorâhe could tell by the way she carried herself, by the determination in her generous mouth. She had all her defenses and boundaries in place, and it was going to require a concerted effort on his part to break past them.
He hadnât even been able to annoy her, though for some contrary reason heâd done his best. Heâd annoy the hell out of her once she found out why he was really here. Of course, he expected to be long gone by then, so he wouldnât have the pleasure of watching Madame Pompasse explode. Heâd have to settle for his imagination.
Maguire stripped off his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder. It was October, for Christâs sake. Why the hell was it so goddamn hot?
And why was he feeling guilty? Mrs. Pompasse could take care of herselfâbeneath that cool exterior he suspected that she was as tough as nails. But heâd looked into her remote golden eyes and suddenly felt like a piece of dog shit, forcing his way in here under false pretenses, lying, as he always lied. Heâd looked at her and had wanted to tell her he was sorry. Tell her he wouldnât use the dirt heâd been amassing so steadily. Heâd wanted toâ¦
He wasnât going to think about the crazy things he suddenly wanted to do with the ice princess. He was staying put. No way would he miss the story of his lifetime. No way. Gregory would kill him. His old pal Molly would rise up in her grave and kick his sorry butt. Heâd spent ten years moving from war zone to war zone, cataloging horrors and tragedy and disaster and the deaths of innocents. And then heâd turned his back on it, burned out so profoundly that he wasnât sure he could even keep living. When what little money heâd saved had run out heâd hooked up with the first dirty job he could find, one that happened to be for Marc Gregoryâs sleazy tabloid.
Dealing with the lives and deaths of the selfish rich was a walk in the park compared to the horrors of war, and he intended to use everything he could find and then get the hell out. Gregory had promised him the moon and more, and if there was one thing Gregory was willing to pay for, it was sleaze. He could see a book, excerpts in tabloids all over the world. He could see a bloody fortune coming his way.
And he told himself he didnât give a ratâs ass if the way to riches was strewn with the bodies of Pompasseâs castoffs. Including the self-controlled, luminous widow who for some goddamned reason he wanted to touch.
He started back toward the house, taking his time. He had the perfect excuse for ferreting around the place. There were valuable paintings missing, as well as important records, and as a so-called insurance consultant it was his duty to find out what had happened to them. He already had a pretty clear sense of Pompasseâs financial picture, and it wasnât good. The widow was going to be damned unhappy when she discovered what kind of mess the old man had left her. Too damned bad he wasnât going to be around to comfort her in her distress.
But then, sheâd have her fiancé. He didnât know why that annoyed the hell out of him, but it did. Sheâd left Pompasse years agoâa woman like that wouldnât be long without a man to look out for her.
He would have to walk a fine line if he was going to carry off his impersonation. He knew as well as anyone that he wasnât the typical insurance type, and he had to remember to tone down his natural instincts just enough to keep her from throwing him off the property.
But he still wanted, needed, to keep her off guard. She was a strong woman, a survivorâhe could tell by the way she carried herself, by the determination in her generous mouth. She had all her defenses and boundaries in place, and it was going to require a concerted effort on his part to break past them.
He hadnât even been able to annoy her, though for some contrary reason heâd done his best. Heâd annoy the hell out of her once she found out why he was really here. Of course, he expected to be long gone by then, so he wouldnât have the pleasure of watching Madame Pompasse explode. Heâd have to settle for his imagination.
Maguire stripped off his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder. It was October, for Christâs sake. Why the hell was it so goddamn hot?
And why was he feeling guilty? Mrs. Pompasse could take care of herselfâbeneath that cool exterior he suspected that she was as tough as nails. But heâd looked into her remote golden eyes and suddenly felt like a piece of dog shit, forcing his way in here under false pretenses, lying, as he always lied. Heâd looked at her and had wanted to tell her he was sorry. Tell her he wouldnât use the dirt heâd been amassing so steadily. Heâd wanted toâ¦
He wasnât going to think about the crazy things he suddenly wanted to do with the ice princess. He was staying put. No way would he miss the story of his lifetime. No way. Gregory would kill him. His old pal Molly would rise up in her grave and kick his sorry butt. Heâd spent ten years moving from war zone to war zone, cataloging horrors and tragedy and disaster and the deaths of innocents. And then heâd turned his back on it, burned out so profoundly that he wasnât sure he could even keep living. When what little money heâd saved had run out heâd hooked up with the first dirty job he could find, one that happened to be for Marc Gregoryâs sleazy tabloid.
Dealing with the lives and deaths of the selfish rich was a walk in the park compared to the horrors of war, and he intended to use everything he could find and then get the hell out. Gregory had promised him the moon and more, and if there was one thing Gregory was willing to pay for, it was sleaze. He could see a book, excerpts in tabloids all over the world. He could see a bloody fortune coming his way.
And he told himself he didnât give a ratâs ass if the way to riches was strewn with the bodies of Pompasseâs castoffs. Including the self-controlled, luminous widow who for some goddamned reason he wanted to touch.
He started back toward the house, taking his time. He had the perfect excuse for ferreting around the place. There were valuable paintings missing, as well as important records, and as a so-called insurance consultant it was his duty to find out what had happened to them. He already had a pretty clear sense of Pompasseâs financial picture, and it wasnât good. The widow was going to be damned unhappy when she discovered what kind of mess the old man had left her. Too damned bad he wasnât going to be around to comfort her in her distress.
But then, sheâd have her fiancé. He didnât know why that annoyed the hell out of him, but it did. Sheâd left Pompasse years agoâa woman like that wouldnât be long without a man to look out for her.
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