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things off? Giving them away?”
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    â€œI guess I can assume you didn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of his valuables. Since I got here before you.”
    â€œHis valuables?” she echoed, startled. “What about the silver? And I left behind a fair amount of jewelry—it must still be here.”
    She’d managed to startle him. “The jewelry’s already yours. You don’t need to pay inheritance tax on it.”
    â€œI gave it back to him.”
    â€œTell it to the tax people, lady. Not me.”
    â€œI thought you were the tax people.”
    â€œI’m an independent insurance consultant. I just make lists.”
    â€œYou don’t look like a list-maker to me.”
    She could have bit her tongue the moment the words were out of her mouth. His eyes met hers, and for the first time she realized they weren’t brown, but a very dark green, so dark they were almost black. He took a step closer to her, and the bright sun overhead seemed to dance behind a cloud.
    â€œWhat do I look like to you, lady?” His voice was soft, rough, earthy, and he was close enough to touch. She didn’t like touching people. Especially not men like Maguire.
    But she wasn’t going to flinch. “A man of action,” she said coolly. “Not a man of words.”
    His laugh was short, abrupt. “Now, that’s where you couldn’t be more wrong, Mrs. Pompasse. I’m very much a man of words.”
    â€œDon’t call me that,” she said.
    â€œBothers you, does it? You call me Maguire, I’ll call you Charlie. When’s the funeral?”
    â€œWe already had one service in New York, and I believe there was one in Florence and Paris as well. We’ll be having a simple committal service here on Saturday.”
    â€œHe’s not buried yet?”
    â€œHis ashes will be buried in the vineyard as he requested,” she said stiffly.
    â€œI thought the old man was Catholic. No cremation, no unsanctified ground.”
    â€œYou’re Catholic, Maguire? Somehow that surprises me.”
    â€œI’m about as lapsed as you can be, lady.”
    â€œSo was Pompasse. If his life hasn’t condemned him to an eternity in hell then I doubt simply being buried the wrong way will do it. At least, not in my beliefs.” Again, she’d said too much to a stranger.
    But he simply nodded, seemingly unsurprised. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll try to have the inventory done by Saturday. That way I’ll leave right after the committal service and you won’t have to put up with me anymore. Of course, then you’ll be dealing with the tax people and you might end up thinking I wasn’t so bad, after all.”
    â€œSaturday?” she echoed. “I’m expecting a full house by then. My mother, my fiancé…” The words trailed off before his implacable gaze. He really was the most annoying man, Charlie thought, and that was saying a lot, considering she’d lived with Pompasse for eight years. And she couldn’t get over the irrational feeling she’d seen him before.
    â€œIf things get too crowded I can always camp out in the studio. Or the ruins of the old church. I’m an amenable guy.”
    Charlie resisted the impulse to snort. “The studio is too crowded…”
    â€œThe studio is empty, lady. Haven’t you seen it? I can just drag a mattress in there and be fine.”
    She stared at him, knowing she should say something. Anything. But she couldn’t. The studio was more than just the room where Pompasse had worked—it was the heart of the house.
    â€œIt can’t be,” she said in disbelief. Suddenly Maguire was no more than a perplexing annoyance in the whole scheme of things. If the studio was empty then something was definitely very wrong at La Colombala, more than just the loss of its owner. “Ex-excuse me,” she