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more than that. You owe him everything,” Gia said wildly.
    Charlie had never particularly liked Gia, though she’d always felt sorry for her. It had been overwhelming enough for Charlie, falling under Pompasse’s spell when she was seventeen. Gia had been only fourteen—she’d never stood a chance.
    â€œWe’ll get everything sorted out quickly,” she said. “I can’t stay away from my restaurant for too long, anyway, but I promised I’d see things settled….”
    â€œHe gave you that restaurant,” Gia taunted her.
    In fact, he hadn’t. She’d bought it with the remnants of her inheritance from her father once she’d managed to break free from Pompasse’s controlling spell, but she didn’t feel the need to defend herself with Gia.
    Instead she moved to the next flank of shutters and opened them, letting the midday light stream into the deserted room. She’d have someone sweep out the place, or maybe she’d do it herself. She couldn’t stand to see it so dusty and abandoned. “How is Madame Antonella? I haven’t seen her yet.”
    Gia was obviously torn between the need to gossip and her desire to stay aloof and disapproving. “She’s still alive. She’s senile—doesn’t recognize anyone nowadays, but she’s comfortable enough in her little cottage.”
    â€œThat’s good to hear. I’ll have to go pay her a visit.”
    â€œShe won’t want to see you,” Gia snapped. “Emmanuelle was here but she left, which is just as well. I doubt you’d get along with her, either.” If Gia’s voice had been hostile before, it was now filled with pain.
    â€œYou’d be surprised how easily I get along with most people. Who’s Emmanuelle?”
    â€œPompasse’s new model.”
    â€œI see,” Charlie said gently. So Gia had already been replaced. No wonder she was in such a torrent of pain. It should have come as no surprise—Pompasse never stayed with one woman for long, though he never abandoned the others.
    Antonella had been his first model, an early mistress, and she’d held a place of honor in his life and his household, even though she held no place in his bed. She had been a few years older than Pompasse, and now she was lost in the vagueness of the past, victim of the early stages of senility.
    Lauretta was a remnant from one of his middle periods, and she had run his household ever since. There had been others, of course, young women, old women, fat women, skinny women, who’d come and go; he’d sleep with them, but never paint them. Most of the ones he’d painted, he’d kept, unless they slipped away in the middle of the night without a word.
    Except for Charlie. She’d escaped, the first and last ever to simply walk out on him. She now had a life of her own, a man who was devoted to her, and Pompasse couldn’t touch her from beyond the grave. Couldn’t hold on to her, the way he was obviously still holding on to Gia.
    She looked into Gia’s narrow, bitter face, and she didn’t know what to say. Had Pompasse provided for his women, his castoffs? Surely he must have. Gia had turned her back on her disapproving family, with no assets but her beautiful, mournful face.
    Charlie suppressed a sigh. It had been hard enough to break free from the old man—now she had suddenly become responsible for the others, as well.
    The sooner she saw the will, the better.
    â€œI met Maguire,” she said. “He’s the one who told me the studio was empty. Where has Pompasse been working? There’s nothing here.”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask Lauretta. For all I know he may have burned his current work.”
    â€œBurned it?” Charlie echoed, horrified.
    Gia shrugged. “He had the wrong model. That little girl could never inspire an artist like Pompasse. He was a fool to think she could.”
    So