Prologue
Aristide Pompasse stood in his apartment in
Florence,staring out into the street below, well
pleasedwith his life. He was the world's greatest
livingartist, and his paintings were worth millions.
True,he hadn't been painting for the last few years. Andno
wonderโhe'd lost his light, his muse, his inspiration.
But all that would change. She would be backsoon. He
should have realized how much heneeded her, but Pompasse
was not the sort of manwho needed people. He was
accustomed to beingthe center of the universe, and the
thought thatsomeone could actually, willingly leave still
managedto astonish him.
But now that he admitted how much he wantedher, it
would be simple enough to get her back.And then he would
paint once more.
He should have taken care of that ugly little
detailyears ago. It was nothing more than
housekeeping.He'd allowed sentiment to role him.
Othersmight call it vanity, but he knew he wasn't avain
man. He simply understood that the preservationof his gift
was worth any sacrifice. Even ifmost of those sacrifices
were made by others, theywere blessed to be part of a
greater calling.
It should be almost finished by now. And onceCharlie
knew what he had done for her she wouldcome back to him
and all would be well.
He looked around him, savoring the beauty ofthe
elegant old apartment. Maybe Charlie wouldbe happier here
in Florence, rather than at the villa.There were too many
memories, too many peoplethere. He would keep her here,
away from everyone,keep her all to himself. And she would
nevertry to leavehim again.
He turned from the window to stare up at thepainting
over the marble fireplace in his bedroom.A masterpieceโone
of his very best. But withCharlie back he would start
again. She was hislight, his inspiration, and he'd been
arrogant not toadmit it. From the first moment he saw her
heknew he had to possess her, and as long as he'dheld on
to her all had been well.
Five years later he still couldn't quite understandhow
she could have left him. How anyone couldleave him. Didn't
he shower her with money andjewels and all the things
young women usually delightedin? But Charlie hadn't cared
about the gifts.
He'd made her image world-famous, immortalizedher in
his art. He'd never hit her, abused her.He wouldn't have
minded if she'd taken loversโhecertainly had. All he'd
wanted was for her tostay.
She would come back now, he knew it. She'dbecome
strongerโstrong enough to leave himโbutshe wouldn't be
able to resist. His charm waslegendary, and he would use
all of it. And shewould return to him.
The bells of the city rang out over the noise ofthe
traffic. His ancient, beloved city of Florence.Pompasse
was French, but he had the soul of anItalian Renaissance
master. Tuscany was in hisblood, and as he looked out over
the rooftops ofthe city he could see the Arno gilded in
the sunlight.Two o'clock. It should be done, then.
He needed a glass of wine to celebrate his newlife. He
went out into the hallway, heading for thecurving marble
stairs that led to the first floor ofhis duplex, and there
was a bounce in his step, alightness in his heart. The
deed was done, a newlife was beginning, and he felt like a
young man.He would paint again, and he would live forever.
He was whistling under his breath, but the
soundstopped as he halted at the top of the stairs.
She was standing there, the last person he
everexpected to see. And he knew he was going to die.
Chapter One
Finding a dead body wasn't Connor Maguire'sfavorite way to
start the day.
He'd been breaking into an apartment in
Florence,planning on a little discreet research, whenhe
discovered the corpse of its owner. And not justany
corpse. The apartment belonged to the greatAristide
Pompasse, the world's most famous livingartist. Or at
least he was, until maybe an hour ago,Maguire guessed. It
didn't take any great powersof observationโhe'd spent
years as a war correspondent,in the Middle East, in
Africa, in Kosovo.He knew a dead body when he saw one; and
Pompassewas most definitely dead, though he hadn'tbeen for
long. Maguire closed the door with a silentclick and
leaned against it.
"Well, hell," he said mildly enough. Somehowthe
situation called for stronger language than that,but all
he could think was what a stinking messhe'd gotten himself
into.
He was planning to write the tell-all book of
themillennium. He'd spent the last five years grindingout
stories for Starlight, Marc Gregory's
internationallysleazy tabloid, but in Pompasse he'd
foundnot only his meal ticket but his raison d'etre.
Pompassewas a man with enough skeletons in hiscloset to
support Maguire quite nicely. He'd beenworking on the
story for weeks, and it was goingto be his ticket back to
Australia.
The body was lying on the marble floor in thefoyer, at
the bottom of the curving staircase thatled from the
bedrooms above. His dark, intenseeyes were blank, his skin
as cold and lifeless asthe marble floor. There was no
blood.
Maguire made himself cross the floor and squatdown
beside the old man. He didn't want to touchhim. It wasn't
squeamishness. He'd lost any sensitivityyears agoโa life
spent in the news businesstended to wipe out any tender
sensibilities.The more he'd learned about Pompasse the
morecontempt he'd felt for himโMaguire assumed itwas the
last ounce of idealism in his own, otherwisetarnished,
soul. The old man had deservedwhat was coming to him, and
Maguire didn't givea damn who had dished it out. Except,
of course,that it would sell more copies of the paper
and,eventually, his book.
He put his hand against the old man's neck.Cold,
flaccid, dead skin. Maybe he'd been dead formore than an
hour. He glanced back up at thewinding stairs. It would
have been easy enough foran old man like Pompasse to make
a misstep, particularlyif he'd had too much wine. One
little slipand down he would go.
Maguire sat back on his heels, reaching in hispocket
for his cigarettes. That was one thing heliked about Italyโ
he could smoke anywhere hedamn well pleased, probably even
in the Duomoitself if he had the insane urge to go there.
No oneto frown at him and lecture him on the dangers
ofsmoking.
He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag,blowing it
at the old man's still form. Yes, it wasan accident, easy
to explain.
So why did it feel like murder?
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