His breath came out in a huge, shuddering sigh. “Maggiegirl. It was all such a damned big lie …”
“Such a long lie,” she said.
“I told you your mother asked for a divorce. It was the last thing I wanted, and I refused. We had a huge argument. Lily was furious, she ran from me. Into the garden. I ran after her, grasped her arm. She pulled away from me, defiantly stripping off her clothes. She jumped into the pool, began to swim. I can still see her, her body so white and beautiful, slicing through the dark water.”
His eyes found hers. “She was a good swimmer, Maggie, often swimming at night in the ocean. I thought she needed time to calm down, so I left. I went to the house, fixed myself a martini. But I knew we had to talk, knew I couldn’t leave things that way between us. So I went back to apologize. I was almost there when I heard you screaming. My God! I ran through the roses, felt the thorns tear at my face. And I … I …”
“You saw me.”
A heartbeat of silence. Then, “Yes. You were collapsed on the stones, soaking wet, at the edge of the pool. I didn’t see your mother in the darkness of the pool, not then. Only you. I ran to you, gathered you up in my arms. I carried you into the music room, settled you on the sofa.”
“I remember your arms around me, feeling safe,” whispered Maggie. “And then you went back to the pool. You found my mother?”
“No, I didn’t find her. Zander was there. He’d found her, laid her on the terrace, was giving her mouth to mouth. But …”
“But it was too late,” said Maggie with horror. “My mother was dead.”
“There’s so much more to it.”
“Tell me, then! Why did you hurt my mother, Finn? Why weren’t you faithful to her? I thought you loved her!”
She saw the leap of shock in his eyes. He became very still. “You think I was unfaithful to your mother?”
She faltered. “Weren’t you? All those stories over the years … Why else would she want a divorce?”
Finn’s face was a mask. “I had many faults, but I loved your mother. I was angry, yes. But I would never have hurt her. I wasn’t the unfaithful one, Maggie. It was Lily.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
OCEAN HOUSE
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 28
MICHAEL BECKETT STOOD on the broad front lawn of Ocean House, drinking black coffee and watching Shiloh nose through the flowers while they waited for Hannah Hoffman to arrive. Sugar had texted him hours earlier. He was still in Provence, had a good lead on the missing art collection. He’d dropped Hannah at the Marseilles airport and would sleep a few hours before he headed west. Better to search in the light of day.
Beckett glanced at his watch, then his phone. No word since. Not like Sugar. Something wasn’t right, especially since Sugar seemed eager to return to the US. Maggie had told him some time during the night about the blind cellist who was the heir to Gigi’s Matisse. Her stolen Matisse. Hannah—and Sugar? One thing at a time, Beckett cautioned himself.
Shading his eyes, he searched the sloping lawn, tried to see any sign of life near the conservatory. All quiet. He hadn’t seen Maggie since he’d left her there, earlier in the morning. He’d brought her father to her, and then gone back to the house. They’d needed time to talk alone.
But now the sun had been up for a while. And just moments ago, her fierce, crashing music had spilled through the ballroom’s open doors. What had happened between them?
Worried, he flung a small stick high into the air. “Hey, Shiloh, get the stick, fella. Go for it.” But Shiloh, sad-eyed and ears laid back, ignored him, moving as slowly as an old man along the bushes. His limp was more pronounced today. Beckett shook his head with concern. The dog he loved, and the woman he loved … how could he help them?
A sound, the crunch of tires on shells. He looked up, saw the low black sedan approaching, and whistled to Shiloh. “Here, boy. Watch out for the car. We’re the welcoming committee.”
Shiloh, resting in the boxwood bushes that lined the drive, struggled to stand.
The car stopped, the engine idled. The tall driver, his face concealed by the shadow of a capped hat, came around to open the door. Beckett stepped closer.
A silver cane and one lovely long leg, in a bright pink high-heeled sandal, appeared. You’re a goner, Sugar, thought Beckett with satisfaction. Then Hannah Hoffman stood before him, thick dark curls caught back from her face and soft blue scarf knotted around her neck, looking fresh and beautiful in spite of the long flight. Beckett reached out, grasped her hand in his. “Ms. Hoffman? I’m Mike Beckett, a friend of Maggie’s. Welcome back to the States.”
“Ah, the colonel. Of course. Both Maggie and Simon have told me all about you.”
“Ouch. Don’t believe everything you hear.” Beckett smiled. The driver set a tall red case in the shape of a cello on the step as a sleek, elegant greyhound leaped gracefully from the car and came to stand beside Hannah.
“This is my friend Jac,” said the cellist. “I don’t go anywhere without her.”
As Beckett grinned at the dog, he heard a sound behind him—a sound he’d never heard before. Part gruff growl, part soft whine, part happy purr, as if … He turned.
Shiloh was standing tall and frozen, his liquid eyes shining and locked on the greyhound, as if he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful.
“Well, well,” said Beckett. “This just got real interesting.”
“It seems you have a best friend, too, Colonel?” asked Hannah with a light laugh.
“Hannah and Jac, meet my Golden, Shiloh. Shiloh saves me from murderous Girl Scouts, mailmen, marauding butterflies, and the dreaded FedEx truck.” He glanced at the Golden, whose expression could only be described as thunderstruck. “Shiloh, this is Hannah and her greyhound, Jac.”
The Golden remained still as a lawn statue. “Shiloh seems to be the strong silent type,” murmured Hannah.
“I would say the more accurate word would be ‘smitten,’” said Becket. He bent once more to the greyhound. “And I surely don’t blame him. Hello, beautiful.”
Hannah smiled, then turned toward the driver, who had placed her luggage in the driveway and was now preparing to leave. “Thank you, Thanos,” she said. “You’ve been very kind.”
Beckett watched as the driver, his face turned away, tipped his hat and roared off down the driveway. His instincts twanged. What was there about that guy? He leaned toward Hannah. “I’ll just let Sugar know you’re here.” He typed a quick text. Hannah here. Did you arrange for a guy named Thanos to meet her plane?
Hannah’s fingers, gentle on his arm. “Will you take me to Maggie? I’ve been worried about her.”
Beckett raised his head, listening for the faint, pulsing music. He put his hand over Hannah’s. “She’s sparring with Rachmaninoff right now. But will you come with me? Your host, Alexander Karas, has gone to DC for the night. I can take you to your room, and then perhaps you’ll join me for a cup of coffee. I think you and I have a lot to share with each other.”
“I know we do. And coffee would be perfect.”
Beckett’s cell pinged. Message not delivered.
Christ. What was going on with Sugar? He bent to Hannah, settled her hand in the crook of his arm and turned to whistle to Shiloh. “Well, will you look at that,” he said softly.
Shiloh was edging slowly, shyly, closer to Jac. Impatient, she closed the gap in one long stride, until they were nose to nose. “Looks like our best friends are getting to know each other, Hannah,” said Beckett. “Is that a problem for you? I know Jac is a service dog.”
“I don’t think it will be, Colonel. I trust her. And we need all the friends we can get, don’t we?” She fluttered her fingers and immediately Jac was at her side.
For a brief moment, Shiloh looked as confused as a lone pine tree in a parking lot. Then he simply moved to Jac’s free side and followed them into the house.
* * *
Still reeling from the pain of her father’s words, Maggie’s fingers tore ac
ross the keys, filling the Ocean House ballroom with the furious, rapid runs of Khachaturian’s Toccata. She could not face Rachmaninoff today, not with so many terrible questions swirling in her head. For so long, she had blamed her father for her mother’s death. Now, it seemed as if her whole life was a lie.
It made no sense. She made no sense.
With an oath, Maggie’s fingers froze on the keys, and she swiped at the tears running down her face. She needed to express her pain, her confusion, her fear. She needed Beethoven. She closed her eyes. The blistering, searing opening notes of his Piano Concerto No. 5—the Emperor Concerto—spilled like her tears into the air.
Chords upon chords, her fingers flying feverishly over the keys. Profound, powerful, and passionate, she gave herself up to the complex and mammoth notes. Was consumed by them.
Faster and faster, gasping for breath.
And then someone was on the bench next to her, two arms around her, slender but powerful. Holding her tightly.
“Hush, my friend. You’re going to be okay, Maggie.”
Hannah’s voice.
Maggie’s slick fingers came to rest on the keys, her breathing slowed, and she opened her eyes, surprised by the tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Oh, Hannah,” she whispered. “I really need a friend right now.”
“We’ve shared so much in such a short time that I feel very close to you. Will I do?”
“I feel the closeness, too.” Maggie gripped Hannah’s fingers but kept her eyes on the piano keys. “I’m so scared.”
“I know, Maggie. So am I.”
“I want to be strong enough to run toward, into the heart of the fear, the way Michael does. But I’m hiding behind the music, behind the chords. I’m still running away …”
“Nonsense! You found your father. And now you’re here, aren’t you, ready to face your past. You are ‘running toward’ something, Maggie. You just haven’t gotten there yet.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“I don’t need to see your face to know you need a friend. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
Maggie took a shuddering breath. “What if I was too scared to help my mother when she died? What if I’ve been wrong about my father? And, God help me, what if I’ve been right?”
Gentle fingers grasped Maggie’s hands. “Your colonel told me some of it. And something isn’t right, Maggie. It feels very wrong, in fact. We’ll find the answers together. Is it too early for a glass of wine?”
* * *
The sound of water.
Simon Sugarman groaned, opened his eyes, tried to focus. Coughed.
It was dark, wet. Too wet. He coughed again, gagged, spit dirty water from his mouth. He was lying in water, several inches deep. Damned cold water. And rising.
What the hell? He heard the drip-drip-drip close by, the low creak of ancient, grinding machinery.
The windmill. He was in the windmill.
He tried to move his arm. Okay, then. You bastards made a big mistake, not taking me out. He took a breath, sucked in another mouthful of thick, muddy-tasting water. Shit. Time to blow this joint.
He shifted, found a pocket. No phone. Very slowly he sat up. No broken bones. Helluva headache, though. He reached up to his face. Was he feeling blood or water?
Dizzy, he pulled at his shirt cuff, squinted down at his wrist. Bingo! They’d missed his watch. His brand-new Apple Watch. His stainless-steel, Milanese-loop, GPS-set, water-resistant watch. Worth every bit of the six hundred bucks he’d shelled out. “Gotta love the toys,” he murmured.
He pressed the switch; light glowed. Oh, yeah. The local gendarmes could be here in minutes, if his car was gone. But first, he had to get back to the art. He shook his head, fiercely angry with himself. Then groaned as the pain stabbed. “You goddamn fool,” he whispered. Even a green agent knew not to lose sight of his surroundings. How could he have made such a rookie mistake? Flunking Agent 101—all because of the most beautiful art he’d ever seen.
I underestimated you, Dane. It won’t happen again.
Sugarman lurched to his feet. Held up his wrist to light the darkness, find the door. Probably barricaded. Better get a move on. Cold river water swirled around his shins. Bastards had ruined his favorite pair of Valentinos.
He closed his eyes against the pain, tried to breathe through it. Thought of Hannah. Thank God she was on a plane, warm and dry, and not here with him. Jesus.
He found the old wooden door. Pushed. Daylight?
What the hell? Why hadn’t they locked him in?
He staggered out onto the grass, headed back toward the ruin. Toward the art.
Art that, he knew deep in his gut, was once again gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
VIENNA
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 28
IN THE SMALL hotel room in Vienna, Dane stood in front of the painting of the young girl named Gisela. The brushstrokes were strong, beautiful, the colors mesmerizing. The old man had been quite the artist. Too bad, really, that Johann Vogl had to die.
He reached out to touch the thick, swirling strokes of paint. Underneath the young woman’s portrait, he was sure, was a long-missing Picasso. Worth millions. One more step in his quest to take over the black market in art. To having more wealth and power than he’d ever dreamed.
He glanced out the window, down into the square. Where was Beatrice? She’d gone to the corner market over an hour ago. Perhaps he should—
His cell phone buzzed. Checking the text from his man in Provence, he felt a fierce bolt of anger.
Team at ruin. Crypt empty. How do we proceed?
Empty? Impossible. Fucking impossible. Quickly he typed, The art should be there. Search again. Find it!
He waited, began to pace. What had happened? A ping.
No art found at ruin.
He was typing a furious reply when he heard her key in the lock.
Beatrice set a paper bag down on the table and moved toward him. “I bought your favorite tortes and then I—What is it? What’s happened?”
“The art. The paintings are gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“When my men got to the ruin, the hidden room was empty.”
“What about Agent Sugarman?”
“No sign of him. I suspect he’s heading back to the States.” He turned away from her, grasped his coffee cup, and hurled it across the room to shatter against the wall. “Either Sugarman has the art, or someone else got there first.”
She bent, began to gather the shards of pottery. “Then we will follow Sugarman, and we will get the answers.”
He took her arm, raised her gently to her feet. “Leave it, don’t cut yourself. Pack your clothes. I’ve made arrangements. I have a plane ticket for you. I want you to go back to Italy, be with your cousins. Have the baby there. Be safe.” From me.
“And you?”
“I am going to the US. To finish what was begun a very long time ago.”
She dropped the shards to the table and put her arms around him. “We are going together, Cuore Mio.”
“No. It’s too dangerous.” An image of her father flashed into his head, and he turned back to her. “I am not a good man, Bella. I’ve done very bad things. I’ve justified all of it because of my past, but you know that I—”
“You’ve reacted to pain. I don’t blame you for it.”
“You should! I tried to hurt you in Tuscany, Beatrice. I almost—” He held a hand to his eyes.
“You were cornered, you were afraid.”
“No. I’ve made conscious choices, all along. I don’t want my choices to affect you, Bella. Or the baby.”
“We won’t let that happen, Dante.”
He ran a hand over his scarred face. “Now I am that man again, the same on the outside as I am on the inside. Broken, as ruined as my face. I cannot be fixed, mon ange. Not even by you.”
“I don’t believe you. I know you’ve done many bad things in your life—I awaken to your nightmares
. But I believe our baby can transform you. We will stay together. We will find the art. And we will make a new life somewhere safe.”
* * *
Maggie, Hannah, and Michael Beckett sat in deep burgundy velvet chairs before the fire in the Ocean House library, drinking a very old Bordeaux from Zander’s collection. Both dogs were curled on the carpet in front of the flames, flanks touching, eyes half closed. Zander had been right about the room. Tall, diamond-paned windows flickered with firelight. Yale’s blue and white banner—Lux et Veritas, Light and Truth—hung over a U-shaped desk. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases were filled with rare leather-bound volumes to create a truly beautiful space.
“At least two of us are contented,” said Beckett, his eyes on the dogs. He set his wineglass down with impatience, stood up, and began to pace. “No word on the identity of Hannah’s driver yet, but Sugar sent me a message that Thanos wasn’t his guy. So, just in case Dane knows where we are now, I’ve ordered extra security here for the next several days. Until after the party.” He turned to Maggie. “You haven’t remembered anything more about the night your mother died?”
“No, and I wonder if I ever will. Dreams are confusing, never totally real. The last thing I do remember is a sharp, crushing pain. Finn told me that I hit my head, hard, when I collapsed. The doctors said I had a serious concussion. When I finally woke up, my memory of that night was totally gone.”
“Except for those dreams,” said Hannah, taking a sip of wine. “But sometimes not remembering can be a blessing.”
“I thought so, too, for a very long time,” said Maggie. “But I’m ready now. If only I didn’t have more and more questions.”
“I think I can answer some of them,” said Finn Stewart from the doorway.
All three heads turned as Maggie’s father walked into the room. He nodded to Michael and his daughter but went directly to Hannah, bending to take her hand. Jac was by her side in an instant, a low warning sound in her throat. “It’s okay, Jac,” said Hannah quietly.
“I’m Maggie’s father, Finn Stewart,” he said. “And you, I’m told, are the heir to Gigi’s Matisse. My wife, Lily, loved that painting. I’ve been following your career, Hannah. A rising star in the cello world. You’ll be playing the Bach Cello Suites tomorrow night, for the Yale party? I wish I could have had a chance to conduct you.”
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