He lifted his other hand and tangled his fingers in the short black hair, pulling her head back. He began to stroke the tight arch of her neck with his thumb.
Tense and wary, she tried to ignore the sensations he was arousing in her body. She wanted to pull away but felt powerless under his touch. Each time, her intense hatred became inextricably bound with desire.
The fingers moved down her neck, very slowly. Down the soft rise of her shirt to the hidden nipple. Now she did make an effort to pull away, but he only gripped her more tightly. “You know what I need, Lapin,” he murmured hoarsely.
“Yes.”
He squeezed her nipple beneath the silk. “There is a woman searching for Gideon. I want to know why, Lapin.”
She twisted in his arms as his fingers continued to tease her. She could feel his arousal, thick and hard, rubbing against her. “What woman?” She gasped, tormented by his bruising fingers.
His hands stopped. “All in good time.”
She tried to pull away. “Please.”
“I want you to keep Gideon away from the festival.”
She looked up at him with surprise. “Why? Don’t make me think about Gid. Not here…” His right hand slipped under the silk and moved to circle a tingling breast. She moaned, grasped his hand, brought it to her mouth.
Dane smiled. “Tell me,” he whispered, “does Gid ever send you flowers?”
“Flowers? Why do you…”
His fingers moved to her lips, silencing her. He pushed his thumb into her mouth, moving it slowly. “Don’t question me, Lapin. Just answer.”
Her teeth closed hard on his thumb and he wrenched her head back. “Bitch!”
Without warning he slipped a steel arm around her waist and lifted her roughly against his body so that her back was pressed against the hardness of his chest. No match for his great size and strength, she writhed against him helplessly. “Let go of me!”
He carried her, struggling, across the room until they stood in front of the full-length mirror. “Open your eyes,” he commanded in his low, sensual voice.
She watched as he tore the silk shirt off her shoulders, down past her breasts. She stared at the nipples, hard and dark and wanting in the flickering firelight, as if they belonged to someone else. She wanted to shut her eyes, but his hand mesmerized her.
Imprisoned by the steel grip of his arm, she watched as the fingers caressed her waist and stomach, watched as they moved lower still, slipping beneath the waist of her slacks. She turned her head away from the mirror as he began to stroke her. Her narrow hips arched frantically against him.
“No, not like this—”
“Yes, Lapin, exactly like this. Until you give me what I want.” His voice changed, grew harder, breath hot against her skin. “Tell me,” he demanded, “what flowers does Gideon send you?”
She twisted in his arms, but there was no escape from the brutal hands. “Daisies,” she gasped finally. “Gid likes daisies.”
The long fingers caressed her in approval. “Good, Lapin, very good.” He swept her up and carried her toward the bed in the dark corner of the room.
“No, I must get back to Gideon.”
“It’s not yet light. And you are pleasing me tonight.”
One powerful hand pushed her roughly down onto the great high bed.
The last candle guttered, flickered, burned out.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
PROVENCE. MORNING, JULY 8
“Provence,” murmured Maggie. “I’d forgotten that there is still such beauty in the world.”
She stood transfixed on the small balcony, totally still, as if stunned by the sun. The Provence stretching before her was a land of light and texture and primary colors. Golden sky and ocher earth, blue shadows on pink rock. Emerald cypresses keeping watch over houses of rough silvery stone, twisted purple vines on a dusty hillside. The very earth seemed to glow from within, as if the land drew its light from the vast opalescent sky.
They had driven up a long, misty driveway to the ivy-covered inn just before dawn. “Intimate enough for you this time, Mrs. O’Shea?” the colonel had asked with cynical amusement.
She had been charmed by the simple beauty of her large, airy room. The carved antique bed. A sofa draped with a paisley shawl. Ripe plums in a shallow bowl. Tall French doors, left open to a narrow balcony, flooding the room with sunrise. And a small cat the color of old pearls, asleep on a silk cushion by a window filled with blue.
Maggie had called Brian immediately—to hell with the time zones. No, no baby yet, Grandma, but all’s well. Any news of my father? I still haven’t found him, Bones.
Then the call to Luze Jacobs in Boston. I’ve gained two pounds on hospital food, Maggs! There’s no justice! Finally reassured, she’d gone running with a young Aixois policeman.
Now, drawn by the siren song of the cicadas, she stood on the small balcony.
Below her, in the small courtyard, scarlet geraniums spilled from earthen pots, their scent spicy and sharp as wood smoke in the air. Beyond, like a painted canvas, the Provence immortalized by Paul Cézanne rose and fell toward the distant Mont St. Victoire in an ocean of lavender.
The pearl cat appeared and rubbed against her ankles. Gathering the tiny creature to her breast, Maggie gazed into the sky.
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
* * *
“Welcome to the monk’s cell.”
In the old town of Aix, Simon Sugarman gestured Beckett and the Golden through an arched doorway.
“Used to be a convent,” said Sugarman. “Martin Luther slept here.” He closed and locked the door, then bent to rub the dog’s head. “How’s la Maggie?”
“Obstinate, headstrong, and impossible.”
“Admit it, pal. She’s getting to you.”
“Dammit, Sugar,” growled Beckett, “Maggie O’Shea is a target for a brutal killer. Thanks to us. When she finds out the truth…”
“It’s one thing to believe in truth, Mike, another thing to live with it.”
“Just when a man thinks he’s done with women,” Beckett muttered. He looked out the mullioned window as if the sky held the answer he sought. “She’s just—not like anybody else. She’s got a way about her—”
“Yeah, yeah, Billy Joel, and a smile that heals me.” Sugarman grinned down at the Golden, who’d settled on the carpet in a square of sunlight.
Beckett shrugged. “She makes me think about things I don’t usually think about, dammit. Feel things I don’t want to feel.”
“So let her in. What’s the worst that can happen?”
Beckett stared at him. “The worst. Seriously? Life is easier in a combat zone.” Beckett shrugged and turned away. “Back to work, Sugar. Did you find anything at the art gallery in Hyères?”
“Place cleaned out, doors locked tight. Guy next door said the owner just disappeared in the middle of the night.”
“Disappeared? Vanessa Durand sent John O’Shea there to look for Orsini. And now the gallery owner’s missing. I don’t like it, Sugar.”
“Bingo. Vanessa and I are going to have a little talk about that as soon as—”
The computer on a bare table sprang to life, and Sugarman squinted at the screen. “From my team in DC. Check this out. Security cameras caught the bastard who knifed my informer at the Opera House. It’s not good, Mike.” He tossed a photograph at Beckett.
The colonel stared down at a handsome face with long, pulled-back hair, hawk nose, strong hard mouth. Diamond earring. Tinted glasses stared blankly back at him. Like a wolf, Maggie O’Shea had said. Recognition sparked. “This guy has a mustache and darker hair, but your killer is the man in the Café de la Paix photograph.” The man who hurt Maggie.
“Bingo. We also know that he boarded a flight from Boston to Paris the next day.”
“He’s followed her here.”
“Maybe that means Orsini’s close, too. We’ll get them both.” Sugarman looked out the window toward the tiny sq
uare as if he expected Orsini to saunter past the fountain. “Amah,” he murmured.
“New code word?”
“Funny. ‘Amah’ means ‘Indian servant’. It’s in every crossword there is.” He shook his head. “The journal Sofia Orsini stole from her husband. That’s our ‘amah.’”
Beckett nodded. “All those clients, bank accounts, investors. That intel should indict Victor and God knows how many others.”
“Yeah, the Admiral wants those names bad, pal.”
“If only it didn’t hinge on Sofia’s little boy.”
“The kid was there when Fee died. The kid was with her that whole time, he has to know where she hid it. And Maggie’s the one who can find him.”
“Sometimes I hate this business.”
“You do what you gotta do, my daddy always told me,” said Sugarman. “He taught me to use my head, not my fists. A black man can’t show anger. And he did what he had to. Worked on the trains all day and drilled me in history all night.”
“My father”—the colonel struck a match and stared at the flame—“Big Jack Beckett, was military all the way. Discipline is the stuff of men. Honor, Duty and Fearlessness.” He blew out the flame. “Called him ‘Sir’ from the moment I could talk.”
“And here you are today, pal, honorable and dick-fucking-fearless.”
“You learn fear when you have someone to lose,” said Beckett, gazing down at the Golden.
Sugar’s voice drew him back. “So, are you in or out, pal?”
“You dance with the one that brung ya, Sugar. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“Because of the kid.”
“Yeah, you subtle bastard. Because of the kid.”
“It’s hell being a good guy.” Sugarman zipped up his windbreaker to hide the gun. “Time to rock n’ roll. I’m outta here.” He tossed his newspaper at Beckett. “I got Maggie’s name into the morning papers. She won’t play the piano, but even a small rumor of her appearance at the concert tonight can’t hurt. It’s a Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto. No way Law won’t come if he thinks she’ll be there.”
“Damn you, Sugar. You also just told the killer who attacked Maggie where she’ll be.”
“You’re ridin’ that white horse again, pal! We’re here to find Zach Law and Orsini’s journal. You protect Maggie O’Shea. I’ll do what I gotta do.”
“That’s what worries me.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
PROVENCE. MORNING, JULY 8
“Her name is Toto,” said Maggie to the Golden, gesturing toward the small watchful cat curled on the seat pillow. “She’s the chef’s cat. Play nice.”
The Golden, visiting from Beckett’s room, approached the cat slowly, sat down and sniffed her outstretched paw. Maggie watched as they eyed each other thoughtfully, unblinking.
Smiling, she turned away. Morning light flooded through the open terrace doors, falling onto the animals, her open laptop, and the bowl of plums that glowed like amethysts in the light. Back to work.
The Golden gave a sudden growl as a soft footstep sounded on the balcony.
Maggie’s stomach clenched in fear. She clutched her son’s pocketknife and spun around. “Who’s there?”
The figure in the shadows leaned one shoulder against the terrace door, thumbs hooked in jean pockets. Then he sneezed and reached out to tip the pearl cat from her pillow. The Golden followed her, both settling on the hearth rug.
“Ma’am.” He raised a brow at the Golden, nestling against the tiny cat. “Seriously?”
“Colonel Beckett. What are you doing on my balcony?”
“Why the devil are these doors unlocked?” he countered. Uninvited, Beckett moved into the room. He eyed her mannish, loose white shirt, the baggy trousers over bare feet. “And, Mrs. O’Shea, that little-bitty knife wouldn’t dent one of these plums.”
“Not funny. I can’t get that wolf-faced man out of my head…”
“When you’re in danger, there are no rules. Run, scream, blow a whistle, use hairspray. Use fingernails, a pen, car keys. Thumb in the eye, knee in the groin. Could you shoot someone?”
“Absolutely not! I wouldn’t even buy my son a toy gun when he was little.”
Violins swelled insistently from her radio, and Beckett raised his head. “What music is that? I like it.”
“Bartok. Asymmetrical phrasing—it’s like you—odd, but oddly appealing.”
“Thank you. I think.”
He peered down at her and reached out as if to tip her chin into the light. But he stopped without touching her, dropped his hand. “Something’s different.”
I’m coming back to life, Colonel. Whether I’m ready or not.
She lowered her lashes and sat on the edge of the desk. “You’re the one who’s different. No cane this morning.”
He bent toward her, so close that the scent of him—rock, sun, a hint of lemons—was like a warm breath against her skin. “Stronger every day. I came to tell you that several folks at Deux Garçons recognized Law’s photo. But no last name or address. No record at all of a G. Black in Aix. I’m sorry.”
She was quiet, bare foot swinging back and forth like a metronome. “Don’t be,” she said. “He won’t be the man I knew.”
His eyes were on her foot. “Is that good or bad?”
“Zach was like his music,” she said. “Passionate and tempestuous and enchanting as a wizard. So brooding and intense, he never once smiled on stage.” Her voice caught. “He was reckless and alone and extraordinary.”
“Sure trumps ‘oddly appealing,’” he said.
“Why would I want a man like that back in my life?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
Because he promised to come home, but he never did.
“If he’s alive,” she said, “then he hurt me, Colonel. And he robbed my son of a father.” Her cell phone rang. She held up her hand, signaling him to wait.
“Magdalena O’Shea. Yes. Is there a photograph of him? Oh. Well, thank you so much, Herr Westoff.”
She disconnected and turned to Beckett. “That was the President of the University of Music and the Performing Arts in Vienna, Austria. A man named G. Black was a student there, in the mid-eighties. No photograph available, but he earned a doctorate in Musicology. Then he just dropped off the face of the earth. Again.”
Beckett was staring at her. “You know the President of a university in Vienna?”
She smiled. “I soloed there, with the Vienna Symphony.”
His gaze rested on her face. “Musicology. I think you could be right about Law working for Orsini. A musicologist could authenticate rare scores, you said?”
She nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Good for you. I’ll tell Sugar.” And then, “I brought this for you.” He reached for her hand, and she started at his touch. Their eyes met. Just for a moment, there was a sudden blaze in his, like lightning in a mirror. He dropped a length of emerald ribbon into her palm.
“It’s got a radio transmitter. A miniature GPS tracking beacon.”
“Why do I need a transmitter?”
“In case you need the posse at Deux Garçons. Wear that green ribbon in your hair.”
“Are you expecting trouble?”
“If you want to make God laugh, ma’am, just tell him your plans. But two gendarmes will always be at your elbow.”
“The next thing I know,” she teased him, “you’ll be telling me I have a code name.”
The ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “You’re Concerto.”
* * *
In a farmhouse in the Luberon hills, just north of Aix-en-Provence, the man who called himself Gideon Black was thinking of Deux Garçons as he entered the French doors. Slipping off muddy boots, he imagined himself sitting in the sunlight at one of their tiny café tables, sipping a glass of Pinot, talking music with friends. Looking forward to the festival. But there was much to do before he could leave. Fix the tractor, give the dogs a run, pay the bills, call Victor with his report on the Ch
opin manuscript.
He checked his watch. After nine already. Through the open kitchen window, he could see the pines, pale gray against a square of glowing blue. He gazed at the rows of vines, twisted and green, that climbed the hillside.
He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the restlessness he’d been feeling for days, waiting for tonight’s festival gala. Now the day called to him, like the sirens of ancient Greece had called to Odysseus. But Odysseus, he reminded himself, found nothing but trouble.
He reached for his second cup of coffee of the morning, took a deep swallow, and returned to the bedroom.
Celeste was still asleep. He touched her shoulder. Her skin was smooth and cool as water under his fingertips. Not feverish at all, but then he knew she wasn’t really sick.
This tender, fragile woman. There’d been some bad times here in Provence, when the painkillers weren’t enough, and she’d been there for him.
Gideon slipped off his work clothes, then caught his reflection in the mirror as he turned. Unrelenting light played on a tall, bearded man with long dark hair and intense eyes. His naked body was lean and scarred, the scars white slashes on the sun-browned skin.
He turned away from the image. Today, he needed time alone in his music room. He wanted to think about tonight’s concerto.
Behind him, Celeste stirred in the massive bed.
She hated what she called his “l’addiction pour la musique.” But he had to have a place of his own, with a stereo and a grand piano, where he could be alone to think, to listen, to compose. To study, to work. To remember.
Sometimes he locked the door. He knew it hurt her. But it was a part of his life he couldn’t share. Would not share.
He turned to look at the lovely figure curled in the bed. The white sheet draped across the bone of her hip, exposing one lovely, high breast. His breath quickened. Why couldn’t she understand that his need for the world of music was so intense that it was fiercely physical. An aching, longing desire. His drug. And his punishment.
Her soft sigh drew him back to the bed. It would be so easy to drown in her. But tonight Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 headlined the festival. His heart quickened. No way he would miss it. He’d gone to the vineyards early, so that he would have time to drive into Aix and drop in at Deux Garçons for that glass of wine.
The Lost Concerto Page 20