The Lost Concerto

by Helaine Mario

  “Bad things happen fast, ma’am, but you live through them slow.”

  She stared at him. “It’s not just the dying. It’s the way he died.” She shook her head back and forth. “I wasn’t there for him. My husband drowned alone, in a terrible storm far from home. My life froze inside of me that night,” she whispered.

  Her eyes burned at him, fiercely alive. And suddenly, he understood. “Until now,” he said.

  “Until now. Here in Provence, something is happening to me. It’s as if I’m composing a new life. But…”

  “You still have music inside you. Focus your pain, dammit, and put it into the piano. Turn it into something beautiful. Don’t let your husband’s death take away who you are, Mrs. O’Shea.”

  He set down his wine glass. “Dance with me.”

  “Dance?” Apprehensive eyes flew to his. “Oh, no. Please. I can’t.”

  He was looming above her, lifting her down off the wall. “Your body needs to feel music again.”

  He caught her wrist with strong, demanding fingers. Slowly, inexorably he pulled her toward the tiny dance floor.

  * * *

  She hadn’t danced with a man since her husband died.

  He caught hold of her waist and pulled her against him. She raised her hands between them as a barrier, her neck arched back, away from him.

  They stared at each other, not speaking.

  He moved his hand up under her hair and carefully, slowly eased her head forward to rest against his chest. They stood stiffly, scarcely moving.

  “Quand on n’a que l’amour,” sang the chanteuse. If we only have love.

  Maggie was aware of the soft cotton of his shirt against her cheek. She felt his heart hammer against the hollow of her palm. He smelled like tobacco and red wine. The steely arms felt good, safe after the terrors of Paris.

  “Only one person can lead, Mrs. O’Shea,” he said against her hair.

  She allowed her body to soften against his. Very slowly, she began to respond to the music. She thought, I’ve had too much wine. But I want to be held. Just for a little while.

  “You told me in Paris that you hate dancing,” she murmured into his shirt, “but you hold a woman as if you like dancing very much.”

  “I guess it depends on the woman I’m holding.”

  “Je ne regrette rien,” crooned the chanteuse. I regret nothing.

  She closed her eyes, very aware of the hard body against hers. The faintest touch of his hand on her bare back. Deep within her she felt the smallest quiver. She thought she felt his lips brush her hair.

  She lifted her head. Looked up at his face, gripped his shirt. Legs closer.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispered, holding her close.

  The music quickened.

  They swayed together, barely moving, in and out of the shadows.

  * * *

  She was all sharp angles and resistance. He trapped her hand against his heart, astonished by this feel of her in his arms. And suddenly, without warning, felt the whispering begin, deep in his bones.

  He was acutely aware of her legs pressed against his, of the way his hand fit the curve of her spine. Only days ago, he’d wanted her to leave. Now he just…wanted her.

  Holding her, moving with her, he felt the almost imperceptible softening of her body. He could feel her need, stirring beneath his fingers. He looked down at her. She raised her head slowly. The candlelight threw her eyes into deep shadows, but he saw the sudden flare in the green depths. His hand tightened on her back.

  Bright tears starred her lashes, and the truth hit him like a punch. Dammit, Beckett, what’s the matter with you? Haven’t you learned anything? It’s her husband she wants, not you.

  * * *

  She saw the spark, deep in the wintry eyes, and pressed against him. And felt his gun, hard against her ribs.

  She had forgotten the gun. Oh God, she thought, he scares me so. How could she be attracted to such a dark, dangerous man?

  He moved a finger to her chin and slowly lifted her face.

  “Maggie,” he said hoarsely. “You can’t go on loving a dead man forever.”

  “Why not?”

  They stopped dancing and stared at each other.

  With a rough thumb he brushed a single tear from her pale cheek. When she began to tremble, he dropped his hand. “I wanted you to leave,” he told her, his eyes conflicted. “I don’t want to want you.”

  They were standing very close to each other, her skin burning where he had touched her. “I can’t do this,” she whispered, shaken by this betrayal of her body, this unexpected, powerful response to this man’s touch.

  “Don’t be afraid of me,” he said.

  “Don’t you understand? I’m afraid of what I see in your eyes.” I’m afraid of what you see in mine.

  She turned and fled across the cloister.

  Beckett ran after her.

  They did not see the tall, fair man in the far shadows of the cloister, who swallowed the last of his ice water and followed them into the darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  THE LUBERON HILLS. LATE NIGHT, JULY 8

  The child’s bedroom door was open. The light from his small lamp spilled across the curled shape in a fuzzy, diagonal band. A worn stuffed bear was clutched in the boy’s arms. Gideon stood by the bed, keeping watch, and reached out to smooth springy curls off TJ’s forehead. Then he touched his lips to the child’s cheek. Cool skin, a peaceful sleep.

  “Sweet dreams, TJ,” he whispered.

  He walked back to his own room, undressed, and slipped under the sheets. The woman beside him made a small sound but did not wake up.

  The window was filled with stars. Tomorrow, he vowed, I’ll find a way to get to the abbey. And this time Dane won’t stop me.

  He lay on his back for a long time, watching the starry night and listening to the sounds that echoed in his head—the swirling notes of a piano concerto, and the low, haunting notes of a woman’s laughter.

  * * *

  Her glass of brandy was almost empty.

  Almost midnight. Maggie stood on her small balcony, staring up at a sky the color of grapes. The warm night wind washed over her, scented with night-blooming jasmine, and the tall pines shifted against the glimmering sky.

  Movement down to her left caught Maggie’s eye. A lone man stood on a darkening rise, hands in pockets, a stark figure against the canvas of stars. Michael Beckett. The Golden sat a few feet away from him, still as a statue, staring out at the hills.

  Maggie watched a match flare as he turned toward the distant black shape of Mont St. Victoire. There was a core of darkness in this man, a frightening sense of violence and danger about him. Are you lonely tonight, too, Colonel? she asked the silent figure in the blue light. But there was only the red glow of the cigarette, arcing like a falling star against the night sky.

  Did he know that, when they were dancing, he’d called her by her name? Somewhere in the hills, an owl cried out. It was a cold, lonely sound. Desolate. Maggie shivered and pulled her thin sweater tightly around her shoulders.

  Not even grief stays the same, she thought with despair. Today there had been no time for private sorrow, no time for thoughts of her husband. And tonight—tonight, she had danced with another man and wanted him to kiss her.

  What is happening to me?

  “Johnny?” she whispered into the night.

  Silence.

  “I don’t want to lose you, Johnny.”

  Maggie drained her glass and turned to lock the French doors against the terrors of the night.

  * * *

  The night was all black and silver. The clock chimed two a.m., but Beckett was not asleep. Dressed in a navy turtleneck and jeans, he had been sitting on his balcony, smoking and watchful, for over an hour. Only two cigarettes left. The Golden was snoring in the bedroom behind him.

  Once, he thought he saw a slight movement in the shadows. There, to the right of the garden. A deeper blackness, shifting again
st the dark pines. But all remained quiet. “Damned eyes,” he said aloud.

  He stared at the dark trees and listened to the faint classical music coming from Maggie’s room. Lonely people fill their rooms with sound, he thought. I ought to know.

  She had to be asleep by now. He touched the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Once again, he climbed across the narrow gap onto her balcony.

  He settled into the wicker chair just outside her French doors. It was cooler than he had expected for a summer night in Provence, and he shifted awkwardly on the small seat. The devil with comfort. He was going to stay close to her, after that attack in the bird market.

  Beckett watched the stars wink uncertainly through the shifting pines. What would happen if they found Zachary Law? Christ, how could any man walk away from a woman like Maggie O’Shea? He pictured her face when she’d spoken of Law. Would she fall in love with Zachary Law all over again, now that her husband was gone? Beckett didn’t want to know.

  Face it, he told himself. The Maggie O’Sheas of this world do not end up with the Michael Becketts. Just concentrate on the work and—

  The cry, low and desperate, jolted him from his thoughts. Someone was in her room! In an instant he was on his feet. The lock was forced quickly and easily under his strong hands, and he entered the room in a crouched position, gun drawn.

  “Maggie!”

  Faint moonlight bathed the room in ghostly light. His eyes searched the shadows. There was no one else in the bedroom. All he could see was Maggie, small and lost in the great four-poster bed. She was on her knees, her nightgown a floating blur of white veils. The dark hair was wild, loose and long, tangled about her face and shoulders. Once more she cried out desperately. He moved swiftly toward her.

  The faint light was behind him. In the shadows, she would see only the broad shoulders and the dark, indistinct face. Don’t scare her…

  She reached out to him.

  Somehow he was in her arms.

  “You’re here,” she whispered. “Oh, God. Hold me. Hold me, please. Don’t let me go.”

  Her rough pain tore at him. He put his arms around her and folded her gently against his chest in the velvet dark.

  As he smoothed back her hair, the soft scent of her seemed to fill his head. Roses. “I’ve got you,” he said softly.

  Trembling, she turned blindly towards him. “Love me,” she whispered, and kissed the dark hollow of his neck.

  Astonishing, the feel of her lips on his skin.

  Desire, hot and strong and totally unexpected, washed through him. Suddenly he was intensely aware of her slim nakedness under his hands. Heart hammering, he tilted back her chin and lowered his head as his mouth sought hers.

  Caught in the dream, she whispered into his mouth, “God, yes. Love me, Johnny. Love me.”

  Beckett froze. The realization was sudden, shattering. She’s been dreaming. She thinks I’m Johnny O’Shea. I should have known better.

  With an intense effort of will Beckett forced down the roaring flood of his need.

  Very gently, he eased her back against the pillows and tucked the quilt around her trembling body. “Go back to sleep, Mrs. O’Shea,” he whispered. “You were dreaming. But you’re safe now.”

  I’ve got you.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  PROVENCE. MORNING, JULY 9

  Sunrise spilled gold over the rocky hilltop and lit the silver-gray Jaguar XJ12 parked in the still-quiet marketplace in the village of Ménerbes.

  This morning the square was eerily silent. Dane was the only customer in the café. He finished writing, slipped the note into an envelope, and leaned back in the chair to wait. Light glinted off the mirrored glasses as his eyes caressed the smooth, sensuous curves of the Jag. Dropping a hand to his thigh, he felt the reassuring pressure of the knife against his leg.

  He watched the small flower stand across the marketplace, where an old woman with withered skin worked in the sunlight. Yes, old one, he thought, choose your best.

  He glanced at the new Rolex. Soon, down in the valley, his beautiful Juliet would wait in the abbey garden. He pictured her sitting alone in a purple sea of lavender. Waiting for Gideon.

  The coffee was hot and strong and very sweet in his mouth. He looked out over the ochre valley and thought of the bedroom in his house on the cliffs. The wide antique bed, the thick stone walls that muffled all sound. Tonight he—not Gideon—would have her. She would tell him everything he wanted to know.

  Dane stared blindly out at the sunlit hills. Would she tell her colonel where she was going? It was a risk. But if her protector followed her to the abbey—Dane flexed his muscular shoulders—so be it. You won’t stop me.

  “Je m’excuse, Monsieur.” The old woman stood in front of him. “Vos fleurs.” She handed him a huge bouquet, dewy and fragrant in the morning air.

  Dane pressed a handful of francs into her hand and adjusted the mirrored sunglasses over his eyes. He was ready.

  Sliding into the Jaguar, he drove south through the quiet countryside. The motor purred softly as the powerful car responded instantly to his touch.

  He glanced down at the bouquet. Only once, years ago, had he given flowers to a woman. His beautiful Viola, in Twelfth Night. It had been snowing all day, but still he had managed to find the small nosegay of spring flowers. When the curtain came down, she had slipped her arms around his neck and kissed his rough cheek. The only woman who ever really loved him.

  Until she discovered his secret life.

  He accelerated past the ruins that stood over the red roofs of Ménerbes like a sinister ghost town on the skyline. When he returned, he would not be alone.

  His gloved hand slowly rubbed back and forth against the soft black leather of the passenger seat. Gideon’s woman…

  It was time for Magdalena O’Shea to tell him exactly why she was in Aix. He needed to know, before he delivered her to Victor.

  Anticipation only fueled his excitement.

  * * *

  Gideon hung up the telephone and moved to the Bechstein piano. “No problem,” the conductor had said. “Always a ticket for you.” Gideon stared down at the ivory keys. No one could have kept me away from Sénanque Abbey today, he thought.

  A small hand touched his knee.

  “TJ, good morning.” He hugged the child, kissed the top of the dark curls. “Did you have your breakfast?” A vigorous nod. “Celeste is still asleep,” Gideon said to the boy. “We could have a quick lesson now if you’d like.” The child settled himself on the piano bench and smiled up at the tall man beside him.

  Gideon looked past the child, through the open French doors. The day, luminous amber now, was waiting for him. He could already hear the music in the abbey.

  “Okay, TJ,” he said. “Let’s begin with the F-sharp cadenza.”

  * * *

  Maggie stripped off her sweat-stained running clothes and dropped them in a damp pile on the bathroom tiles. She had needed the morning’s run, needed to hear the sound of her feet hitting the shaded cobblestones, the beat as regular and reassuring as a Scarlatti sonata.

  And maybe, she admitted to herself at last, to crush last night’s mutiny of the body with grueling physical exertion.

  The full-length mirror caught her attention, and she looked closely at the face in the glass. Familiar… and yet unfamiliar. Was there more color in the pale skin this morning? Less shadow across her eyes?

  She kicked off her Reeboks and stepped into the shower. No time for such thoughts. There was an open-air jazz concert scheduled for noon, then Gounod and Bach at St. Sauveur Cathedral. Also, she remembered, there was a small classical performance in an abbey in the countryside north of Aix. She would have loved that. But Simon Sugarman wanted her here in town.

  You’re here to find Zach, she told herself. Nothing more.

  She lifted her face to the tingling water, and memory washed over her. The first time she and Zach had made love, it had been in the tiny shower stall in his Cambridge apar
tment after a performance of La Boheme. I’m falling in love with you, Slim.

  She stepped from the shower and wrapped herself in a thick white robe. The memories of Zach were sweet, but they were also part of another life. She was no longer eighteen. She was no longer afraid of an old love.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Madame O’Shea.” It was the voice of the concierge. She unbolted the door.

  “Les fleurs. Pour vous, Madame.” The small man beamed at her.

  Wildflowers and daisies like huge white stars with fiery hearts. “How beautiful!” breathed Maggie. She buried her face in the blooms. From the colonel? She reached for the small envelope tucked inside the shiny green leaves.

  A festival ticket was enclosed within the note. The Sénanque Abbey, one p.m. Vivaldi’s Nisi Dominus. Charpentier’s Te Deum. And a new concerto—the Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor—by a local composer. Quickly her eyes dropped to the printed words of the note.

  “Les fleurs sont belles, comme tu.” The flowers are beautiful, like you. Oh, Michael, thought Maggie. Then she saw the next words. Her heart stopped.

  “I saw you last night in the cloister. Meet me this afternoon, in the lavender garden of the abbey, after the performance. If you want to see me, you must come alone.”

  Suddenly weak-kneed, Maggie sank to the cushion on the window seat. Dear God, she thought. It could only be Zach. Zach, who had always given her daisies.

  You’re alive, Zach.

  Her son’s father was alive. She felt numb, gladdened, terrified. She knew only that she wanted to see him. After all these years, he was somewhere in the Luberon hills, waiting for her.

  Just as the colonel had hoped. Her eyes sought the ribbon with the tiny transmitter. The bright bit of emerald, forgotten among the bottles on the vanity table, would lead the colonel, like a shimmering green road, directly to her. And to Zach.

  If you want to see me, the note said, come alone.

  But after the attack in Paris, Michael would never agree to let her go to Zach on her own. Maggie lifted the bit of ribbon thoughtfully. The wolf-faced man couldn’t possibly know she was here—couldn’t know about the abbey. She’d come all this way to find Zach. And he would never hurt her.