He handed her the green ribbon with the GPS device. “Then I’ll keep you safe,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
LE REFUGE. MORNING, JULY 10
“Please wait here, Madame.” The housekeeper gestured to a cushioned chair shaded by a trellis of tangled wisteria vines. “Monsieur Gideon will return from the vineyard shortly.”
It had been an easy drive, only forty minutes. Now, alone on the flagstone terrace, surrounded by huge bushes of wild rosemary and fragrant mimosa, Maggie turned in a slow circle and took a deep breath. The air was hot, dry, aromatic.
Scarlet geraniums spilled from ochre-colored pots, flaming hibiscus climbed a small fountain that shimmered with sunlight. In the shifting shade of the vines, a table set for two was laden with juice, fruit, and bright yellow cheese. She felt as if she had stepped inside an Impressionist painting.
Mindful of Simon Sugarman’s instructions, Maggie’s eyes searched the terrace carefully. But there were no toys, no torn candy wrappers, no ball and glove. No forgotten sneaker, no sudden shout of laughter. No sign at all that a small boy lived in this beautiful old farmhouse. Only the musical splash of the fountain and the drone of bees broke the stillness.
She moved to the edge of the patio. The rambling gold stone house called Le Refuge—Zach had described it as a Provençal “mas,” a farmhouse—was set on a hillside strewn with fig trees and sunflowers. The land fell away to a deep azure pool, still as a mirror. She forced her eyes away from the water, toward the rows of green grape vines that flowed toward a high stone wall. Beyond the road, the red-rocked hills rose again, steeply. A white spire and tiled roofs were just visible through a shifting forest of pines.
It was Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony come to life. And yet…
The vineyard was oddly guarded. Was Le Refuge really a haven from the world? Or a place to hide? She stared thoughtfully at the high walls surrounding the property. When she’d arrived, a man had been leaning against the huge locked gate, his hand resting casually on his hip. Too casually. And what about the Doberman by his side, an ugly brute with dark bristles and eyes the color of onyx? Leashed, certainly. But tense and watchful. Like the man. Were there more dogs? She shivered despite the heat.
Where was Zach? And where the hell was Michael?
Maggie poured a glass of orange juice from a tall pitcher. Shading her eyes against the bright Luberon sun, she searched the pines that curved along the vineyard’s high wall. Michael had promised, in his exasperating way, that he would be “all over her like a cheap suit.” But as her eyes swept the boulder-strewn hills and the stand of firs so green against the sky, there was no protector in sight.
Still exhausted from the long, emotional night, Maggie thought about how much her life had changed in these last weeks. For months she’d been totally alone and now, suddenly, two men were in her life. Closer than she wanted them to be.
Just concentrate on the reason you’re here—Zach, and Tommy. But somehow her thoughts kept returning to the man who had walked into her life in an ancient cemetery, given her laughter and a piano and whispered into her hair in a dark hallway. The man who had given the music back to her.
In one night I found Zach and my music, she thought. And I lost someone to a wife I never knew existed.
But Michael Beckett was never mine to lose.
She held her wrists under the cooling water of the fountain and closed her eyes, giving herself up to the drone of the bees and the faint sound of music on the breeze.
Music? A piano.
Her head came up. She was absolutely still, listening. Yes. Piano music, coming from somewhere deep in the back of the farmhouse.
She moved toward the sound. The terrace extended beyond the trellis wall and disappeared around the corner of the house. Again she listened. No ominous footsteps approaching, no growling dog. Just the notes of the piano, calling to her like a lost friend. Glancing once more over her shoulder, Maggie moved cautiously to the rear of the terrace.
She rounded the corner and stopped just outside the open french doors, listening. It sounded like Zach’s concerto. But a very simplified, childlike version, halting and uncertain. Long, white curtains billowed like a cloud around her, and the music beckoned. In the distance, a dog barked sharply.
Without looking back, Maggie stepped through the open doors into the room.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
LE REFUGE. MORNING, JULY 10
Maggie stood absolutely still in the doorway.
In the slanting light that poured through an arched window, a slight boy of five or six sat at a grand piano. He wore a striped t-shirt and shorts, exposing bony knees, and his bare feet strained to reach the pedals. He had black hair, sun-browned arms and legs, and he was as thin as an oboe. He was too engrossed in the music to notice her.
She stared at the child. Zach’s boy? He had the look of Zach, certainly, with the dark hair and skin. And that intensity! But he resembled, too, the child in Sofia’s most recent photograph of her son. This child’s hair was much longer, the face thinner, older, and very solemn. She couldn’t be sure.
She stood still for a long time, watching the boy and listening to the haunting melody. In spite of the hesitation, he played quite well for one so young. Someone had given him expressive dynamics. Already, he had a real feel for the keys. Inherited talent? she asked herself. This very intense child could well be Zach’s son. His other son.
The music stopped abruptly and Maggie found herself looking into eyes that were black and very large in the thin face. Frightened eyes. All of her instincts came alive with warning. No child should be this afraid.
“Hello,” she smiled gently. Without thought, she spoke in English. “My name is Maggie. I was waiting on the terrace, but your music was so beautiful.”
For an instant, the boy froze. Then, eyes wide with uncomprehending terror, he slipped off the bench and ran to crouch behind the piano. Just like Beckett’s Golden.
“Please,” she said softly. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’ve come to visit Zach—no, Gideon,” she amended quickly. She saw the tiny spark of interest flare like a struck match in the wary eyes, and pressed on. “You understand English, don’t you? Did Gideon teach you to play the piano?”
The barest nod.
She took a step closer. “He taught me a piece of music, too, a very long time ago.” The black eyes widened and lost some of their fear. “It was the Prelude in C, by Bach. It was one of—Gideon’s—favorites, and became one of mine.”
Very slowly, she moved to the piano, sat down, and touched the keys lightly. He stood slowly, keeping his eyes on her.
“Would you like to hear me play it for you?”
The child shrank back. She could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was ready to run.
“Please don’t go.” She reached for a thick stack of sheet music on top of the piano. “Maybe we could find the Prelude here? Then you could begin to learn it.” She smiled again. “So perhaps one day you could surprise Gideon?”
It was this suggestion that won the small, heart-clenching response. The boy took a step toward the piano, searching her face for reassurance. His eyes met her own, silently beseeching. What is troubling him so, she asked herself?
“It’s okay,” said Maggie to the small, stiff figure. “Ah, here’s the Prelude.”
The child perched on the far edge of the piano bench, tense and ready to flee at the least sign of threat. Maggie looked into the desolate eyes with growing concern. She shifted slowly, careful not to touch him.
“I’m very rusty,” she confided as she ran her fingers over the keys. “This music always made me think of bright colors. And running barefoot in the grass.” She began to play.
When the last notes still trembled in the air, Maggie turned to the dark-haired boy. “I haven’t played that piece in a very long time. Did you like it?”
A cautious nod.
“Me, too. But too many wrong notes. I need to practice. My son calls pr
actice the P-word.” Another wordless nod, and the first faint glimmer of humor in the expressive eyes. Maggie felt her heart trip in her chest. The silent appeal of this child was very great. She reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder. Immediately he shrank from her.
“Maggie!”
Zach stood like a dark Greek god in the doorway. A bristling black Doberman with eyes like burning coals strained at the leash by his side.
“Zach.” Maggie rose from the bench, surprised by the anger in his voice. The dog growled, low in his throat.
“Quiet, Bartok,” said Zach.
“Bartok? You never did like his music.” She tried a small smile.
Zach turned to the boy. “Go to your room, TJ.”
The child jumped to his feet and stood behind the piano, rigid and resistant. Maggie smiled at the child. “Your name is TJ? Cool name.”
The solemn face stared back at her.
“Maybe I could come back later,” she tried again, “and we could work on the music some more?”
This time she thought she saw the barest of smiles tug at the corners of the boy’s mouth.
“What’s going on with you two?” said Zach. The anger no longer burned in his voice as he turned to the boy. “Sorry, TJ,” he said. “I’m not angry with you. Why don’t you try out that new kite of yours? We’ll be outside in just a minute.”
With a final, questioning look at Maggie, the boy slipped past Zach and disappeared through the double doors.
Zach looked down at her. “How long have you been here?”
“Your dog is scaring me.”
“Sorry.” He bent to unclasp the leash. “Go, Bartok,” he said. “Go with TJ.” The huge animal bounded from the room.
“Zach!” cried Maggie.
“Relax,” said Zach, as he took her elbow and guided her toward the open French doors. “The dogs would give their lives for that kid.” He turned to face her. “How long have you been here?” he asked again.
“Long enough to play the Prelude in C for a new friend. Not very well, I might add.”
“So I heard. Bach’s Prelude…” He looked down at his left hand. “It’s been so long since I played that piece.”
“I understand now,” she said.
He swung around. “Understand what?”
“Your concerto,” she said. “The one I heard yesterday at the abbey. So much of the music written for the left hand. It reminded me of Ravel’s Concerto for the Left Hand. But I didn’t make the connection.”
She’d remembered, just in time, that Zach couldn’t know she’d been searching for him. He had no idea that she had seen the note to his father with the unfamiliar handwriting, heard a CD of music not played by his hands, watched the sadness touch the eyes of a woman called Yvette in a Paris café. Yet all the clues had been there for her.
The watchful look dissolved in Zach’s eyes. “Yes, the Austrian pianist, Paul Wittgenstein, commissioned Ravel after he lost his own arm in World War I.”
“Tell me more about your concerto.”
“Still unnamed. But it’s good, isn’t it? Actually, I was inspired by several pieces for the left hand. Saint-Saens, Britten, Strauss. Felix Blumenfeld’s Etude in A-flat, and Prokofiev’s Concerto No. 4.” His fingers moved over the keys of the Bechstein. “Now I’m working on improvisations for Mozart’s Coronation Piano Concerto No. 26, the one where he never wrote down the left-hand part.” He looked down at his left hand. “Music for one hand that creates the sound of two.”
Questions crowded against her lips, but the past would have to wait. You need to know about the child. He’s what’s important.
She took a deep breath. “Tell me about TJ. Does he speak English?”
“TJ understands French, English, and Italian,” said Zach. His voice vibrated with anger and frustration. “But he didn’t answer you because he can’t.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The boy suffers from traumatic speech loss, Slim. He doesn’t speak at all. He’s been mute for almost a year.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
PROVENCE. JULY 10
Dane awakened alone in the great bed, his naked body cold and glistening with sweat. A terrible scream still echoed in his head.
For a long moment he lay very still, trying to sort out the reality from the dream. Who had screamed his name? Sofia Orsini? The boy?
The kid can’t speak, he reminded himself. I’m safe—as long as he doesn’t speak.
He had been dreaming. About Sofia. He had been with her in the darkened chapel on the island. She had looked into his eyes and called him a murderer.
Dane shifted painfully in the bed, still caught in the dream. He had pulled her hard against him. “Where, Sofia?” he’d whispered. “Where did you hide the journal?” Her face was so pale and beautiful in the flickering darkness. He could still feel the sting of her palm as she slapped him. The scrape of her fingernails on his cheek. That was when he had drawn the knife.
He hadn’t meant to kill her, only to bring her home. But he had lost control.
He pictured her brushing her raven hair in the firelight of her bedroom, before she’d left Rome. Just as his mother had done so many years ago.
“Sofia,” he murmured into the quiet shadows.
But when he closed his eyes again, it was Magdalena O’Shea’s face that he saw.
The yellow eyes flew open. Fully awake, Dane smiled slowly. Sofia Orsini and Magdalena O’Shea. Two black-haired, beautiful women.
Both wanting to hurt him.
Dane reached for the empty Absolut bottle that lay cradled on the silken pillow beside his head. Hot pain shot from his injured hand up through his arm and shoulder. Merde.
He steeled himself against the pain and rolled over until he could see the clock on the mantel. Almost noon. He had been sleeping—passed out?—for more than fifteen hours. The vodka, he thought groggily. Alcohol and drugs.
Never before had he failed so badly. You gave up control.
The memories flooded back in a whirling rush. The abbey, the colonel, the fierce struggle. The scorching fire on his palm. The fury and strength of that man were so fucking unexpected. But he’d disappeared over the ledge. Had to be dead.
He sat up with a groan. The vodka chaser for the painkillers had been a mistake. No more drinking, he told himself. Take back control.
First, take care of the hand. Then find Magdalena O’Shea. He would begin the search at Le Refuge. If she had come for Gideon, then Gideon would have the answers.
The kid would be at Le Refuge, too. Watching him, as he always did, with those frightened, dark eyes.
Dane blinked, remembering that night on the island. Finding the terrified boy crumpled on the cliff ledge. It had been so easy to threaten him, slide the knife along his cheek, demand that he never, ever speak of what he’d seen in the chapel.
He knew the boy wouldn’t stay quiet forever.
It had been a mistake to let him live. But the kid had to know where Sofia had hidden Victor’s journal. And, he was Victor’s son.
Dane felt the fear rise in his throat. His name was in that journal, his name, and all the crimes he’d committed. For Victor. But he would not go, could not go, to prison. His hands fisted tightly as he remembered the dark, terrifying closet of his childhood. The ominous scrape of the key in the lock. No. He would never survive being locked up again.
Forget the fucking journal, he told himself. The moment Sofia died, his bridges were burned with Victor. As soon as he completed the hit in the US, he would be gone. “Dane” would no longer exist.
But first…he had to take care of the kid.
Dane smiled in the darkness. The boy had to be silenced for good. Then, finally, he would be safe.
The line from Richard III came to him suddenly, and Dane spoke into the shadows. “So wise, so young, they say, do never live long.”
Once more, he was in control. I have forty-eight hours before I have to be in the US, he told himself. More than enough
time to take care of the kid. And Magdalena O’Shea.
I can’t let anyone stop me now. I will not be locked up. Never again.
* * *
Beckett lowered the powerful field glasses and sat back on the heels of his boots. Dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, he was almost invisible in the dense tangle of pines that clung to the steep hillside.
Below him to the south, Le Refuge shone gold in the midday sun.
Once more his eyes scanned the valley, the road, the vineyards climbing toward the rocky hills, then came back to the house. From his vantage point he could see the curving terrace and the entire rear of the property. Quiet—almost too quiet. Even the dogs had disappeared somewhere. He should have expected the dogs.
He squinted at the tall curtained windows at the back of the house. Where was she?
He’d been in place when she’d arrived at Le Refuge and watched as she waited alone on the terrace. He saw her wander across the stones and hold her wrists under the cool water of the fountain. What had she been thinking?
Then she’d lifted her head to listen—what the devil had she heard, anyway? Squaring her shoulders, she’d walked with determination toward the rear of the house.
Don’t do it, Maggie, he’d pleaded, understanding her destination. Heart hammering in his chest, Beckett watched the billowing white curtains envelop her. Like a malevolent magician’s trick, she was gone.
In the shadow of the parasol pines, Beckett squinted down at his watch. He spat the cold coffee to the earth and once more raised the powerful binoculars to his eyes. You’ve got five more minutes, Maggie.
Beckett shifted his position with an oath as his injured leg began to cramp. You’re too old for this shit, he told himself. A burned-out soldier on a mountainside, searching for a terrorist, a kid, and a one-armed musician. Not to mention hand-to-hand combat in a ravine with a guy some thirty years younger. Somewhere along the line, he’d surely pissed off the gods of irony.
Make that seriously pissed off, he amended. Because here he was, smitten by a piano player still in love with her dead husband.
The Lost Concerto Page 27