Concerto ebook

Praise for Hannah Fielding’s first novel, Burning Embers:

‘An epic romance like Hollywood used to make …’

Peterborough Evening Telegraph

‘Burning Embers is a romantic delight and an absolute must-read for anyone looking to escape to a world of colour, beauty, passion and love.. For those who can’t go to Kenya in reality, this has got to be the next best thing.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘A good-old fashioned love story … A heroine who’s young, naïve and has a lot to learn. A hero who’s alpha and hot, has a past and a string of women. A different time, world, and class. The kind of romance that involves picnics in abandoned valleys and hot-air balloon rides and swimming in isolated lakes. Heavenly.’

Amazon.co.uk review

Praise for The Echoes of Love (winner of the Gold Medal for Romance at the 2014 Independent Publisher Book Awards):

‘One of the most romantic works of fiction ever written … an epic love story beautifully told.’

The Sun

‘Fans of romance will devour it in one sitting.’

The Lady

‘All the elements of a rollicking good piece of indulgent romantic fiction.’

BM Magazine

‘This book will make you wish you lived in Italy.’

Fabulous magazine

‘The book is the perfect read for anyone with a passion for love, life and travel.’

Love it! magazine

‘A plot-twisting story of drama, love and tragedy.’

Italia! magazine

‘Fielding encapsulates the overwhelming experience of falling deeply, completely, utterly in love, beautifully.’

Books with Bunny

Praise for Indiscretion (winner of Gold Medal for romance at the IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards and Best Romance at the USA Best Book Awards):

‘A captivating tale of love, jealousy and scandal.’

The Lady

‘Indiscretion grips from the first. Alexandra is a beguiling heroine, and Salvador a compelling, charismatic hero … the shimmering attraction between them is always as taut as a thread. A powerful and romantic story, one to savour and enjoy.’

Lindsay Townsend – historical romance author

‘Rich description, a beautiful setting, wonderful detail, passionate romance and that timeless, classic feel that provides sheer, indulgent escapism. Bliss!’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘I thought Ms. Fielding had outdone herself with her second novel but she’s done it again with this third one. The love story took my breath away … I could hardly swallow until I reached the end.’

Amazon.com review

Praise for Masquerade (winner of Silver Medal for romance at the IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards):

‘Secrets and surprises … Set in Spain in the 1970s, you’ll be enveloped in this atmospheric story of love and deception.’

My Weekly

‘Hannah Fielding writes of love, sexual tension and longing with an amazing delicacy and lushness, almost luxury. Suffused with the legends and lore of the gypsies and the beliefs of Spain, there is so much in this novel. Horse fairs, sensual dreams, bull running, bull fighters, moonlight swims, the heat and flowers and colours and costumes of the country. A superb read.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘Masquerade contains the kind of romance that makes your heart beat faster and your knees tremble. This was a mesmerising and drama-filled read that left me with a dreamy feeling.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘This engrossing, gorgeous romantic tale was one of my favorite reads in recent memory. This book had intrigue, mystery, revenge, passion and tantalizing love scenes that held captive the reader and didn’t allow a moment’s rest through all of the twists and turns … wonderful from start to finish.’

Goodreads.com review

‘When I started reading Masquerade I was soon completely pulled into the romantic and poetic way Hannah Fielding writes her stories. I honestly couldn’t put Masquerade down. Her books are beautiful and just so romantic, you’ll never want them to end!’

Goodreads.com review

Praise for Legacy (final book in the Andalucían Nights Trilogy):

‘Legacy is filled to the brim with family scandal, frustrated love and hidden secrets. Fast-paced and addictive, it will keep you hooked from start to finish.’

The Lady

‘Beautifully written, and oozing romance and intrigue, Legacy is the much anticipated new novel from award-winning author Hannah Fielding that brings to life the allure of a summer in Cádiz.’

Take a Break

‘In the vein of Gone With The Wind, this particular book is just as epic and timeless. Written with lively detail, you are IN Spain. You are engulfed in the sights, sounds and smells of this beautiful country. Great characters … and a plot with just enough twists to keep it moving along … Start with book one and each one gets better and better. I applaud Ms. Fielding’s story telling skills.’

Amazon.com review

‘Flawless writing and impeccable character building. Legacy takes the readers on a journey through the passions and desires that are aroused from romantic Spanish culture.’

Goodreads.com review

Praise for Aphrodite’s Tears (winner of Best Romance award at the International Book Awards, National Indie Excellence Awards, American Fiction Awards and New York City Big Book Awards):

‘For lovers of romance, lock the doors, curl up, and enjoy.’

Breakaway

‘With romantic settings, wonderful characters and thrilling plots, Hannah Fielding’s books are a joy to read.’

My Weekly

‘The storyline is mesmerising.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘An intriguing mix of Greek mythology, archaeology, mystery and suspense, all served up in a superbly crafted, epic love story.’

Amazon.co.uk review

CONCERTO

HANNAH FIELDING

Harmony is pure love, for love is a concerto.

Lope de Vega

You know my faithfulness to you, never can another own my heart, never – never!

Ludwig van Beethoven

Nice, 2012

When she woke up that morning to the dazzling blue sky of Nice, Catriona Drouot had no idea that the past was about to catch up with her. No premonition, no sense of something momentous waiting to happen. As far as she was concerned, this was simply another routine day. She certainly had no inkling that the meeting fated to take place in the next hour would set in motion a train of events that was to change her life irrevocably for the second time in ten years.

She hurried down the hill of Vieux Nice, the old town of the Riviera’s capital where she lived with her mother and her nine-year-old son in a beautiful house at the foot of Castle Hill, and from where there were breathtaking panoramic views. She had overslept, after poring over some paperwork into the small hours, and was late for her first appointment at the clinic. L’Esperance Drouot was a small, though highly acclaimed, psychology practice, set up four years earlier with her business partner and best friend, Marie-Jeanne Berger. Now the clinic was rapidly establishing itself as one of the most respected of its kind in Nice. Catriona specialized in a variety of psychological disciplines but, above all else, it was music therapy that fascinated her most and was closest to her heart; somehow using music to alleviate other people’s suffering eased the pain of the frustrated musician within her.

Ten years before, at eighteen, she’d had much grander ambitions – those of becoming an international opera singer – but life had other plans for her. Then, because she could not live without music, she had decided to divert her passion in another positive direction. She had become an authority in the field of music therapy, with respected research papers and books to her name. As a result, her clients came from all corners of the globe to seek her help and advice.

Catriona pulled the scarf up higher under her chin. It was a spring morning, with more than a touch of mistral, despite the bright sunshine. She made her way through the maze of narrow cobbled streets bordered with tall pastel buildings, their faded blue shutters shut tight against the fierce gusts. Catriona had always thought those streets, which daylight scarcely penetrated, felt much more Italian than French – and not surprisingly, given that Nice was reunited with France only in 1860; Garibaldi had been born here and Catriona’s mother Marguerite had often enjoyed pointing out that the great general had been baptized in the parish church of Saint Martin-Saint-Augustin, where Catriona herself had been christened.

Although the wind had died down a little, the newly washed linen, threaded from balcony to balcony high above her head, flapped in the breeze so loudly that one could only just discern the shrill patois of the chattering women as they gossiped in front of their doors, an occasional sleeping dog at their feet, or the similar babble of another group as they queued outside the bakery for warm croissants. She loved the hustle and bustle of this typical Provençal city with its colourful markets of flower, vegetable and fish stalls from which the local people bought their produce.

As Catriona entered the clinic, Nicole, the young receptionist, came quickly over to her, seeming slightly flustered.

‘Bonjour, Docteur Drouot. There’s a lady in the waiting room. She’s been here since the clinic opened this morning and …’

‘Bonjour, Nicole, I know I’m late.’ Catriona gave her a brisk smile. ‘No need for coffee today,’ she added. ‘If you could just bring in my first patient, I’ll get started.’

‘That is what I was about to say … le petit Jean’s mother called to let you know that he’s sick and won’t be able to keep his appointment.’

‘Oh, so who were you talking about?’

‘An elderly lady sitting in the waiting room. Not one of our clients, I think. A foreigner, Italian maybe. When I told her this week’s appointments were all booked – that was before le petit Jean cancelled – she said she would stay here until you saw her.’

Catriona raised an eyebrow. ‘I see, a determined lady … Well, in that case, she’s in luck. Has she filled out a form?’

‘She refused, saying you would understand once she had spoken to you.’

Catriona sighed. ‘Okay, just give me a few minutes to open my mail, then send her in. And I will have that cup of coffee, please. The lady can be filling out the form in the meantime.’

Nicole nodded. ‘By the way, Marie-Jeanne is back. She cut her holiday short … was bored, she says … couldn’t stay away, apparently.’

Catriona smiled. ‘Ah! That’s good news. It’s been so hectic this past week without her. Thanks, Nicole,’ and with her light but energetic step, she hastened down the corridor and spiralled up the staircase to the first floor, where she had her office.

Catriona was tall, her body slender and supple, innately graceful. Her features had a delicacy that was faintly deceptive: she was not quite as vulnerable as she seemed, yet her hazel-brown eyes, a little too big for her face, had an occasional sadness, as if something haunted her, added to which her long, delicate throat made her seem fragile. Still, the feature that turned heads whenever she went by was the colour of her long, abundant silken hair. It was a rich dark brown, close to the colour of polished chestnut, and when she wasn’t wearing it in a neat bun at work, it fell in loose waves down her back. Even during clinic hours, in her elegant suit with her hair tied back, there was a natural warmth about her, and her charm was purely feminine.

Although the pale yellow room Catriona had chosen for her office was not the largest in the clinic, it was the most cheerful. South-facing, the sunshine streamed in through the wide bay window when the striped silk voile curtains were pulled back, and you could see beyond the small garden all the way to the Mediterranean. There was nothing clinical or austere about the room, nothing to remind the patient that he or she needed treatment. The walls were adorned with photographs of renowned concert maestros and conductors, and Catriona had endeavoured to render a feeling of comfort and warmth, with tan vintage bijou armchairs positioned opposite her desk. A compact library cabinet on the right-hand wall held biographies of her favourite composers and a collection of antique leather-bound music folios, which she bought at auction whenever she had the opportunity. On a low table to the left was a variety of small musical instruments – a violin, guitar, glockenspiel and assorted woodwind instruments – that she sometimes used with children to break the ice during the first interview.

Catriona sat down at her walnut desk and began flipping through the small pile of mail. A moment later, Nicole brought in her cup of coffee, then it was Marie-Jeanne’s turn to pop her head round the door.

‘I’m back, like a bad penny,’ she announced breezily. ‘A holiday from hell, which started off when I lost my luggage! But I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.’

‘You’re never very good at holidays.’ Catriona grinned up at the other woman. ‘In any case, it’s good to see you. I can’t say that I’m not relieved to have you back. We’ve been so hectic and I don’t think it’ll slow down for a while. We’re in for a busy period.’

‘Excellent! I need to get my teeth into something after lolling about with nothing to do on the Seychelles beaches. Anyway, I’ll let you get on.’

‘I’ll see you later.’

Catriona gulped down her coffee. No time today to savour every sip; nevertheless, she was glad to feel the welcome effects of the caffeine. She went back to the small stack of letters. A large yellow courier envelope caught her attention. Frowning slightly, she slit it open with an antique silver penknife and extracted the contents – a much smaller, handwritten off-white envelope. A spasm of shock made her stomach muscles clench as she recognized the address and the crest that adorned the upper left corner: a black-and-white coat of arms depicting a crowned golden eagle owl holding a key in one talon and a sword in the other, belonging to the Rolando Monteverdi family. Echoes of a voice deeply seductive, intriguingly foreign, floated hauntingly across the mists of time, seeping into Catriona’s memory. With trembling hands, she opened the letter, her eyes darting to the signature: Calandra Rolando Monteverdi, a famous name in the world of opera though she had long retired from the stage.

Catriona had never had the privilege of hearing the diva sing live but she owned many recordings of Calandra’s glowing performances. Before her marriage to Viscount Vittorio Rolando Monteverdi, the young soprano had been Isabella Lombardi, yet her rapid rise to stardom soon left that name behind. Because of her beautiful voice, the press, and very soon everybody else, nicknamed her ‘La Calandra’ – ‘lark’ in Italian – and thereafter the prima donna was known only by that sobriquet. Yet Calandra herself was not the reason why Catriona paled at the sight of the illustrious name; just seeing ‘Monteverdi’ on the page conjured up painful memories, the scars of which would haunt her, she thought, for the rest of her life.

She was just about to begin reading the letter when there was a knock at the door. Catriona swore under her breath – this must be Nicole with the determined foreigner who wouldn’t fill out any forms. Damn it! Now she would have to wait until the end of this meeting to know what the disturbing missive disclosed.

‘Come in.’

The new patient walked in and Catriona sucked in a breath. The woman was tall and straight, still beautiful for her age, Catriona thought as she met the emerald-green eyes that surveyed her expectantly.

‘I wrote you a letter.’ The older woman’s gaze flicked to the paper still clutched in Catriona’s hand. ‘I see you’ve received it. I am Calandra Rolando Monteverdi.’

Catriona quickly got to her feet and shook the woman’s hand, which was covered by a black kid glove. ‘Yes, I know who you are. Please have a seat.’ She tried to keep her voice even as she struggled to recover from her second shock that morning. Keeping her gaze level, Catriona sat down, leaning back in her chair to give a semblance of composure.

The elegant woman slid into one of the armchairs opposite and peeled off her gloves. ‘I must apologize for turning up without an appointment but I thought it would be quicker this way.’ She smiled that coaxing diva smile that was once part of her charm in the days of her prime. ‘And honestly, I didn’t think I would be able to wait for your answer. You see, this is quite a pressing case. I’ve waited too long already, and he’s not getting any better …’ She was agitated, talking all at once so that Catriona couldn’t get a word in edgeways. ‘He’s already tried to commit suicide, you see …’

Catriona’s mind stumbled to keep up. ‘Suicide? Who are you referring to?’

Calandra tossed her head irritably. ‘My son, of course. Umberto Rolando Monteverdi, the great concert pianist and composer.’ Her glittering eyes narrowed almost accusingly as they fixed on the young woman in front of her.

A cold hand gripped Catriona’s heart. No, it couldn’t be … Fate couldn’t do this to her!

‘You must have heard of him, even though he hasn’t given a concert for four years since he became blind,’ Calandra stated imperiously.

Catriona had read about the accident that had robbed the virtuoso of his sight, but nothing about a suicide attempt – the family must have kept that from the press. The gossip columns had long ceased to detail the many women who passed through the life of the young composer – evidently his womanizing days had been curtailed by this sudden blindness – and yet if the press had found out that Umberto Rolando Monteverdi had tried to kill himself, he would have instantly been front-page news again. ‘Yes, I heard of that terrible tragedy,’ she said quietly.

The diva, barely listening, went on relentlessly. ‘You must save him. I’ve read all about you, I know you are the one person who can help. A doctorate in music and one of the best music therapists in Europe. Not only do you have experience with patients suffering from depression but you also work with blind children, I’m told. You even know how to teach Braille so they can read an orchestral score. Am I right?’

Catriona tried to control the trembling in her voice. ‘I see you’ve done your homework on me, signora.’

Calandra gave a brusque nod. ‘Of course. An old singing friend of mine had heard of your work, which led me to research your qualifications. Which are, I may say, impeccable. It seems you are uniquely placed to help my son.’ Calandra’s alert eyes continued to study Catriona, who could detect a thread of anxiety lacing the diva’s confident stare.

Catriona paused before continuing. ‘Yes, music therapy can have a significant effect on depression. In some cases, it has been remarkably successful, but nothing is guaranteed. My technique does try to strengthen the mind and even heal the body. It is all about unlocking the creative spirit in the patient.’

‘Umberto is a musician. I’m sure that, above all people, you can do something to help him.’

For a moment a vision swam into Catriona’s mind of the old house, Les Platanes, where she had first heard those exquisite strains of piano music floating in through her bedroom window late at night.

She cleared her throat before she answered. ‘Where is he living now?’

‘He’s at our home in Torno, on Lake Como. At first, when we thought he might get his sight back, his spirits revived. He had even started to write a new concerto. Then we found out that he would be blind for life, and he’s been slowly deteriorating once more. You are our last hope.’

‘So, will you be moving to Nice?’

Calandra looked perplexed, a frown creasing her haughty demeanour. ‘Nice? His home is in Torno, I tell you. You can’t possibly expect him to move to Nice. Umberto left Nice a long time ago.’

Now it was Catriona’s turn to look confused. ‘But my clinic is here.’

‘Be that as it may,’ Calandra waved the thought away with a graceful hand. ‘I have come to ask you to move to Torno.’

Catriona tried to keep outwardly cool despite the turbulence going on inside her. ‘But …’

‘You will be handsomely remunerated.’

‘It’s not a question of money. My business … my family … You’re asking the impossible.’

‘Nothing is impossible, Dottoressa. I am aware that you have a son and a mother in your charge. We can relocate all of you without any difficulty.’

Catriona’s eyes now rounded in disbelief. ‘You can’t expect me to disrupt my whole life for just one case.’

Reaching into her bag, Calandra took out her purse. Her long fingers dipped deep inside it and she produced a small photograph that she laid on Catriona’s desk.

The young woman took the picture and, almost fearfully, looked down at the image. Her hand began to shake. It was a photograph of Umberto and herself, taken ten years ago. She could hardly bear to see how young and radiant she looked, how happy and alive, and in a fleeting instant she was there at Le Beaumont Club restaurant in Saint Paul de Vence; she could sense him, feel him next to her and even catch hints of his aftershave, Armani’s City Glam, which still had the power to conjure up painful memories whenever someone wearing it passed her in the street.

‘It’s you, isn’t it? You were very young then,’ the diva murmured, invading Catriona’s cherished but sad reflection.

‘Yes. Where did you find this?’

‘When I went to pack up Umberto’s house in Villefranche, after he’d decided to sell it following the accident, I found it in a stack of other photographs. It struck me because you looked so young and innocent … and you both seemed so happy.’

Catriona’s usually golden complexion was now creamy white, her lips trembling slightly as her eyes finally tore themselves from the photograph and met the now softened gaze of Calandra.

‘As I said, your qualifications are only part of what convinced me that you are the right person to help my son.’

It took a lot to shake Catriona’s customary composure but this situation had certainly succeeded in doing so. With an acute effort she regained her equilibrium and gave a small nod. ‘I see,’ she whispered, emotion still choking her.

‘You knew Umberto, although I don’t know to what extent. Intimately, no doubt, judging by this photograph.’ Calandra searched Catriona’s stunned face as she spoke. ‘So, when I began looking into your work and saw your picture in a newspaper article about your clinic, I remembered the snapshot I had seen at the house. You’ve hardly changed despite the years.’ A small smile curved her lips.

‘I thought that maybe you could be the one to cure his depression. He’s already tried to take his life once, and now seeing him becoming more and more self-destructive …’ A haunted look crossed her face. ‘That’s why I decided to come here myself to meet you in person and try to convince you to take on his case. Or at least to give it a try for a few weeks.’

Catriona’s head was throbbing suddenly. For a moment she looked away from Calandra’s pleading expression and stared silently at the trees outside the window. Across the sweeping lawn a stand of tall birches shivered and bowed restlessly under the onslaught of the wind. Catriona could see the Mediterranean glinting in the distance, its usually serene surface agitated and troubled – a reflection, it seemed to her, of her own mood. Little whitecaps contrasted sharply with water that was even bluer than the Côte d’Azur sky but, for once, the breathtaking beauty of the scene failed to soothe her.

Aware that the woman in front of her was waiting on tenterhooks for an answer, Catriona shifted in her chair. Finally, she looked up at the mother of the man she had once loved … the man she still loved but could not bring herself to forgive. She heaved a deep sigh and rubbed her forehead in a weary, resigned gesture. ‘I honestly don’t know, I have responsibilities …’

‘You are widowed or divorced presumably, you have no husband?’

Catriona shot her an uneasy glance. ‘Yes, I’m a widow, but I have other obligations. My son’s at school, I simply can’t uproot him. I’ve got a business to run too.’

Those bright green eyes looked at her levelly. ‘As you said, I’ve done my homework, Dottoressa. You’ve left your son with your mother before so that you can pursue your studies. You still do on occasion, so you can attend conferences. Regarding your business, I have no doubt that the sum I will pay you for, let’s say, three months, you would have difficulty earning in one year.’

Catriona was fighting for self-control, her hands clasped tensely together. ‘I have clients who need me and a partner who works with me on several projects.’

‘No one is indispensable, Dottoressa. From what I hear, your partner is perfectly capable of holding the fort and keeping your clients happy while you’re away. Anyway, you will have the funds to employ a temporary replacement. All I am asking for is three months of your life to save that of a virtuoso, who still has so much to offer to the world and who dearly needs your help. In this particular instance you are indispensable.’

Viscountess Calandra Rolando Monteverdi rose and held out her hand. ‘I will not take up any more of your time, Dottoressa. I leave you to your conscience. You will find my contact details in the letter I sent you. Buona giornata, good day.’ With that, she turned on her heel and left the room.

With a sinking feeling, Catriona stared at the grains of sand filtering slowly down through the hourglass on the desk in front of her. She was faced with a choice that would finally decide her fate, a choice that pitted her heart against her conscience. As if overwhelmed by an invisible outside force, her pale cheeks suddenly burned, her light-brown eyes blazing almost black.

There was unfinished business between Umberto Rolando Monteverdi and herself. Over the past ten years she had tried to exorcise him from her body and soul through rigid self-control; she felt as though her whole being had been in one position for so long that her body was cramped, her blood supply almost cut off, making her numb inside. Now destiny, uninvited, had come knocking on her door. The diva’s visit had set the blood coursing through her body and the pain and elation of it was terrifying.

Ten years previously – Nice, 2002

Les Platanes had been sold. It had been empty ever since Catriona de Vere and her mother had moved to Nice when she was eleven and moved into Les Charmilles, the house next door. Up until then Catriona had spent her childhood growing up in the wilds of Norfolk, with its chalk downs and still waters, a remote location where few of her friends were within easy distance. When Sir William de Vere, Catriona’s English father, had died in the spring of 1997, her mother Marguerite, who had never taken to the English weather, decided to leave Norfolk and move to Nice, her native home.

Les Platanes had from the very first day attracted Catriona’s curiosity. It was a handsome, two-storey belle-époque house, built of pinkish-red brick, with white shutters and completely surrounded by terraces. A high wall enclosed the grounds, encompassing a large square garden at the back, kept in pristine condition season after season by a couple of gardeners whom Catriona glimpsed from time to time, even as the house itself remained unoccupied. Old plane trees, their wide spreading branches laden with dark palmate lobed leaves, cast their welcoming shade in the summer; in winter they were pruned back to tall and contorted bare stumps, which in the moonlight resembled eccentric-looking giants.

She remembered when she’d first found out more about the house. It was one morning, after they’d been living at Les Charmilles for a few years. Catriona, by then a teenager, was passing by the gated entrance of Les Platanes on her way to a singing lesson when she saw one of the gardeners coming out of the property and locking the gate. On impulse she stopped and smiled.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’

Turning, the old man lifted his cap and smiled back at her. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Que puis-je faire pour vous? Good morning, Miss, what can I do for you?’

‘I’m curious. Why is this beautiful house always closed?’

‘It is still for sale, Mademoiselle.’

‘For sale? Who owns it? And why hasn’t it sold? It’s so beautiful.’

The gardener pocketed his keys and slung his bag of tools over one shoulder. ‘It belongs to Ronald Heiss. You know, the famous American actor found dead on his yacht last year. It’s been on the market ever since. People are afraid to buy it now.’

Catriona’s perfectly arched eyebrows drew together. ‘Surely people aren’t so stupid? Such a magnificent house …’

It appeared that the gardener was all for a bit of juicy gossip. He came closer and lowered his voice. ‘It’s believed the house is cursed.’

‘Cursed? What do you mean? Why?’

The old man came closer still, so much so that Catriona could smell the garlic on his warm breath. ‘The number of owners, or members of their families, who’ve died shortly after buying this building is suspicious, to say the least. Shocking, in fact.’

Catriona’s eyes widened.

‘Yes, Mademoiselle, it’s true. The first to die was the infant son of the first owner, the great Italian architect Giovanni Morelli. In the fifties … meningitis, it was. That was followed by the suicide of his wife, Claudia. A couple of years later, the Spanish bullfighter Manuel de la Cueva was found dead in his bath, murdered. Then the beautiful actress Maria Pia Gasman died in a car accident. A sad and terrible history this place has – and now that nasty business of the American found dead too.’

Catriona shivered and gazed up at the mellow brick and closed pale shutters of Les Platanes. It was as if the villa was asleep. ‘It looks such a peaceful house.’

The old man glanced at her with amusement before turning to lock the gate. ‘Ah, Mademoiselle, il ne faut pas se fier aux apparences, do not be fooled by appearances.’

‘Thank you. Er, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

The gardener smiled. ‘Jeannot, Mademoiselle. Jeannot Bonnet.’

‘Au revoir, Jeannot, et à bientôt.’

‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle …?’

‘Catriona.’

‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle Catriona.’

Thereafter, although Catriona had regarded the house with a mixture of fear and respect, its gruesome background neither lessened her awe of its beauty nor her interest in it; in fact, her fertile teenage imagination conjured all sorts of images of the past lives led behind its elegant walls. On long summer evenings, she often sat on the veranda outside her bedroom and contemplated the fine proportions of the house next door – its mien changing with every shift of light and shadow – and wondered who the next occupants might be.

While smaller, it was true that Catriona’s house was just as grand and beautiful in style as Les Platanes. It was one of a cluster of smart villas built on the flank of the mount, a prestigious residential area of Nice known as Mont Boron. From there they could see down to the Port of Nice and beyond to the whole of Villefranche. In the distance you could just make out Monte Carlo and Bordighera on the Italian coast. The luscious green of the fifty-seven hectares of forest acted as a separating wall between Cap de Nice on the western tip of the peninsula and Villefranche-sur-Mer, the small town to the east, and the rich parkland gave this sought-after quarter a rural feel while being not too far from the centre of the town and the sea.

Les Charmilles had been the Drouots’ holiday home when Marguerite was a child. The greyish-blue villa with its turquoise shutters and wrought-iron balconies was surrounded by a handsome garden, with beech trees and graceful pins parasol that were indigenous to the area. The garden was a profusion of beautiful roses and oleander bushes, centred by a fountain where birds came to drink. Catriona had always loved it, but now its charms seemed to pale in comparison with those of the house next door. Les Platanes was intriguing – her dream, her secret … a strange, wild, contradictory place. One day perhaps she would own it, she told herself.

Catriona had taken to her new life in Nice like a duck to water. Enrolled at Le Collège Privé Sainte-Marie-de-Chavagnes, the teenager soon left her mark in the subjects of music and languages, taking up Italian since she was already fluent in English and French. But it was through music that Catriona’s creative imagination really took flight. From an early age in England she had learned the piano and violin and quickly progressed with these in her new school in Nice. However, Catriona’s teachers, having soon noticed her unusually beautiful voice, had suggested to Marguerite that she send her daughter to a singing teacher to develop her voice. Everyone agreed that this was where her true gift lay, and that way the young girl had the opportunity to embrace a career in opera if she wanted to take her talent further.

By the time Catriona reached sixteen, she had joined Le Conservatoire à Rayonnement Régional de Nice, the regional music and dance conservatory. Singing now her principal study, she was preparing for a competition that would grant her entrance to the Conservatoire National Supérieur de Musique et de Danse in Paris. So far, Catriona had won every level of the competition. Now, there were only two finalists competing for the prize of a place and she was working long hours to ensure her victory – admission to the coveted conservatory that would, hopefully, launch her career in the world of opera.

So, on this spring night of 2002, having practised her singing for a couple of hours before dinner, Catriona went to bed early, too exhausted to even pick up the book on her bedside table. She was in the habit of reading a few pages to unwind and make her drowsy before turning off the light, but tonight she could scarcely keep her eyes open.

She was woken out of a sound sleep by the insistent blare of wild music. It was usually so quiet in this part of Nice, with only the roar of the surf against the rocks and muffled traffic noises drifting occasionally from the road a quarter of a mile away to break the stillness. The sudden, unexpected intrusion into the quiet night made her sit bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding, her mind disorientated. She looked around the shadowy room. Had she left the radio on inadvertently? She would never have put on music like that: a strident, pounding rock beat that hurt her musical sensibilities as much as her ears. She listened carefully. The sound seemed to be coming from outside.

Catriona jumped out of bed and went to one of the three windows, peering out at the night-cloaked municipal tennis courts to the left of the house, thinking that the music might be coming from midnight hooligans with a loud CD player. This had happened occasionally in the past – once her mother had had to call out the police – but tonight the terracotta-coloured expanse was deserted.

She then went to another window, pushed open the long shutters and stepped on to the veranda. There it was: Les Platanes was ablaze with light. Dressed only in thin cotton pyjamas, shivering in the cool night air, she hugged herself tightly and stared at the house. The curtains had been pulled open and she could see several people milling about inside and out on one of the wide terraces.

Suddenly the music stopped and she could hear loud voices raised in laughter and shouted conversations. It must be a party, she thought, now completely awake and fascinated to see who could be occupying the house that had been empty for so long. She gazed out into the darkness, trying to get a better look at the people, but the house was too far away and all she could make out were dim, moving shapes. There did seem to be a lot of them, though.

Then some music began again but it was different this time. Someone was playing the piano: Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’. It had once been likened by the German poet Ludwig Rellstab to the effect of moonlight shining on Lake Lucerne, and to Catriona tonight it suggested the silvery orb shining on the Mediterranean. Entranced, the eighteen-year-old musician listened with a beating heart to the liquid notes that floated to her through the night, a mesmerizing melody that held her in its charm long after it had ceased to play. Although she was cold, Catriona waited a little longer on the balcony in the hope that the pianist would grace his or her audience with another piece but instead it was the rock music of before that blasted through the open windows again. Heaving a disappointed sigh, she went inside and returned to bed. Soon after, the noise ceased as abruptly as it had started.

The next morning when she passed by the house on her way to the Conservatoire she gazed up with an even greater interest. However, it was exactly the same as it had always been: shutters closed, utterly silent, seemingly uninhabited. There was no sign that the night before it had been animated by a crowd of people and that haunting piano playing. Had she dreamt it all? No, she remembered it quite clearly. It had been real enough.

For the rest of that day Catriona was distracted, unable to chase from her mind the plaintive sounds of the ‘Moonlight Sonata’, so masterly executed. She was impatient to return home. Curiosity and her vivid imagination had already painted pictures of the occupants of the house and, more specifically, of the pianist with magic fingers.

The sun was setting when the bus dropped Catriona at the Mont Boron stop, a five-minute walk to her home. Although she had a driving licence and an old Deux Chevaux car her mother had given her for her eighteenth birthday, most days she preferred taking the bus even though it was an almost forty-minute ride to the Conservatoire. The traffic during rush hour in and out of the Provençal capital was quite heavy and it meant she could enjoy the view or read a book during the journey.

As she reached Les Platanes Catriona noticed that the gates were ajar. She walked slowly towards them, closer than ever before, and stood for a long time staring up at the stunning edifice in the setting sun. There was absolutely no sign of life. She sighed somewhat impatiently at the realization she would probably never know what this house was like inside. But why shouldn’t she? she asked herself defensively. After all, the gates were open, weren’t they? They had never been left open before. What if someone had broken in? She was still wondering whether she should go in to investigate when suddenly she heard the sound of music. That decided her, and curiosity won over prudence. She went in, letting the slow, delicate and plaintive piano strains guide her steps.

The music was clearly audible now. Although it bore shades of Chopin, it was not a piece Catriona recognized. A few seconds later it stopped abruptly, the discordant sound of someone bringing their hands down hard on the keys ending the strangely poignant melody. Catriona was surprised, as much by the angry disruption of the piece as its sudden cessation. Cautiously, she mounted the steps to the terrace and tiptoed round the curve of the building. She was just about to peep around the side of an open French window when she almost bumped into the man who was coming out of it.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? Who are you?’

Caught unawares, Catriona was almost scared out of her wits by the angry voice that accosted her. She looked up to face her interrogator.

In the silence of that moment her impression was that a foreign sculptor had made this man and then stood him in the wind and the sun, allowing them to weather his face into a dangerous attraction. He was perhaps in his mid-twenties and very tall, his lean frame making his height not apparent at first glance. His dark hair was windblown into a fashionably wild look. The very bright emerald-coloured eyes staring down at her were glittering with anger but riveting in his bronzed face, the contrast somehow increasing the threat he emanated as he towered over her.

Catriona swallowed hard, not sure how to handle this, but she knew instinctively that, in the blink of an eye, her pleasant, peaceful existence had been shattered. Still, the man’s strong, chiselled face with high cheekbones and aristocratic mien, was familiar. It wasn’t a face one forgot … where had she seen him? Recognition lurked at the edges of her brain, but how could she possibly think straight with him looming over her like that?

‘I was walking,’ she offered hurriedly. ‘I heard music … the house has been closed for years …’

‘So, you came to spy on me.’ He spoke with a strong Italian accent.

‘No. Why would I want to do that?’

‘What else would you call it?’

‘I was curious, that’s all,’ she exclaimed, recovering a little from her fright. ‘I’m sorry, I thought the house was unoccupied.’

‘Well, it’s not. I live here now,’ he declared flatly.

Catriona let out a breath with a gulp. ‘Well, now I know.’

‘What is your name?’ he asked casually.

‘Catriona … Catriona de Vere.’

‘Sounds like a stage name.’

Was that amusement in his voice?

‘Well, it isn’t,’ she said.

‘Do you live around here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘There.’ Catriona pointed to the grey-blue house with its turquoise shutters.

‘So, we’re neighbours, eh?’

‘Yes.’

He glanced at her again. ‘Girl of few words, aren’t you?’

She flushed, her creamy skin colouring slightly. ‘Yes.’

‘I see.’

She was about to turn to leave when the man caught her arm, his eyes narrowing with a sudden gleam. ‘So, what d’you do with yourself in Mont Boron, Caterina de Vere?’

Her cheeks blazed as she pulled away from him. ‘Nothing that would be of any interest to you.’

He laughed, his green eyes dancing. ‘Try me.’

She turned and he caught hold of her arm again.

‘Not so fast! You can’t run away like this.’

This time she tried to wrench her arm from his grip. ‘I really have to go.’

His dark brows arched mockingly. ‘Why so nervous?’

‘I’m not nervous,’ she snapped, struggling to get free of him.

‘I’m not about to make a pass,’ he drawled. ‘No need for your pulses to flutter.’

Catriona stared back at him, her face icy, though an unnerving heat passed through her skin where he was touching her. He was far too handsome for his own good, and too confident into the bargain. ‘My pulses would never flutter for you,’ she said scornfully. ‘You’re not my type.’

His bright mocking gaze held hers intently. ‘Famous last words,’ he said with a sudden grin and let go of her arm.

Catriona took a step back. ‘My God,’ she sighed, rolling her eyes, ‘you ought to buy a suitcase to carry your ego around, the weight must be killing you!’

His laughter rose again, untouched by her sarcasm, but Catriona had already turned away and she hurried down the steps, moving with a natural agility across the garden and out of the gate, pursued by the memory of the stunning-looking but obnoxious stranger and his disarming emerald eyes.

Then just as she was reaching her doorstep she remembered where she had seen him. Only that morning his photograph had been plastered on posters all over the walls of the Conservatoire, announcing his upcoming piano concert. She had read about him in gossip magazines and broadsheet newspapers but had never heard him play. Until now she hadn’t given him any thought at all, preoccupied as she was with her own life and dreams. His name was Umberto Rolando Monteverdi, a rising star in the world of classical music and the son of the famous opera diva, Calandra. With a name like that, no wonder the man had such an inflated ego.

To say that Catriona lived in a world of her own would not have been quite correct. Yet, growing up over-protected in many ways, the young girl had got used to withdrawing into a world where she found her freedom – a world of music, from which she came back refreshed, enlivened and somehow fulfilled. It hadn’t actually been her intention, but Marguerite de Vere had made sure that her daughter was so shielded from the realities of life that at the age of eighteen Catriona was still innocent, unaware of the pitfalls of love, ignorant of the harsher aspects of life. Because of this, among her feelings of indignation and scorn at the arrogance of Umberto Rolando Monteverdi there lurked the undercurrent of something thrilling and novel that spoke to her wilder side and pushed away all coherent thought.

As Catriona ran up the steps that led to her front door her pulse, contrary to what she would have liked to admit, was racing. With trembling hands, she put her key in the lock. A wave of irritation swept over her as her mother called out predictably, ‘Is that you, Catriona? You’re rather later than usual, I was worried.’ Now all she wanted was to get to her computer to look up the new virtuoso.

‘Yes, it’s me, Maman,’ she answered, rushing up the wrought-iron staircase that led to the first floor and her bedroom.

As she slid into a pair of jeans and a smooth, winter-white cashmere sweater her gaze moved to the open window and fell on the dark shape of Les Platanes that loomed in the gathering shadows of nightfall. The brick walls that usually appeared so softly charming seemed massively defiant this evening. The light was on in the room facing the terrace where she and the pianist had had their argument, a pool of ghostly radiance in the dusky twilight, and suddenly she wished that this first encounter with the budding composer had not turned out the way it had.

She had been trespassing, he was quite right to be angry. She had heard about stars hounded by fans and the paparazzi. Of course, that’s what he’d meant when he said: ‘You came here to spy on me’ – he’d taken her for a journalist.

‘Catriona, dinner’s ready,’ her mother called out.

‘Coming!’

It was Sidonie the cook-housekeeper’s night off, so Marguerite and her daughter were having their meal in the warm Provençal kitchen that formed the heart of the house. The room had a homely, rustic feel that Catriona loved, its baked-earth colours highlighted in the warm terracotta marbled worktops and stone floors. When her mother was away on business Catriona always ate with Sidonie, sitting at the chunky beechwood table on folding French chairs whose simple beige-and-cream-coloured seat covers made the room feel even more relaxed. Close to the large central island were high dressers, hand-carved in solid oak and painted in matt cream, displaying china on their shelves, where a number of cookery books were also stacked.

Catriona loved cooking. When she was younger she often spent her afternoons baking or concocting savoury dishes while listening to Sidonie’s merry chatter – she would either gossip or recount legends from her native Corsica. Now, unfortunately, with the long hours needed to practise her singing for the upcoming competition, Catriona didn’t have much time to pursue such hobbies.

‘You came in later than usual, ma chérie,’ her mother said as she ladled soup into the bowl Catriona was holding out to her. ‘I was rather worried. There was a bus accident the other day on the airport road.’

‘Yes, I was delayed at the Conservatoire,’ she lied. She doubted Marguerite would approve of her sneaking over to the house next door uninvited, and getting caught red-handed by the new owner. Particularly when that owner was Umberto Monteverdi. An image of the dark and dangerous-looking musician swam into Catriona’s vision; she placed her steaming bowl on the table and stared down into it as though the contents held something entirely fascinating – anything to avoid her mother’s gaze.

Although Catriona and her widowed mother were close, and an easy-going and charming relationship existed between the two of them, Catriona, being an only child, was very private. Discussing matters of the heart was something that she and her mother seldom did and, anyway, Catriona had neither the time nor the opportunity to discover the opposite sex. This was uncharted territory for her and the exploration of such a mysterious landscape was an adventure yet to be embarked upon for the teenager; and one which her mother would have delayed as long as possible if it were within her power.

Marguerite de Vere, perhaps as a result of being an only child whose parents were emotionally absent from her life, was an odd combination of self-sufficient career woman, who wanted the same independence for her daughter, and over-protective mother who couldn’t quite let go. Her own mother and father had died shortly after she had married Sir William and she was a wealthy woman in her own right. Having no siblings, she had inherited everything from her parents, who were from the rich haute bourgeoisie. Both had been wrapped up in their careers – her father a renowned cardiologist and her mother a talented cellist who had played professionally for the French National Orchestra and was often away on tour. The young Marguerite had seen little of them while growing up.

At twenty-four, the intelligent and deceptively energetic Marguerite had been physically similar to Catriona, delicately pretty with a slight figure. However, the dark-haired, brown-eyed young lawyer had not inherited her mother’s gift for music. Marguerite had ideas of her own. Very down-to-earth, she had studied international law and had met her future husband while on secondment at the commercial section of the French Embassy in London.

Sir William was considerably older than Marguerite and they had married within a year. His young bride had immediately become pregnant but returned to work at her English law firm quickly after Catriona’s birth, pursuing her career with characteristic zeal and efficiency until her husband’s death, the summer before Catriona was due to go to boarding school. Faced with such a momentous upheaval, with typical decisiveness Marguerite decided to pack their things and leave England. She had never had the heart to put her daughter through the English public school system and, taking a two-year sabbatical, devoted her time to Catriona while they settled into their new life in France.

Despite having money, bringing up her child single-handed was a lonely business. Yet Marguerite was no stranger to loneliness and if she cocooned Catriona a little more than she intended while she was growing up, it was no doubt due to her determination not to echo her own mother’s apparent indifference. Like many fragile-looking women, Marguerite had a strain of toughness that disagreeably surprised anyone who challenged her most treasured convictions, the strongest of these being that her one child was distinctly more remarkable than anyone else’s.

Now, mother and daughter were sitting at the table with their soup, talking about their respective days, Marguerite cutting into the warmed baguette bought by Sidonie that morning. The local boulangerie was owned by the housekeeper’s cousin, which meant that the kitchen of Les Charmilles had no shortage of fresh bread and pastries, most of which Sidonie managed to consume herself quite happily.

‘I think Les Platanes has finally been sold,’ Marguerite remarked as they started on their main course.

Catriona felt her cheeks sting with bright pink as she feigned surprise. ‘Les Platanes? Mon Dieu! I thought the old place would fall down before someone actually bought it.’

Marguerite buttered them both some bread. ‘It’s in quite good repair, I think. The garden has always been attended to meticulously. One of the gardeners came to borrow some of our topsoil this morning.’

Catriona kept her eyes fixed on her cassoulet, the rich, slow-cooked casserole they always had on Sidonie’s night off, the recipe for which had been handed down through generations of Marguerite’s family. It was made with meat, pork skin and white beans in a thick tomato sauce and was a speciality of the South of France.

‘Oddly enough, it’s a musician who’s bought it,’ Marguerite went on.

Catriona felt her cheeks deepening to an even brighter pink. ‘Yes?’ she managed to say.

‘He’s well known … a promising new composer. Italian, I can’t remember the name now. I thought we might invite him to our next drinks party … a fresh face.’

‘Your cassoulet tonight is the best you’ve ever made, Maman,’ Catriona declared, trying to change the subject.

Her mother gave her a pleased smile. ‘Have some more.’

‘No, thank you, I’ve already had two helpings.’ She stood up to clear the plates away.

‘To come back to our new neighbour. On second thoughts, it might not be such a good idea to invite him after all. The gardener said that he had a party last night. A wild bunch, by all accounts. Apparently, they threw their cigarette butts in the garden. The place was a real rubbish tip when he arrived this morning.’

‘How disgusting and rude! Good idea, let’s keep away,’ Catriona agreed quickly.

‘You surprise me. I would have thought you’d be excited about having a fellow musician as a neighbour.’

‘Not if he’s throwing wild parties and keeping people awake.’

Marguerite’s brown eyes were darker than her daughter’s but no less penetrating. ‘Were you disturbed by their party then? I must admit that I was so exhausted last night, it would have taken a crashing thunderstorm to wake me.’

Catriona turned to put the dishes in the sink. ‘I … What I meant was, he must be a rather inconsiderate type, judging by what you said.’ Inconsiderate was one word to describe him, she thought to herself. Add to that arrogant, presumptuous, overbearing, too tall, smugly handsome …

‘Well, perhaps it was a one-off.’ Marguerite took a final sip of her red wine. ‘If he’s some kind of star then I suppose the odd party now and then is to be expected. I do wish I could remember his name. Anyway, it’s a marvellous coincidence to have another up-and-coming musician living next door.’

Catriona laughed. ‘Maman, really, what do you mean? I’m hardly in the same league. You said he’s a well known composer, I’m still a student.’

‘Be that as it may, ma chérie, Madame Haussmann has great hopes for you.’

‘I know, Maman, and that is very encouraging. But like my friend Sophie says, it’s not all slog and brilliance. There are so many other factors at play. You have to be in the right place at the right time, with the right people around.’

‘And that’s exactly what I meant, ma chérie. Maybe we should pay a courtesy visit to our musical neighbour.’

‘That is not what I meant, Maman chérie. It’ll do my self-respect much more good if I succeed on my own. Don’t fret, Maman.’

Catriona was grateful that her mother always supported her musical aspirations, wanting her to pursue her studies and have a glittering career. Yet she was also aware that for all of Marguerite’s determination in her own life to be self-sufficient, she appeared to have a blind spot where Catriona was concerned.

Marguerite smiled at her daughter’s earnest expression. ‘Well, peut-être you’re right. After all, there is something about you. And you may still be only a student, but when you sing, you have a quality that …’ Her eyes filled with pride, ‘… carries your audience away. Something one can’t teach, I’m sure. It’s a special aura that transports the listener into another world.’

Catriona went up to her mother and gave her a big hug. ‘I love you, Maman. You’ve always been my backbone. Honestly, without your encouragement, I don’t think I would have come this far.’

They had some fruit and a cup of coffee, did the dishes together and then Catriona was able to retire to her room at last. Her eyes went straight to the open window and to Les Platanes. The lights were off, the shutters closed. The house lay as seemingly deserted in the night as it had always been – until yesterday – and if it wasn’t for the conversation she’d just had with her mother at dinner, she would have thought the whole appearance of a raucous party at Les Platanes had been a figment of her imagination. Still, there was also the fact that she had now met the new occupant of the house, and she couldn’t get her disturbingly attractive neighbour out of her mind.

Although Catriona wanted to see what she could find out about the composer on the internet, it was quite late and she needed to get up early in the morning so she climbed into bed. It took her a long time to get to sleep and even when she eventually dozed off, she was troubled by bizarre dreams infused with intangible images and a strange feeling of malaise.

Her first thought when she woke the next morning was of Les Platanes and her pianist neighbour. She looked out of her bedroom window but the house presented the same lonely and uninhabited aspect that it had all these years. On her way to the Conservatoire, she turned to the gates in the hope of glimpsing the old gardener but there was no one around.

At the Conservatoire, she headed straight for one of the posters advertising the young composer’s concert and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was to take place the following week. She hadn’t missed it.

On her way home that afternoon she went by L’Opéra Nice Côte d’Azur, the city’s opera house, to buy two tickets for the event. She would invite her student friend Sophie, who also had a passion for music though she wanted to teach rather than perform.

Acquiring tickets for Umberto’s concert was almost impossible, the man at the box office informed her. ‘Everyone wants to hear the new maestro play, they don’t care what they pay. I’m not sure there’s any left.’ He peered at his screen, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Seems like you’re the lucky one today, Mademoiselle.’

A cancellation had just occurred and Catriona was able to secure two excellent seats. She thanked the man and, as she did so, spied the shelf at the back of the booth. It was stacked with CDs of the young composer’s music that had just come out. The box office man winked. ‘I guess you’ll be wanting one of these too? It’s his first. I’ve had a lot of young ladies buying these. Not just the young ones either.’