Hidden Devotion (8 page)

He didn’t smile when he saw Devon. Instead, he gave him a short nod that, paired with Harrison’s stern expression, offered Devon no hope that this conversation would end well. He took a seat then gestured for Devon to do the same.

“You shouldn’t be here, Devon.”

“I know, Grand Master.”

Harrison slashed a hand through the air, frowning. “Don’t… Tell me why you’re here.”

“I want to know why you did it.”

Harrison went unnaturally still. “Why I did what?”

The words caught in his throat. Devon pulled the letter from his pocket and held it out. Harrison took it, glancing over it quickly, then handed it back.

“When did you get this?”

“Earlier today.”

“I assume you’ve seen Juliette.”

“This morning.”

Harrison was silent, waiting for Devon to continue. When he didn’t, the Grand Master gestured. “And?”

“What did she say to you?” Devon rubbed his forehead. “What did I do? What did she find out? Whatever it is, it can’t have been bad enough that you had to dissolve our trinity.”

“You know your situation, the fact that your trinity was decided on when you, Juliette and Rose were children, is unique.”

“I do.”

“And since you’ve known Juliette her whole life, you better than anyone should know that it’s been hard on her, for many reasons.”

“It wasn’t easy on Rose or me, either.”

Harrison raised a brow and Devon realized that had come out more pouty than explanatory. He cleared his throat. “Grand Master, I—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence because for the second time, Harrison slashed a hand through the air, his shiny new wedding ring catching the light. “I have to stop you.”

Harrison leaned forward, passing back the letter. Devon took it, a strange feeling of foreboding settling over him. The expression on Harrison’s face was one he couldn’t decipher.

“Devon, I did not send you that note.” Harrison braced his elbows on his knees. “And you should not address me as ‘Grand Master’.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Given the circumstances, you have a right to know, but I must ask you to keep this information to yourself. Members of your family are among the handful of legacy bloodlines who know that the Grand Master is an Adams, who would know my name.”

Devon looked at the paper, this time really looking at the bold, cursive handwriting.

“I didn’t send you that note because I am no longer the Grand Master.” Harrison’s voice was calm and smooth, as if he were relating the weather forecast.

Devon sat back in his chair, distancing himself from the words. “If you’re not the Grand Master, who is?”

A small, sad smile twisted Harrison’s lips.

Devon dropped his head into his hands. “Juliette?”

“Juliette.” Harrison briefly patted Devon’s shoulder. “I think this is a conversation you need to have with her, Devon. For me to say anything more would be completely inappropriate. Go talk to her.”

Harrison quietly walked out, leaving Devon to contemplate the way his world had been turned upside down.

Franco Garcia adjusted the contrast of the image, peering intently at his computer screen. Was that word “for” or “from”? The elegant feminine handwriting was the type of cursive where only the first letter was actually legible. Given the age of the letter, and the condition it had been found in—Florida was hell on old documents—he couldn’t be sure.

Leaning back, he adjusted his reading glasses then peered at the real letter, which was between two thin sheets of protective Plexiglas. He knew the best chance of deciphering it was in manipulating the scanned image, but the impulse to check the original with his own eyes was hard to ignore, even though ten years as an archivist, and a lifetime as a card-carrying geek, meant that he lived for the latest tech gadgets and application of tech to his decidedly anti-tech profession.

It was time for a break. Franco rose and scratched his stomach. The humidity-controlled room was tucked in the center of the first floor of the mansion-turned-museum that was the Garcia Cuban Heritage Foundation. The lack of windows meant he didn’t really know what time it was, but his stomach was telling him it was food time. Given the way Franco managed his day-to-day life—meaning he didn’t manage it in any remotely adult way—it could be noon or midnight.

Turning off the light box under the letter, Franco slipped out of his workroom into a dim hallway that was closed to the public. The foundation offices, which really meant an office for the foundation director Marcia, were beside his workroom. Her door was shut, meaning that whatever time it was, the museum was closed.

He doubted there was anything to eat in his living quarters on the second floor, so rather than heading for the back stairs he decided to walk to the little twenty-four-hour shop down the street and get food. Franco opened the door into what had once been a drawing room and was now a gallery filled with memorabilia about the early days of the cigar business in Florida.

Diffused Florida sunshine had him blinking, and Franco lifted the hem of his ratty t-shirt, using it to rub his eyes. Daytime. It was definitely daytime, and he’d been inside too long if that little bit of light coming through the glazed windows was hurting his eyes.

“Hello.”

Franco froze in the doorway and dropped his shirt. “Uh…”

She was backlit by the sun, hair glowing gold, her silhouetted figure trim and elegant in a skirt and blouse.

“Hello?” She added a slight upswing to the end of the word as she stepped forward. Franco was too confused to reply. Marcia’s door was closed, therefore the museum was closed. This room should be empty.

His brain seemed to be stuck on that fact until he got a better look at her.

Once she was away from the windows, he was able to make out her features. She was beautiful, with large blue eyes and a golden complexion—tan, but not the leathered look fair-skinned people got from too much time in the sun. Her whole look was understated and elegant—she reminded him of the women in old photos. Because cameras had been so rare, those photos were usually meticulously planned, with the subjects wearing their Sunday best and standing straight and tall. Though her outfit didn’t seem fancy, he got that same sense of upright planned elegance from her.

There was a hint of New England in her voice, and her clothing looked like heavy fabric—the skirt wool, the blouse some sort of slightly shimmery thick material.

Her golden-brown brows drew together. “Do you work here?”

“Oh, right!” How long had he been standing there staring? Long enough for it to be awkward? Undoubtedly. “I do work here, I’m—”

He took a step, forgetting about the stanchions and velvet rope that blocked off the doorway on the guest’s side. Both stanchions fell over, the rope twisting around his ankle. Franco nearly fell, but managed to keep his balance, hopping on one foot.

“Let me help you.”

The woman crouched just as he bent down, and Franco knocked his head into hers. She yelped and leaned away. Franco reached to help her, stuttering an apology, and instead lost his balance. Arms flailing, he managed to smack her in the shoulder before finally surrendering to gravity.

The blonde fell back onto her bottom and Franco landed on his hands and knees, his face an inch from her breasts.

There was a pregnant pause during which he could only blink, wondering how the hell he’d managed this particular fuckup. Seriously, these things only happened to him.

Then she started to laugh. The blonde dropped back until she was lying on the floor, propped up on her elbows, laughing so hard she was gasping for breath.

Juliette peered at the half-horrified, half-bemused expression on the man’s face and a fresh wave of laughter shook her. Of all the scenarios for how this meeting would go, the current situation had never been even a remote possibility.

Pushing his too-long hair away from his face, the man crawled backwards away from her, turning to sit on his butt and unwind the velvet rope from around his ankle.

He looked like a hobo, or a frat boy after a week-long bender. Baggy jeans with holes in the knees and rips by the pockets hung limply on his hips. He wore a ratty t-shirt that may at one time have had university lettering on it and a neon-green zip-up hoodie with some obnoxious cartoon alligator on the front.

Cut his hair, put him in a suit, and this could be Francisco, but nothing about this man said “Foundation President”. If this wasn’t Francisco, it had to be someone related to him, the resemblance was so strong. Plus, who else but a member of the family would be in the museum on a day it was closed?

When he was finally free, the man rose to his feet and reached out a hand to Juliette. Rather dubiously, she accepted.

As soon as their fingers touched, a shiver of awareness rippled through her. From the way he paused, eyes widening, she wondered if he’d felt it, too. It was chemistry, pure and simple, and she’d only felt something like this one time before, in Paris.

His fingers tightened around hers and she was lifted to her feet with a surprising amount of strength. Juliette looked up into the startlingly light blue eyes of this odd man and said the only thing she could think of. “Hi.”

He cleared his throat. “Hi.”

“I’m Juliette…Juliette Adams.”

“I’m a grade-A klutz.” He tucked his hands into his pockets with a self-deprecating smile. “Francisco Garcia Santiago.”

“You’re Francisco?”

Now he was back to looking bemused. “That’s me.” He grimaced. “We were supposed to be meeting? I was working and… I’ll go find an usher, or Marcia—she’s the director and you’d be better off talking to her anyway—and if you give me a few minutes, I’ll find someone.”

Juliette hid her smile. He was nothing like she’d expected from the information in the file or what she’d found online on the flight down here. “No, we don’t have a meeting.”

“Oh, well, uh…” He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to figure out what else to say. “Want me to find someone to give you a tour?”

“That might be hard, since the museum is closed today.” She said it gently.

“It is? Then it’s Monday.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “it’s Monday.” Juliette fought the urge to grab him and kiss him. He was just so hapless it was cute.

“Wait…if it’s Monday, how did you get in here?” For the first time he regarded her with suspicion. In Juliette’s opinion, that reaction was very late coming.

“The door was unlocked.” That wasn’t entirely true. The deadbolt on the front door hadn’t been engaged, so it had been child’s play to open it. She’d had wire cutters in her hand, ready to deal with the alarm if her quickly gathered intel on the museum’s lack of security was wrong, but nothing had gone off.

“Oh, uh, sometimes I forget.” He was still looking at her suspiciously. “So you’re just here visiting the museum?”

“No, I actually came to meet
you
.”

“You…did?” He sounded both alarmed and resigned.

“Yes. I have something I think might interest you.” Reaching up, Juliette first took the clips out of her hair, which was half down after he’d accidentally whacked her on the head. She didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on her as the locks fell around her shoulders.

Opening her purse, she slid the hair clips in and then extracted the cardboard sleeve she’d placed the pictures in.

Wordlessly, she handed it to him. Francisco frowned but shook the photos out into his hand. He peered at the first one for a moment, before his whole body went still. Flipping to the next one, he brought the photos closer to his face then fumbled in the pocket of his hoodie, extracting a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses.

They magnified his eyes cartoonishly and Juliette had to bite back a giggle.

“Where did you get these?”

Juliette opened her mouth, ready to start her carefully prepared statement, the first phase in a plan to suss out what he knew about the Trinity Masters, but before she could say anything, he’d turned and walked away, disappearing through the door he’d appeared from.

Juliette waited, but he didn’t come back. Half-amused, half-irritated, she too stepped through the door, taking time to put the stanchions and rope back in place before following after the lost member of the Trinity Masters.