Hidden Devotion (Trinity Masters #5)(16)
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.
Chapter Five
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.