Hidden Devotion Page 7

  “Absolutely.”

  “Juliette.” Devon’s voice was tight. He’d followed them in, but stopped in front of a display in the foyer that detailed the Garcia family legacy.

  The poster featured one of the annoying posed headshots the PR person had insisted they get and which Franco hated. This was the one of him in a suit with his arms folded, trying to look like a pillar of the community.

  “I know, Devon.” Juliette didn’t turn around or break stride, tugging Franco’s arm to keep him moving.

  “I’m sorry, but what is going on? Why are you both here?” Franco’s tolerance for weirdness had just been met. This whole day was too strange—first Juliette, then the photos, and now this guy Devon.

  “Francisco, tell me about your grandfather.”

  Franco freed his arm and turned to confront Juliette. “Why don’t you tell me why you have those photos of my great-grandfather?”

  Devon stood just behind and to the side of Juliette, like a bodyguard. She didn’t respond.

  Franco was a lot of things, but a man of infinite patience and tact was not one of them. “The two of you need to leave.”

  “Francisco, I just want to talk to you.” Juliette continued to smile softly.

  “You can come back tomorrow when the museum is open and speak with the director.”

  “But I want to talk to you.”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here? Clearly you’re looking for something.” It was a hunch, but the way Juliette’s lips tightened said he was right.

  Finally she motioned to a picture of Luis—Francisco’s grandfather—standing arm in arm with his best friend Henry. “Tell me more about them.”

  “The Smiths?”

  “Yes.”

  Franco knew he should ignore the question and make them leave, but there was a mystery here, a mystery he wanted to solve. Who was Juliette and where had she gotten those pictures? Why did she have them? How was her family connected to his? Why had this Devon guy shown up?

  Maybe he’d get some answers if he gave some. “Henry Smith and his mother Lucille were close family friends. Lucille was particularly close with Maria, Luis’s mother—my great-grandmother. Their patronage had helped the Garcia empire get off the ground. Luis had been studying to be a priest, but when Henry died in World War Two, he dropped out of the seminary and joined the army.”

  “Isn’t your father’s name Henry?” Juliette asked.

  “Yes, he was named after Henry Smith, a tribute to my grandfather’s best friend.”

  “Is that one of the crazy stories?”

  Franco shook his head. “Hardly. How about this—I’ll tell you one of my grandfather’s craziest stories, if you tell me how you got those pictures.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Juliette smiled, completely ignoring Devon as he leaned forward and asked, “What pictures?”

  “When I was a teenager, Grandfather took me aside and said that there was a great family secret—that the Garcia’s had been selected to be members of a secret society that guarded America.” Franco smiled as he remembered his grandfather’s voice, the way he spoke with such sincerity. “He said that he’d even visited the headquarters of the society, been inducted in a secret ceremony, and then entrusted with a box and told to hide it here in Florida where no one would think to look.”

  “A secret society?” Juliette laughed lightly. “That is a bit crazy, but hardly the most absurd thing.”

  Franco wasn’t listening to her. He was looking at Devon. There’d been a moment when the man’s face had registered shock before his expression went blank and he placed his right hand on Juliette’s shoulder.

  The position gave Franco the perfect view of the ring he wore.

  A ring that was the perfect match to one Franco’s grandfather had worn until the day he died. A ring Luis had sworn was a symbol of his membership in the secret society.

  Franco’s heart started to pound. Maybe it wasn’t the same ring. The weird situation he now found himself in was making him think impossible things, and see things that weren’t there.

  He shifted his attention to Juliette—and her necklace caught his eye.

  The same symbol that adorned Devon’s ring, and his grandfather’s ring, was dead center on Juliette’s necklace.

  “Francisco, are you okay?”

  “My…my grandfather told me that someday the secret society would contact our family again, that they’d need their secret back.”

  “Their secret—you mean this box you mentioned?” Devon asked. At the same time Juliette said, “How would they contact you?”

  Franco took a step forward, trying—but probably failing—to subtly get a better look at the ring. Devon dropped his hand. Definite fail on subtlety.

  “Grandfather said that members of the secret society always wore a symbol. A triquetra.”

  Juliette inhaled slowly then let out the air. “The name, Francisco. What is the name?”

  “Is it true?” Grandfather’s stories about the secret society couldn’t possibly be true. Could they?

  “The name,” she repeated.

  “Trinity Masters. He said they were called the Trinity Masters.”

  Juliette smiled, but it was a rather sad expression. “Francisco Garcia Santiago, I need you to come with us.”

  *****

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  Devon and Juliette stared at one another, neither answering the other’s question. They were standing on the steps of the museum, sunlight streaming around them.

  Devon caved first. “I went to see your brother.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. I went to ask the Grand Master why my trinity,” something I’ve longed for my whole life, “was destroyed.”

  “Destroyed? Don’t be melodramatic.”

  He had to turn away. He didn’t want her to see the rage or hurt on his face. Her easy dismissal of what they had, what they were to each other, made it abundantly clear how little she cared. For the sake of his own pride, he wouldn’t let her know that his heart was utterly breaking.

  “Imagine my surprise,” he said, throat tight as he struggled to pretend he wasn’t an emotional wreck, “when I discovered your brother is not the Grand Master.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Perhaps I should be honored that the first thing you did was to use that newfound power to get me out of your life.”

  “Yet here you are.”

  Devon flinched, as if the words were a physical blow.

  “As you can see, I’m here on Trinity Masters’ business. There are people, families, who’ve fallen through the cracks. I came to find out what Francisco knows about us.”

  “He knows too much.”

  That startled a laugh out of Juliette, though he hadn’t meant it to be funny. “You make it sound as though we’re going to kill him.”

  “You make it sound as if that isn’t something you could have done, Grand Master.”

  Juliette’s laughter faded. “You thinking I’d do that reinforces the fact that you know nothing about me.”

  “I wasn’t saying you would, I’m just—”

  “He’s agreed to come to Boston. I’ll talk to him.”

  Devon wanted to offer to help, wanted to tell her he’d support her, whatever she’d decided to do, but he didn’t know how. She’d made her feelings towards him all too clear. That she hadn’t told him she was going to be Grand Master hurt more than he could say.

  “Do you want to fly back with me? I borrowed the Hancock’s jet.”

  “No, I have a flight booked.”

  He hadn’t expected her to say yes, so Devon just nodded. Squinting up at the warm Florida sun, he felt cold. It really was over. The Grand Master had dissolved the trinity. He and Juliette would never be married, never be two pieces of a three-part trinity.

  And she would never know how desperately he loved her.

  This
wasn’t a dream. He couldn’t rule out brain-aneurism-induced delusion, but at this point Franco was sure it wasn’t some hyper-realistic dream. He’d been contacted by his grandfather’s secret society—contact that came in the form of a gorgeous well-bred blonde and a brooding preppy guy.

  The car service dropped him off outside an elegant brick house. He’d never been to Boston before, but Franco was sure this was an expensive piece of real estate. That fit with everything else he knew about Juliette and the Trinity Masters.

  It had been two days since she’d shown up in his museum and turned his whole life upside down. She’d invited him to Boston and he’d accepted, knowing he couldn’t possibly live with himself if he didn’t investigate the situation. He loved a good mystery. Most people didn’t understand that archivists were detectives at heart. Detectives who spoke with people long dead through public records, papers and photos.

  The secret society his grandfather described was a powerful, clandestine, unorthodox organization. If even half of the things his grandfather had said were true, this was going to be a very interesting visit. Franco had used the flight as an opportunity to make a list of questions he wanted to ask.

  He rang the bell, stuck his hands in his overcoat pockets to keep them from freezing, and a few moments later Juliette herself answered. He was slightly disappointed there wasn’t a tuxedo-clad butler on the other side of the door. The foyer he stepped into was certainly elegant enough that a butler wouldn’t be out of place. Though Franco’s family had plenty of money and he was no stranger to luxury, wealth in New England looked very different to wealth in Florida.

  “Francisco, thank you for coming.”

  “I don’t know if I should say ‘you’re welcome’.”

  Juliette smiled and Franco’s heart thumped. “Why wouldn’t you say ‘you’re welcome’?”

  “Because this might be a plot to kill me because I know too much.”

  He expected her to laugh. She didn’t. And that was more than a little terrifying.

  “I’ll take your coat. You can leave your suitcase there, or if you’re tired, I’ll take you to your room.”

  “I booked a hotel.”

  “I assure you, there’s plenty of space here.” She motioned vaguely to the house behind her. Now that he’d seen the place, Franco suspected there were more than enough rooms, but having his own place where he could retreat to sort through his thoughts seemed like a very good idea.

  He handed her his coat. “Do you live here alone?”

  “Right now, yes. But I own the house jointly with some other people.” She hung his coat in a small closet then motioned for him to follow. “I’m going to have to keep reminding myself that I should tell you the whole truth.”

  “What do you mean?” They entered a parlor that was a lovely mix of antique elegance and modern comfort. A tea set was waiting on a tray and a fire crackled in the marble fireplace.

  “I mean that this house is the home base for me and a few friends who are all legacies of the Trinity Masters.”

  “Legacies?”

  She poured him a cup of tea. “Our parents, and in many cases our grandparents, are and were members. We grew up knowing about the Trinity Masters and learned to keep secrets from an early age.”

  It took Franco a moment to respond because when she leaned forward to pour tea, her silky top gapped, giving him a marvelous view of her cleavage. When he spoke, his voice was lower, rough. “That sounds like a hard way to grow up.”

  Her head snapped up, gaze lingering on him, as if she knew where his thoughts had gone. She bit her lower lip and Franco stifled a groan of arousal.

  “Growing up in the Trinity Masters is hard, you’re right; we make good spies.”

  That jerked his attention him back to the issue at hand. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Then it really is some sort of secret cabal running the country?”

  “Running it? No. America is too big for that. Don’t get all conspiracy theory on me.” Juliette winked, but the teasing look faded as she kept talking. “The Trinity Masters was created by many of the same men who founded the nation. The goal was to ensure that America grew and advanced. The way to do this was to ensure that talented, intelligent people—everyone from artists to scientists—were supported and nurtured, connected to other powerful, influential people.”

  “Like a fraternity?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t limited to the children of the super wealthy, though they were certainly included.”

  “How egalitarian.”

  She shook her head. “Practical. America was up against European nations with long histories, powerful families and alliances. The founders didn’t think that the nation would survive if they waited for these allegiances and connections to grow organically.”

  Franco took a moment to think. “It would make sense that they would recruit my great-grandfather.”

  “More than recruit him, I think the Trinity Masters helped bring him to America, acting as sponsors and cosigners.”

  “You have records?” He nearly jumped off the couch in excitement.

  Juliette smiled. “You sound like a kid on Christmas morning.”

  “I’m an archivist.” Franco shrugged, refusing to apologize for his enthusiasm.

  “I have a whole file that I think you’ll really enjoy, but I’m not going to give it to you now.”

  “Oh, that’s cold. Taunting me.”

  “I suspect once I give it to you, you’ll bury yourself in it and I won’t be able to have a proper conversation with you again for several days.”

  “That’s entirely possible. I didn’t realize I was that easy to read.”

  Now it was her turn to shrug. “I’ve been surrounded by passionate, driven people my whole life. I know how they operate. There’s a saying about dogs and bones.”

  The conversation lulled as they drank their tea, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Franco’s list of questions was forgotten as he relaxed into the leather sofa, the fire and tea both warm enough to erase the chill that had gripped him since stepping off the plane.

  “Tell me more about your work, the foundation.”

  Franco told her about his fascination with the past, the way he’d learned, at a young age, to appreciate the mysteries that old records could hold. It was because of him that his mother had spearheaded the foundation, which became a home base for his family’s charity efforts in addition to eventually becoming a museum.

  When the pot was empty, Juliette took the tea away, only to return with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. She held them up, asking without words if he wanted a drink. In response he rose and took the bottle from her, accepting the corkscrew she handed him. Their fingers brushed, and she didn’t move away once he’d opened it. They were standing between the couch and coffee table, too close to one another for casual contact.

  She held the glasses as he poured, a delicious tension mounting each second they spent so close to one another.

  “To new acquaintances.” He tapped his glass to hers.

  “Acquaintances and their secrets.” She took a sip, meeting his gaze as she did.

  Franco battled the urge to grab her and kiss her. The last thing this already-complicated situation needed was for him to muddy the water. With a Herculean exercise of will, he took a seat. Juliette joined him on the couch, tucking one leg under the other in a much more relaxed posture than she’d had before.

  They drank the first glasses too quickly, and when the second glasses were poured, he was able to focus on the reason he was here. “I made a list of questions.”

  “Very logical.”

  “But I think I would rather have you tell me the story.”

  “What story?”

  “Your story. You know all my stuff. I want to know what it was like growing up in a secret society.”

  Juliette stiffened, enough that he knew his request either frightened or irritated her.

  “My story
is not a good example. How about I tell the story of your family—at least as much of the story as I know?”

  He was in no position to question her, but something about her reaction to him asking about her life raised that same protective urge he’d felt at the museum when Devon showed up. “That’s fair.”

  She settled into the corner of the couch, propping one elbow along the back. “Your great-grandfather was the son of General Garcia.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “No, but the photos, along with the last name and the fact that he was targeted for membership, makes that the most logical assumption.”

  “I’ll accept that.”

  “Pedro Garcia Fernandez immigrated to the US in 1900 when he was only sixteen. He spent a year living in a hotel owned by a member of the Trinity Masters.”

  “Not exactly the normal accommodations for a young man just arrived from Cuba.”

  “And in 1901, Pedro came here, to Boston, and was inducted into the Trinity Masters. That I know for sure.”

  Franco shook his head ruefully. “He was only seventeen and had already had a far more interesting life than I could dream of.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’d say this past week your life has been fairly interesting.”

  “Can’t argue with that. So what happened to Pedro after he joined?”

  “He fought in World War One—there’s a copy of his service record in the file I have.”

  “Teasing me again.”

  “You’ll be disappointed, because there’s a lull in the records until 1920, when he was called to the altar.”

  “Called to the altar?”

  “That’s when the Grand Master summons members to be married.”

  “Arranged marriages.” It was both a statement and a question.

  Juliette raised an eyebrow. “I assume you know about the Trinity Masters’ marriages?”

  “Yes, those were always the craziest of the stories my grandfather told. He always claimed that was why he married so late in life. He was waiting to get his two wives from the secret society.”

  “We need to come back to that, because I have some questions for you about your grandfather, but let me finish with your great-grandfather’s story first. In 1920 he married Maria Cruz, the daughter of a prominent family who was herself recruited in 1919, and Lucille Smith, a Trinity Masters’ legacy who lost both her husbands in the war.”