Secret Scandal (Trinity Masters Book 7)

by Lila Dubois

  Jasper let out a breath. “That’s why I’m here. He does the research and identifies the pieces.” Jasper pointed at Eli. “And I find it.”

  “What do you do?” Irina asked.

  Jasper shook his head. He wasn’t ready to have that conversation yet.

  Irina looked around the table. “If this was stored and forgotten about, it should be relatively low danger to look into it.”

  “It’s not dangerous,” Juliette assured them.

  Sebastian’s jaw clenched. “Someone died trying to keep us from finding this.”

  Everyone fell silent.

  Franco broke the tension by putting the book back in its fancy box, which Jasper now realized was an airtight archive storage box.

  “We’re scanning the books.” Franco pointed to the odd black box that looked like a 3D printer. “We’re actually scanning everything. Here’s a copy.”

  Franco handed Eli a black three-ring binder.

  Juliette stood. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” Sebastian pushed to his feet. “There’s a limo upstairs to take you to the Boston Park Plaza.”

  Eli tucked the binder carefully into his bag.

  Jasper hung back, trailing a few steps behind Eli and Irina as they followed Sebastian through the labyrinthine hallways. Irina and Eli took the elevator up first. The elevator led to a closet in the back of the American History rare book room in the Boston Public Library, so when exiting it was better to do it solo or in pairs.

  Once the doors closed, Jasper turned to Sebastian.

  “Does the Grand Master actually want us to end up in a trinity, or are we just supposed to deal with the ERR album?”

  “Both.”

  “Eli and I—”

  “You’ll find a way to deal with each other. Trust me.”

  The elevator door dinged open. Jasper stepped in. Sebastian gave him a mock salute as the doors closed.

  The three-bedroom Presidential suite at the Plaza was gorgeous, with its ornate chandeliers, elegant furnishings, and high-end finishes.

  Eli saw none of it. He dropped into a chair at the dining table, pulled the binder out of his bag, then fished around in the bottom for his reading glasses.

  When his glasses were safely on his nose, he flipped open the binder, laying his hand flat on the first page.

  “Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg” was written in distinct calligraphic script.

  The information in these pages could mean nothing—every piece of art in here might have been destroyed in the war—or it could change the art world forever. Art pieces in both private collections and museums may, as a result of this book, find their way into the hands of the rightful owners’ descendants.

  He was about to turn the page when slender fingers closed over his hand. “Eli.”

  Eli looked up. His glasses distorted his view of Irina and he ripped them off, blinking hard.

  “Let’s leave that for now.”

  “But this—”

  “It’s rude to ignore someone on a first date.” Irina’s lips quirked in a smile, taking the sting out of her words.

  “First date…right.”

  Eli put his glasses in their case then stood, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I forgot.”

  “You forgot that you were finally placed in your trinity? Forgot that you’d just met the people you’re going to spend the rest of your life with?”

  Eli held in a groan. “It sounds really bad when you put it like that.”

  Irina shook her head in mock sadness. “That’s because it was really bad. But I forgive you. Why don’t you come sit and we’ll order room service? There’s already champagne.”

  There was a bar, which Jasper was behind. The champagne cork popped—a festive sound. Jasper held out a glass to each of them.

  Eli accepted his glass, looking at the pale gold liquid and bubbles. Though it seemed like days had passed, they’d been in the Trinity Masters’ headquarters for less than two hours. The sun was just now starting to set. Rays of light slanted into the room through the windows, adding a halo of light to the elegant furnishings.

  Irina took a seat on the couch. She paused, seeming to consider something, before she set her champagne glass down. She peeled off her jacket and kicked off her shoes, relaxing back into the cushions.

  Eli headed for the chair, but Jasper beat him there, so Eli sat on the couch next to Irina.

  She raised her glass. “To us.”

  “To us,” Eli repeated.

  Three flutes came together, crystal ringing like chimes.

  “Eli, tell us about yourself.” Irina leaned back on the arm of the couch. “You’re an art historian?”

  Eli took a long drink, compartmentalized the part of his brain that was clamoring to go investigate the ERR album.

  “I’m a professor at the University of Colorado. I wrote my doctoral thesis on the role of art in war. It’s my specialty. Not just art in WWII, though that’s a big part of what I research and study. Art has actually played an important role in war throughout human history. I’ve written several articles and chapters on the ERR albums.”

  “That explains why the Grand Master gave you this assignment,” Irina said.

  “I’m not…I’m not very exciting,” Eli said hesitantly. “I’m an academic. I spend most of my time in my office. And if I’m not there, I teach class.”

  “I guessed you were a teacher, the way you handled Juliette and Sebastian.” Jasper spoke without looking up. His elbows were braced on his knees, and he was twirling the champagne glass slowly between his fingers.

  “They were worse than undergrads.” Eli shook his head.

  “You must be a good art historian,” Irina prompted.

  Eli shrugged. “Not that good. I mean, I’ve gotten a few Fulbright grants, some fellowships…I curated a few things for the National Gallery and spent three months studying at the Smithsonian.”

  Irina laughed softly. “So you’re a very good art historian.”

  Eli shrugged. “I like history. I like beautiful things. I like that people can create beautiful things, and that we find meaning in them.”

  “I like art too,” Irina said. Eli saw something flutter across her face, a strange look that he didn’t understand. The moment passed and she smiled. “But I was a comm major, with a specialty in interpersonal communications.”

  “What do you do?” Eli asked.

  “I work for Bennett Securities. I specialize in personal security work.”

  Eli frowned. “Does that mean…”

  “I’m a bodyguard. It’s a bit more technical than that, but basically I try to keep VIPs safe. It works because no one ever suspects I’m the bodyguard.”

  “I was actually going to ask if that means you’re one of those people who looks innocent but can kill someone with a straw.” Eli was joking.

  “Anything is a weapon in the right hands.” Irina was not joking.

  “That’s terrifying.”

  Jasper snorted out a laugh in response to Eli’s comment.

  “What about you, Jasper?” Irina asked. “What do you do?”

  Jasper sighed and drained his glass of champagne. “I have a PhD in archaeology.”

  “Another historian,” Irina commented.

  “But,” Jasper said, “I specialize in art acquisitions.”

  Art acquisitions.

  Jasper Ferrer.

  Eli set his glass down very, very carefully. “Acquisitions?”

  Jasper rolled lightly to his feet and turned to face Eli. “Yes. Acquisitions.”

  “I’ve heard of you.”

  “Have you?”

  “You’re the one they call Indiana Jones.”

  “Indiana Jones was an archaeologist, right?” Irina tone was light, but she was no longer lounging on the couch. She was braced to move, much the way she’d braced herself on her chair in the medallion room. She was reading the tension in the room and ready to jump to her feet.

 
“Indiana Jones was a terrible archaeologist, but a very good grave robber,” Eli growled.

  Irina looked between them. “Jasper, you’re…you’re an art thief?”

  Jasper raised his hands. “Is it theft if you do it on behalf of a museum?”

  Eli sprang up, righteous outrage vibrating through him. “You son of a bitch!”

  “Exactly how many pieces do you think would have survived from the Baghdad museum if I hadn’t gone in?”

  “That’s your excuse?”

  “It’s not an excuse. It’s fact. Do you think the Elgin Marbles would still exist if they’d been left in situ?”

  “The excuse used by thieves throughout history. ‘I saved it when I stole it.’ That’s bullshit.”

  “That’s fact. If you’d rather write papers about how sad it is when things are destroyed, instead of stopping them from being destroyed, you’re welcome to.”

  Eli took a half step forward. He wasn’t going to hit Jasper. He hadn’t hit anyone since he was a teenager and he realized that his size and strength meant that hitting someone was actually rather dangerous.

  But Irina stepped into him, her body flush against his, and in the next second he was flying through the air.

  He landed on his back with a thud.

  “Everyone calm down.” Irina’s tone was perfectly level.

  Eli sucked in some air and cursed. Rolling to his feet, he looked at Jasper. People like Jasper treated art like pieces in some grand game they played. Art was memory; art was a slice of someone’s soul.

  He looked at Irina, who was balanced on the balls of her feet, looking back and forth between them.

  “I’m leaving,” Eli growled.

  No one said anything as he stalked to the table, shoved his glasses and the binder into the bag, slung the strap over his shoulder, and walked out. The door made a satisfying clunk when it closed behind him.

  Jasper looked at the closed door.

  “Jasper?” Irina asked.

  “I’m going to take a walk.”

  “Maybe we should talk.”

  Jasper shook his head. “I need some space. I’m not good at relationships at the best of times, so trying to form one with someone who automatically hates me is…” Jasper gave up, not bothering to finish the sentence.

  Irina sighed. “Clearly this is something we need to deal with. Why don’t you and I talk it out, and then—”

  A wild kind of recklessness, the feeling that had led him to do very stupid things, like lift diamond bracelets off a particularly despicable woman when he was actually there to liberate a Cézanne from her husband, gripped Jasper.

  He grabbed Irina, Rhett-Butler-to-Scarlett-O’Hara style, and kissed her. She tasted like champagne and citrus. Her hands curled around the edges of his jacket. Before she could push him away, Jasper broke the kiss. He indulged himself one moment more, resting his forehead on hers. The move seemed to surprise her.

  Stepping back, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  Grabbing his wallet from the bar, he walked out.

  Chapter Three

  Irina stared at the door.

  “Well isn’t this just fan-freaking-tastic?”

  Their binding was less than three hours old and two members of her trinity had already stormed out in snits. Men were such drama queens.

  “Would have been much easier to be married to two other women,” she muttered. Opening doors to the bedrooms, she finally found the one where her suitcase had been deposited. She opened it and pulled out some jogging clothes.

  The day had left her with far too many emotions for her to just stay here. She needed some stress relief. Luckily, she’d lived in Boston for many years, between going to college here and training at Bennett Securities headquarters, which was located in the city. She knew exactly where to go.

  Wearing ankle-length jogging tights, a sports bra, and a fleece jacket, she stuck fifty dollars cash and her hotel keycard into a pocket and headed out. One quick stop in the hotel lobby and she was the proud owner of a Red Sox T-shirt, which she charged to the room and zipped inside her fleece. She jogged around Boston Common and the Faneuil Hall area until she reached a small neighborhood that was a haven for artists. The studio was still there.

  Stepping inside, she was both surprised and delighted to recognize the fifty-something-year-old woman behind the counter.

  “Hi, uh, Lillian.”

  “Iris! I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Do you have space for me?” She didn’t bother to correct the name.

  “Of course, of course.”

  Irina passed over the fifty. “I don’t have anything with me, so I’ll take whatever that will buy me.”

  “Colors, canvas size?”

  Irina shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  Lillian looked scandalized, but bustled though the front room, which was a small gallery, into the artist workroom in the back. Paint-stained easels were crowded together. A few pottery wheels sat in the back near the sink.

  There were two other painters at the easels, and one pottery wheel was spinning.

  A cage-front storage unit, like the ones hardware stores kept spray paint in, held supplies. Lillian opened it and selected a small canvas, three tubes of water-based paint, and two brushes.

  “Here you go. There are palettes over there you can use.”

  “I’ll just use one brush. Can I have a tube of white, too?” Irina looked longingly at the tubes of oil paint, but didn’t have the time or money to mess with oil.

  “Red, yellow, blue and white.” Lillian handed everything over.

  “Thanks. That’s all I need.” Irina selected a spot, set everything on the small shelf connected to the easel, then took off the fleece and pulled on the cheap, too-large T-shirt as a smock.

  Paint to palette, palette to brush, brush to canvas. There was no sketch to guide her, no model or view to reference.

  Two hours later, she stepped back. She felt mellow and loose. Every bit of tension and emotion had flowed out of her, through the brush, onto the canvas.

  She washed the brush and palette clean, leaving the brush on the sink, a gift to the next artist.

  Removing the stained T-shirt, she threw it away, then put her fleece back on and started to walk out.

  “Iris!” Lillian called. “What do you want me to do with the painting?”

  Irina looked over her shoulder at the painting—three faces, each painted in a totally different style. A purple-skinned face done in the surrealist style of Picasso, a portrait of a handsome brown-haired man, and the blurred image of a woman turned in profile, rendered in dots, which had been deposited on the canvas with the blunt end of the brush, pointillism style.

  “Just throw it away.”

  “May I join you?”

  The slightly too-loud voice broke Eli from his study of the binder. Jasper was standing beside his table, a to-go cup of coffee in one hand.

  Eli studied the other man for a moment, then nodded. Jasper slid into the booth across from Eli.

  “How did you find me?” Eli asked.

  “Chance, I’m afraid.” Jasper sipped his coffee, eyeing Eli warily. “I used to come here when I was in school.”

  “You went to Harvard?”

  “I did. Surprised?”

  “Yes,” Eli answered honestly.

  “I have my Ph.D. from the Oriental Institute in Chicago.”

  “What’s your specialty?”

  “This is starting to feel like a job interview.”

  Eli was about to say sorry, but decided not to. He didn’t really care if he made Jasper uncomfortable.

  “Early medieval European. But I’ve worked on digs all over the world—China, the Middle East—”

  “And that’s when you stole from the Baghdad museum?”

  “I stood shoulder to shoulder with desperate museum curators as they tried to decide if they should abandon the museum and flee with their families, or stay and try to protect the artifacts. After that is when I care
fully packaged a few critical items, made copies of the artifact records, and then smuggled them out of the country into Turkey.” Jasper’s voice was cold.

  “How noble. Where are they now, these artifacts? ‘Safe’ with a private collector?” Eli was not going to let himself be swayed by Jasper’s story. The history of art was riddled with theft and destruction. People like Jasper were a bane upon this earth.

  “Actually, they’re in the British Museum.”

  Eli snorted. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  Jasper raised one brow. “It’s the truth.”

  “The British Museum wouldn’t…” Eli trailed off. Hmm.

  Jasper’s other eyebrow joined the first and a faint smile played around his mouth. “Thinking it through, aren’t you?”

  The British Museum didn’t have the best track record when it came to artifact acquisition. No major museum did. Even brand-new institutions like the Getty in California were plagued by scandals around their artifact-acquisition practices.

  “The museum director would never agree to that.”

  Jasper shrugged. “I didn’t arrange it. I just got them there—over land, in a jeep, no less. Someone from the Admiralty arranged it, which makes sense, since they’re—”

  “What are nice boys like you doing in a place like this?” Irina walked up to their table, bottle of water in hand. She was flushed and glowing, her hair up in a high ponytail. Without waiting to be asked, she slid in next to Eli, who scooted over, pulling the binder with him.

  “You two making nice?”

  “I think I’m making inroads with Harvey Dent over there,” Jasper said.

  “Harvey Dent?” Eli asked.

  “You know, Two-Face. The Batman villain. He saw everything as black and white—good and bad, right and wrong.”

  “How villainous of me to think of stealing as bad. Must be my puritanical upbringing.” Eli’s voice was dry.

  Irina laughed. “Why don’t we try a slightly different subject? What made you want to become an art historian?”