by Lila Dubois
“You need my help.”
“Excuse you. No I don’t.”
“Yes you do. Especially with the records.”
Juliette frowned at the wall. Sebastian usually wasn’t so pushy, or dismissive of her abilities. Chalking it up to concern, she decided not to strain their relationship by telling him he couldn’t help her.
“You want to be my date to the gala?”
“The…oh hell no.”
Juliette laughed. Seb hated Trinity Masters’ events.
“Well I can’t go by myself.” Juliette made her voice breathy and feminine. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“And you’re always so proper. Don’t forget I have those photos from the last time we were in Malta.”
“Blackmail. Shocking. I’ll have you know—”
Chimes sounded. Juliette stopped, the sound unexpected enough that her heart started racing.
“Jules? You okay?”
“There’s someone at the door.”
“So much for your solitude.”
“I have to get that. Email me. Be safe.”
“Be safe,” he repeated, a sign off they’d used for years.
Hanging up, she quickly slipped on some shoes to go with her thick cotton lounge pants and too-large wool sweater. Sebastian had no idea how appropriate “be safe” was, considering the threats Harrison had received not long ago.
Reminding herself that only a handful of people knew she was now the Grand Master, she headed down the stairs, letting her sweater fall over her hands to hide the fact that her fingers were shaking.
*****
Devon Asher tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks, took them out, buttoned his jacket, stuck his hands back in his pockets and reminded himself that for fuck’s sake, you’re a thirty-year-old man, stop acting like an idiot teenager.
Once he was sure he had the fidgeting out of his system, Devon rang the bell, listening to the faint sound of chimes. It took just long enough for the door to open that he was fighting the urge to mess with his tie. Luckily, he was composed and still when the portal swung inward.
Juliette Adams was stunning. She always had been, and probably always would be. Honey-gold hair lay over her shoulder in a messy braid, her slight frame nearly overwhelmed by the knit sweater that was listing to one side, not quite falling off her shoulder but exposing the delicate line of her collarbone. Her skin was a warm gold, darker than he was used to seeing, and it gave her a sort of monochromatic-goddess appeal.
From fidgeting to flights of fancy. He really needed to pull it together.
She leaned against the door, blocking his entrance. It was ridiculous since he was a foot taller and 100 pounds heavier than her, but the look on her face made it very clear that if she didn’t want to let him in, she wouldn’t, and damn the logistics of trying to keep someone his size out.
He knew the house had top-of-the-line security, which meant she’d checked a video display to see who was outside before answering. That robbed him of the chance to see her unstudied reaction. Devon lived for the moments when he could catch her off guard, before her face and heart closed down.
As he’d been studying her, she’d been studying him. It had been eighteen months, two weeks and three days, since they’d been face-to-face. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him—if she saw him at all.
He was fairly certain that for Juliette, he was simply a representation of everything she hated.
A gust of wind tugged at his suit jacket, reminding him that he didn’t have an overcoat. She shivered as the cold air whipped into the house and Devon shifted, trying to block the breeze. Her lips pressed together, a brief moment of…something, but then she smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes.
“Devon, to what do I owe the honor of a visit from my betrothed?”
Damn it, damn it, she could not deal with this, with him, right now.
Stepping back she pushed the door all the way open and motioned Devon in. He carefully wiped the snow from his shoes before accepting the invitation. Juliette closed the door and leaned against it, taking a moment to center herself. She could feel him looming over her. At six feet one, with wide shoulders, he was physically big and his steady gray eyes seemed to always be watching and assessing.
She’d known him all her life and had been engaged to him just as long. Devon was one of her trinity, a marriage that had been decided upon as soon as she was born. Even on days when she was feeling charitable towards her father, Juliette couldn’t see her trinity—herself, Devon Asher of the New York Ashers, and Rose Hancock, direct descendant of one of America’s founding families—as anything but a political maneuver cementing three legacy families together.
It would help if Devon wasn’t handsome and well-mannered, but he was both. His brown hair was only slightly mussed by the wind, cut in a classic style with a side part. His navy suit, blue-and-white checked shirt and blue tweed tie were both classic and fashionably trendy—eminently appropriate for a young D.C. lobbyist. A Burberry scarf was draped around his neck and he pulled it off with quick, efficient movements, turning to hang it on the freestanding coatrack.
“Can I get you something to drink?” The words were out before she had time to consider what she was saying. A knee-jerk good-manner reflex.
“Tea or coffee would be nice. Thank you.”
Juliette bristled. “I haven’t been in the kitchen yet, so you may be out of luck.”
“That’s fine.” Devon frowned. “Have you eaten since you got here?”
“Five seconds in the door and already patronizing. Lovely.” Juliette headed for the kitchen, throwing open doors as she went.
The less-formal living room was usable, but the dining room was draped in tarps to protect the furnishings. Everything was in place in the kitchen and it took her only a few minutes to find where the kettle was stored.
Devon had followed her in. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he stripped off his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the counter-height chairs pulled up to the massive marble island.
“I didn’t mean to be patronizing, Juliette.”
Filling the kettle, she had to resist the urge to slam the faucet handle. The way he said her name set her teeth on edge. It was the same way he’d said her name when she was a gangly ten-year-old, following him around and dying of jealousy when he hung out with Rose, who, like Devon, was five years older than Juliette. They’d been peers and she’d been the annoying little kid trying so hard to get their attention, especially Devon’s.
“In that case, thank you for the concern, but I have, miraculously, managed to feed myself since landing.” She went digging through the canisters of loose-leaf tea until she found a nice Assam. “Speaking of which, how did you know I was here?”
“Rose heard from Jackson.”
“Who heard from Bethany, who heard from Sebastian. For people who live and die by their secrets, we’re ridiculously gossipy.”
Devon laughed, a warm, smooth sound. “True.”
She couldn’t even be mad at Sebastian—he wouldn’t have said anything about her becoming the Grand Master, but he would have mentioned to their friends that she was headed to Boston. Not saying anything would have been suspicious.
“And how is Rose?”
“She’s well.”
“Still in California?”
“Yes.”
Juliette watched the clock on the microwave, timing the brew. It gave her an excuse not to look at Devon as the silence lengthened.
“If you’re in the states for a while, we could head out there to see her.”
“How sweet, bonding time with your wives.” Juliette turned just enough so he could see her flutter her eyelashes. For a moment his composure cracked and he looked irritated. Good. She was irritated; he might as well be, too.
“Yes, clearly that’s why I suggested it, because I want to play lord and master over my women.”
Now Juliette laughed—the way he said it, wryly and with a
clear understanding that he’d have better luck pulling down the moon than being lord and master over either Juliette or Rose, was heartening. It didn’t change the fact that their betrothal was a giant purple elephant in the room.
She poured cups of tea then motioned toward the kitchen door. “Let’s sit in the living room.”
Devon waited until her back was turned to let his shoulders relax. Sometimes they could go days stuck in a pattern of stiff formality and sly jabs. Other times…other times there weren’t even words to describe the magic.
He brushed aside the nagging guilt he felt from lying to her—Rose had texted him that she’d heard Juliette was on her way to Boston, but that text had come a day after he’d already learned of her travel plans. Juliette would not appreciate knowing how he knew. It was a conversation he needed to have with her, but later, after they’d been called to the altar and their trinity sealed.
Hopefully, that wait was almost over. If Juliette was in Boston it must mean her brother, the Grand Master, had summoned her, and there was only one reason Harrison would have summoned Juliette—he was preparing to call them to the altar.
Rose had assumed the same, and asked him to text her as soon as he knew what was going on. Both he and Rose were well aware that the sticking point in their trinity would be Juliette, and it was something they’d had plenty of conversations about. He and Rose had a less-tumultuous, friend-based relationship, though her move to the West Coast had caused some distance between them.
So far, nothing Juliette had said or done indicated they were days away from the life-changing altar ceremony. Either she’d gotten even better at hiding her thoughts and feelings or she was being willfully blind as to why her brother had called her home. Both were strong possibilities.
He lit the gas insert in the elegant plaster-and-marble fireplace. When Juliette curled up on one end of a low leather couch, he took a seat in the chair beside it. He wanted to sit with her, to pull her onto his lap and strip off that sweater and…
Devon took a sip of the tea, forcing himself to think about something else. “How’s your work with North Star?”
“Good. Challenging. It’s hard to reach the people we’re trying to help, and asking them to use and trust technology is an uphill battle.”
“Is the planning complete?” Last time he’d seen her, she’d been helping to map out services and reporting lines that would mirror the routes women and children were trafficked along. They were trying to create a reporting pipeline that would allow them to not only establish how and when people were being trafficked, but allow them to connect the dots, possibly tracing and locating individuals.
“We finished identifying optimal geographic locations last year. I’ve been working implementation since then.”
“What does implementation entail?”
She settled back, cup in one hand, saucer in the other, and started talking. Devon would sooner die than admit he knew most of what she was telling him—he was just happy she was talking at all. As she continued explaining, he could hear the rhythm in the words, a sign that she’d explained what, how and why she did this work before—to funders, to community leaders, to foreign governments. The way she spoke both told a story and invited him to be a part of the solution. It was a quiet call to arms, a gentle but heart-wrenching tale. The firelight made her hair glow gold and her eyes were bright with conviction.
He was reminded anew as to exactly how good she was at what she did, and how dangerous she could have been had she chosen a different career.
He asked questions, the motivation flipping from a desire to keep her talking to genuine interest. It was going well until she started talking about sneaking into a brothel and then onto a transport truck to get footage and firsthand experience that could be used by North Star for promotional and explanatory materials.
“Juliette!”
She jumped slightly. “What?”
“You could have been killed, or disappeared into some underground sex-slavery ring.” Devon felt slightly ill. How had he not heard about this?
“That was kind of the point. I was wearing a GPS monitor, a hidden camera and carrying notarized copies of my passport. If they’d figured out who I was, they would have let me go. An American citizen is like a stick of lit dynamite—no one wants to be caught holding one.”
“You just spent half an hour describing the kinds of horrors these women suffer and are surprised I’m upset that you deliberately put yourself in the way?”
“I’m not stupid or reckless.” Her cup clattered against the saucer when she put them down. “I took all available precautions.”
“Does your brother know about this?”
“Are you asking if my brother, who barely knows me, was aware that I took a calculated risk for a cause I believe in? Or are you asking if the Grand Master is aware that I did something that might compromise a planned trinity?” The words were cold and measured.
Devon told himself to calm down. He was famous for being able to keep a level head in the most horrifying of situations, and yet something about Juliette always got under his skin. He couldn’t shake the mental picture of her being groped and hit as she was herded from a dingy brothel basement in Eastern Europe into the back of a filthy truck along with other terrified women and children.
“I’m asking if you have any idea how irresponsible it is to put yourself in harm’s way.”
“It’s my life. My fight.”
Devon pushed to his feet. “There are people who care about you.” Bracing one hand on the arm of the couch he leaned over her. It was a bad move—the way her jaw clenched made it apparent that all he was doing was making her dig in her heels. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but there are.”
“I know that, but I can’t, won’t, live my life for someone or something else.”
The fear of what could have happened to her was making him feel ill. That, paired with frustration that he hadn’t known about this particular activity, pushed aside his normal reserve. “Thank God your brother brought you back.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Maybe when we’re married you won’t be so reckless. Maybe then other people’s feelings will matter to you.” His teeth snapped together. That was more than he’d wanted to say.
Juliette slid out from under his arm and pushed to her feet, facing him down. “You came to Boston because you think this is it. We’re getting called to the altar.”
Devon cursed. If she hadn’t figured it out on her own, this was not how he’d want her to figure it out. “Juliette, I…”
She turned her back to him.
Devon reached out, fingers hovering an inch from the bare side of her neck. “Juliette, if you let me, I’ll make you happy.” He stroked the bare skin behind her ear and down her neck to the edge of her sweater. “You know I can.”
“Devon…”
“Yes?”
“Get out.”
Chapter Three
Paris, seven years earlier
It wasn’t her first time in Paris, but it was the first time she’d been there without her mother. The freedom was dizzying, the whole world seemingly lying at her feet, waiting to be explored.
Juliette Adams—daughter of a celebrated actress, semi-regular player in page-six style gossip columns and blogs, member of an elite circle of offspring of the rich and famous—was here to take Europe by storm. The ink was barely dry on her high school diploma, but she had months of freedom ahead of her before she started college.
“Shopping or culture?” Rebecca Serafin was sitting cross-legged on the bed, maps and guidebooks scattered around her.
“Culture then shopping.” Lisa Giese flicked her finger across her camera screen, examining the pictures she’d taken yesterday.
“How about we just wander?” Juliette turned away from the apartment window. Though she’d wanted to stay in a hotel—like a normal person—her brother had insisted that she stay in an apartment owned by a member of the Trinity M
asters. Lisa’s family wasn’t part of the Trinity Masters, but Rebecca’s was. As far as both girls knew, the apartment belonged to a Hollywood producer friend of Juliette’s mother. Though Rebecca was a legacy, she didn’t know Juliette’s brother was the Grand Master, which was more than fine with Juliette. It wouldn’t exactly be fun if one of your best friends found out that your brother was the person who had nearly God-like control over her life.
Grimacing at the thought, Juliette snatched up her jacket. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Wait, we’re coming.”
“I’m leaving,” she warned, taking dramatically slow steps towards the door.
“Coming, coming.”
“On y va!”
Once outside, she let herself forget about the Trinity Masters. They wandered until they found a small neighborhood bakery, snagging croissants and strong coffee. Feeling like locals, they walked until they reached the river Seine, taking the steps down to the path beside the water. Trying to blend in, they spoke in French instead of English, turning their noses up at the tourists they passed.
“When are we meeting up with Sebastian and the guys?” Rebecca asked.
“Rome. They’re backpacking right now.” Juliette stopped to take a photo of a pretty bit of ironwork on a bridge, feeling quite artistic as she did so.
“Blegh. Why would anyone want to sleep on the ground and be dirty when they could be doing this?” Lisa spread her arms.
Juliette wouldn’t have minded going backpacking, which her best friend in the whole world, Sebastian, and two other guys were doing before joining her, Rebecca and Lisa for the last two weeks of the trip. But then again, there was something to be said for a whole week of freedom in Paris.
They stopped to shop, Juliette purchasing a slinky silk dress that her mother would never have let her wear. She wore it when they went to dinner that night, deciding to eat at the famous Hotel Meurice. They didn’t have reservations, but they were early by Paris standards and able to get a table without too much trouble. They ordered a bottle of Champagne—real Champagne, from Champagne—and delicately nibbled their rich, buttery food.
