Joyful Engagement
Mari Carr Lila Dubois
Copyright © 2020 by Mari Carr
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
He didn’t have a gun. The mission—to deliver a letter—didn’t feel gun worthy.
In hindsight, he should have brought a gun.
Tate Greene mounted the steps to the small, white house just outside Charleston, South Carolina. The house was devoid of any Christmas stuff. It was December twenty-ninth, so it was possible the adornments were already down, though they’d seen plenty of Christmas decorations still up and on display on the way here. Like a scary amount. One house about five miles back had filled every inch of their yard with inflatable Santas, reindeer, snowmen, and even a baby Yoda holding a candy cane.
But here? On the Hayden property? It could have been any month of the year.
His companion, Roman Tanaka glanced over, clearly waiting for Tate to take point. Roman was also here playing mailman. To anyone who didn’t know what was really going on, it would seem ridiculous that the Grand Master of the Trinity Masters would send a former Marine sniper—now a grad student at Harvard studying philosophy and specializing in the German philosophers—and an accountant for the NSA to play mailmen.
But the Grand Master had her reasons, at least one of which was that Roman’s cousin, Selene Tanaka, was receiving a letter.
Tate and Roman shared an impressed look as they took in the Tesla Coil in the yard, before Tate raised his hand and knocked on the door. He was pretty sure this was the right house even though there were several residences on the property.
They’d dropped the third in their group—their other “partner in crime”—Scarlet Hall off at the main farmhouse at the front of the property. The secondary houses and other assorted buildings were scattered around what had once probably been a working farm.
Their information as to which house they were looking for had come from a very reliable source. Langston Hayden had, until recently, lived in the converted barn to Tate’s left. The Tesla Coil was his. The two small houses belonged to his identical triplet brothers, Oscar and Walt.
A tall, muscled, black man opened the door. He didn’t look surprised to see them standing there—Langston had warned them that Oscar had elaborate security around the buildings at the back of the property, including video surveillance.
Scarlet—currently “breaking in” to the farmhouse—should be fine since there wasn’t security on that house, besides a standard alarm. Besides, Langston had given her a key to the front door and the code. The large, original farmhouse sat empty. The Hayden parents had moved a decade earlier, preferring to live in downtown Charleston to be closer to their daughter, Sylvia.
Oscar Hayden wore ugly green-and-red plaid pajama pants—perhaps they did celebrate Christmas after all—and nothing else. He had his arms crossed over his chest and he was radiating irritation.
Beside Tate, Roman made a face. It was just after one p.m., a little late to still be in pajamas, which meant Oscar had probably gotten out of bed to answer the door. Gotten out of a bed that contained Selene Tanaka and Luca Campisi.
The letter Tate had in his bag was for Luca. Roman’s was for Selene.
Oscar wasn’t getting a letter.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
From inside the house, a female voice called out, “I told you it’s my cousin! Give me a second to get decent, Roman!”
That confirmed they had some kind of video surveillance that had allowed Selene to identify Roman.
Oscar didn’t move.
Roman cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. It was Roman’s equivalent of throwing his hands in the air in disgust. Roman was in “business” mode—a facade of reserved accountant. Since he was an accountant, it made sense, but Tate had gotten to know the real Roman during the planning meetings leading up to this trip to Charleston. Considering what he did, calling him an “accountant” was like calling a jaguar a cat. The mild-mannered face he wore hid a razor-sharp mind and incredible sense of humor.
“That answers my first question,” Oscar grumbled. “Doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“We have letters,” Roman said quietly. “From the Grand Master.”
“Letters? Plural?” Oscar jerked as if they’d poked him with a sharp stick, and then his irritated expression melted away, replaced by relief.
That was when Tate’s instincts started to scream at him that he should have a gun.
He and Roman were delivering a letter on behalf of the Grand Master, the leader of the Trinity Masters—a secret society that had been functioning in the United States since the ink was still drying on the Declaration of Independence.
Membership in the society was offered to the best and brightest the country had to offer, however, one of the terms of inclusion involved a rather unusual caveat. Those who joined agreed to allow the Grand Master to place them in an arranged ménage marriage of her choosing.
Roman smiled when Selene appeared in the doorway.
“We’re still working on Oscar’s people skills,” she said. “It’s a steep learning curve.” She gave her cousin a warm smile and hug that revealed a genuine fondness between the two. “Would you both like to come in? I can make coffee or tea or grab some bottles of water if you’d like. Might even have some eggnog left if you’re in a festive mood.”
Roman stepped across the threshold, but Tate hesitated, wondering if they’d be smarter to stay out in the open where there was more room to run. Of course, the nearest thing to hide behind was the Tesla Coil, which would provide zero cover.
Oscar probably didn’t have a gun. It was
