The Awakening. Amanda Stevens

it occupied. I started to move on, then stopped dead as a quiver went through me.

      The man’s head was turned so that I could only see his profile, but I recognized the jawline, the rigid posture, the gleaming silver hair—not a strand out of place. Even at so early an hour, Jonathan Devlin was formally turned out in a three-piece suit and wingtips. A gold watch fob hung from his vest and a precisely folded pocket square adorned his coat. He could have been on his way to a funeral, so somber his attire.

      I hadn’t made a sound. I was certain of that. But before I could make my escape, he turned and pinned me with a gaze every bit as dark and intense as his grandson’s. I was awestruck by that glare. It was as if his eyes had the power to hold me in suspended animation.

      In that frozen moment, I suddenly became acutely aware of my own apparel—walking shoes, leggings and a faded hoodie. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but the wind and the exertion of my walk had loosened damp tendrils. I wore no makeup or perfume and my nails were clipped short so that I could more easily scrub away the graveyard dirt. A less appealing presentation I could hardly imagine, but why should I be so concerned about my appearance? Jonathan Devlin was nothing to me. I had no need to impress.

      Even so, I couldn’t dispel the echo of my aunt Lynrose’s censure. You must always wear gloves when you work, Amelia. On that there can be no compromise. A woman’s hands never lie.

      Neither of us spoke for the longest time, which only prolonged the awkward encounter. Finally, I cleared my throat and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

      “It’s a public park. I don’t own this bench.” He had Devlin’s drawl, I noted. That cultured cadence rarely heard these days and only ever south of Broad Street.

      I tried to suppress a shiver as I inched back a step. “That’s true, but you were here first. I can find another bench.”

      “No, don’t run away, young lady.” His voice softened though not without effort, I wagered. He rose from the bench to face me.

      He was tall, with the trim physique and resolute demeanor of a man who cut himself and those around him very little slack. I wondered what it must have been like for Devlin, a rebellious teen losing his parents so suddenly and forced to live with a man who wore a three-piece suit and polished wingtips for an early-morning stroll in the park. But then, I didn’t delude myself into thinking that this was a coincidental meeting. Not after the episode last night in front of my house.

      “I may have beaten you to the punch this time,” Jonathan Devlin allowed. “But you come here often enough that I imagine you think of this as your place.” He gave a little wave as if to encompass our surroundings.

      I stared back at him, trying not to show my nerves. “How would you know how often I come here? Or that I come here at all, for that matter.”

      “There is very little I don’t know about you, Miss Gray.”

      Apprehension quickened my breath. “That sounds ominous.”

      “Yet you’re still here.” The light slanting down through the leaves caught him in such a way as to magnify the lines and creases in his face and the slight sag of his jowls. Despite his military posture and fitness, I detected a slight quake in his voice, a chink in his armor that he undoubtedly abhorred. A man such as he would cling to his vigor until his dying breath.

      “Do you know who I am?” he asked, his dark gaze taking my measure.