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BLURB
Take Me
He took the woman of his dreams into his dangerous world. Now giving her up might be the only way to keep her safe.
Ashlee
As a journalist investigating my own unsolved kidnapping, I’m willing to risk anything to find the perpetrators. When I nearly blow my cover, a mysterious man rescues me, then warns me away from the story. I know I should be terrified of the dark forces at play, but something tells me I can trust this man. Soon, I only feel safe when I’m by his side.
TJ Russo knows more about my kidnapping than he’s admitting, and I’m determined to drag the whole story out of him. The only problem is I’m falling for my sexy protector.
And now I have to choose between learning the truth and staying in his life.
TJ
Six months ago, my covert agency, HEAT, rescued Ashlee Armand from the crime syndicate The Carbonadoes. When the intrepid reporter shows up in the middle of an operation targeting the dangerous organization, I realize she’s in harm’s way again. To keep her out of a HEAT versus Carbonados showdown, I take her under my protection.
When that ill-advised move puts her at more risk, it’s clear I have to send her away for her safety. But she isn’t the kind of woman to go quietly.
And I don’t know how to let go of the smart, sexy woman who has captured my heart.
1
Ashlee
I’d slipped into some secure buildings for nefarious purposes in the past, but smuggling contraband into an embassy gala was a first, even for me.
I handed my engraved invitation and photo ID to the uniformed guard and placed my silver beaded purse onto the conveyor-belt metal detector. I pretended not to notice that the guard sneaked a peek at my cleavage. After all, I’d chosen my deep purple gown with a plunging neckline and deeper plunging back partly for the distraction it caused. While he studied my documents, I glanced around the ornate entrance hall of the Slovenian embassy in the center of DC.
“Welcome, Ms. Armand.” The guard smiled at me as he handed back my driver’s license. He was blond with a strong jaw and the confidence of youth as he held my gaze a few beats too long.
At another time, or maybe in another lifetime, I would have flirted with him and chatted him up. You never know when someone who holds the literal keys to a guarded facility might come in handy. But with any luck, this first visit to the embassy would also be my last.
Beside my new admirer, a grizzled, older man with sparse gray hair and a potbelly watched the progress of my purse through the security check on a monitor. If I thought flirting with him would do any good, I would be all in as a means of keeping his mind off my purse. But his gaze was intent on my bag. I smiled serenely, as if the discovery of its contents wouldn’t end in my arrest. My supplier had promised me that the tools I carried—a Mace spray can disguised as a lipstick tube, a high-tech electronic descrambler hidden in the lid of a pressed powder compact, and a lockpick set stitched into the lining of a miniature manicure kit bag—were 100 percent plastic and therefore immune to the machine’s detection capabilities. I was also fairly certain the purse would pass visual scrutiny if the old guard got nosy, but I didn’t want to test that theory.
“I know you,” the younger guard said with a thick Slavic accent, startling me and drawing my attention back to him. “You are a journalist.”
“Yes.” I held my smile and willed my heart to slow its frantic pace so my pulse wouldn’t jump in my throat. “I was told that wouldn’t be a problem. I’m doing a lifestyle piece on Izak Kovac’s husband, Luka.”
The younger man spoke in Slovenian to the older one. Many of the world’s governments, not to mention some of my own countrymen, aren’t fans of a free press, so it can be a crapshoot when I’m recognized for my profession. I held my friendly smile and my breath, hoping an armed escort off the property wasn’t on the agenda for the evening.
The older man repeated one word and stared at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t speak the language.”
“Kidnapped,” he said in English.
Every muscle in my body tensed as I absorbed the familiar and sickening surge of useless adrenaline. I cleared my throat and tried to resume my smile, but I couldn’t do it. “That was a while ago. I don’t discuss it.”
Both men frowned, and the younger one no longer met my gaze, but the older man looked intently into my eyes and said something in his native tongue. I had no idea what the words meant, but I understood the tone of sadness and something that wasn’t quite pity. Maybe wistfulness. Maybe understanding.
The old guard stood as he picked up my purse from the conveyor belt and handed it to me. “Mr. Luka Kovac is a nice man. You write a nice story.”
I took my purse, unsure of whether he was giving me encouragement or a directive. Either way, my purse and its illicit contents were back in my possession, and the guards waved me toward the ballroom entrance. I thanked them and, before they could change their minds, I hurried into the party as quickly as I could.
