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The gala was much like dozens of other gatherings of the rich and connected I’d attended. Beautiful people wearing designer gowns and tuxedos, no one eating the tiny and exorbitantly expensive hors d’oeuvres, servers laden with trays of champagne everywhere I looked, a small orchestra on one side of the hall, and elegant couples showing off years of lessons as they twirled and waltzed across the dance floor. If I were still a hard-hitting reporter dedicated to rooting out corruption and exposing it to disinfecting sunlight, I would have had a list of targets to approach tonight, in the hopes of catching them off guard and getting their comments for my upcoming investigative piece. But as a staff reporter in the lifestyle section, my mission was the mundane task of collecting impressions of the embassy and background about the world inhabited by Luka Kovac, visionary interior designer, philanthropist, and husband of a Slovenian diplomat.
And if rumors were to be believed, a very corrupt diplomat.
The old guard was right about Luka being a nice man, and I genuinely liked him. But I would throw his ass right under the bus along with his partner when my real reason for being here paid off and broke my true story wide open. And I would do it without remorse because there wasn’t a chance in hell that someone who had his hand in as many filthy places as Izak Kovac did so without his life partner knowing. For now, though, I needed to keep up appearances, so I smiled at every old guy that leered at me and moved quietly around the ballroom, hoping that if anyone knew enough about me to recognize me as Ashlee Armand of The DC Sentinel, they would realize I’d been reduced to writing fluff pieces since I’d returned from my ordeal—the sensational story the young guard had remembered. While the incident had been fascinating fodder for strangers, the reality had been a waking nightmare for me, and I’d done everything in my power over the past six months to put the terror behind me.
I’d also gone to great pains to convince my readers and colleagues alike that I’d taken a step down on the career ladder, giving up hard-hitting exposes and focusing on human interest stories, to give myself recovery time. In reality, my career shift was a cover that allowed me to investigate what had happened to me without arousing suspicion as an investigative journalist.
I hung to the edges of the crowd and stayed close to the wall, walking the perimeter and looking for the exits, undercover guards, and weak spots in security. Learning the details about the layout of the embassy and the location of Izak’s office had been almost painfully easy. Luka loved to talk about everything, but nothing more than his design projects. He had redecorated Izak’s space as well as those of three other high-ranking embassy officials, and asking natural follow-up questions had led to a windfall of inside information.
I’d had to dig a little deeper to understand how embassy security worked, contacting an old source with general knowledge of security in American government facilities. Of course, he knew nothing specific about the Slovenian embassy, and I hadn’t asked, but he’d shared generalized best practices and had run hypothetical scenarios with me. It had been three days well spent, and while I couldn’t prepare for every unknown, I was as ready as I would ever be.
I crept close to the side exit that, according to Luka, opened to a series of hallways that led to senior staff offices. My back was to the door so I could watch the crowd. I’d spotted four men who’d been circling the room in much the same way I had. They would be the security team. A small force, but they were just the muscle in the room. There were probably dozens more of them in the building, like the two guards out front. I was counting on the fact that embassy staff wouldn’t be expecting trouble. And, in fact, I had no plans to cause any, only to slip away quietly, rummage through Izak’s files, and return to the party as stealthily as I’d left it.
“Ms. Armand,” a low, smooth, American voice said beside me.
I glanced to my left, then stared. The man was riveting, with chiseled features, short-cropped, tightly curled dark hair, and deep brown eyes fringed with dark lashes. But more than that, he had a presence. He seemed to take up more space than his long, lean body should. And that voice. It slid over me again.
“You’re not leaving already, I hope.”
“Leaving?” I glanced away from him in the hopes he would realize I wasn’t interested in a conversation with him. “I’m just observing the party.”
“From a convenient location in front of a currently unwatched door.” Out of my peripheral vision, I saw his laconic grin.
I turned to face him, fully taking him in for the first time. He was broader than I’d first thought, probably muscular under his well-fitted tux with its narrow waist. His crisp, white collar just barely revealed the top of a tattoo, and I spent an ill-advised minute wondering what design would be revealed to me if he were to unbutton his shirt. When I caught myself and looked back up at his face, I got the uneasy sensation that he could read my mind, at least as far as my assessment of him.
“Army INSCOM insignia, from a previous life.”
Had I missed part of our conversation? I shook my head to clear it. “Pardon?”
“The tattoo.” He took a step closer. “It seemed to capture your attention. I thought you might be wondering what it is.”
“No,” I said, looking away from him. “Is the US Army now protecting the Slovenian Embassy on US soil?”
“A woman well-versed in the ways of power knows better than that,” he said.
“What does that mean?” I was growing more concerned by the second. If he were involved in security on any level and suspected me, he probably would have quietly removed me by now. Somehow, I suspected that his identity and his reason for being here were more ominous than simple crowd control.
He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he moved another step closer. While I contemplated running, screaming, or both, he dropped his voice to a whisper, which was a sound so mesmerizing, I could have stood rooted to the spot and listened to it all night. “Would you dance with me, Ms. Armand?”
“Do I know you, Mr…?”
“Call me TJ. No, we haven’t met. I only know you through your excellent work.”
“We haven’t?” There was something familiar about him. Not his face. I would have remembered a man who looked like that. Maybe his demeanor, his stance, the way he carried himself. But none of that captured the niggling memory at the back of my brain.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I arched an eyebrow.
“About dancing,” he said.
I glanced past him and smiled at a couple, an older man with a much younger woman, whom I’d never met. “I’m sorry, Mr… um, TJ. I see some friends. I must say hello.”
“Another time, then.”
I nodded politely and stepped past him, moving closer to freedom with every step I took. But as I crossed the room, heading in the direction of the strangers, I could still feel his gaze resting on me as if it had weight. I kept my own eyes on the prize as I weaved through the crowd. I stopped beside the couple, then touched the young woman’s arm.
“Susan, it’s so wonderful to see you. I didn’t know—”
