Page 1 of Baby Take Me Home

PART1

THE EMBASSY JOB

CHAPTER 1

Ashlee

I’d slippedinto 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 on 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 assets, then 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.

Standing beside my new admirer was a grizzled, older man with sparse gray hair and a pot belly He watched the progress of my purse through the scanner 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 bottle disguised as a lipstick tube, a high-tech electronic descrambler hidden in the lid of a pressed powder compact, and a lock-pick set stitched into the lining of a miniature manicure tool bag—were 100% 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 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 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 were waving me toward the ballroom entrance. I thanked them and hurried into the party as quickly as I could without drawing undue attention before they could change their minds.

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 with trays laden with champagne everywhere I looked, a small orchestra on one side of the hall, elegant couples showing off years of dance 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 more mundane. I would collect impressions of the embassy to use as background about the world inhabited by Luka Kovac, visionary interior designer, philanthropist, and husband of a Slovenian diplomat.

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 need to keep up appearances, so I smiled at every old guy who leered at me and moved quietly around the ballroom. I hoped that if anyone knew enough about me to recognize me as Ashlee Armand of the Sun, 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 forget it.

If it came down to it tonight—and I seriously hoped it wouldn’t—I would trade on my notoriety and well-known step back down the career ladder to cover my true purpose for attending this stultifying soirée.

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 American government facilities security. 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 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 presence. He seemed to take up more space than his long, lean body should.