Page 2 of Baby Take Me Home
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. “I’m just observing the party.”
“From a convenient location in front of a currently unguarded 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, 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 as 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 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 that 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 met?” 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 away from him. 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 eyes on the prize as I weaved through the crowd. I stopped beside the couple and touched the young woman’s arm.
“Susan, it’s so wonderful to see you. I didn’t know—“
“I’m sorry, I’m not Susan,” the woman replied with a hint of a Slavic accent. “I don’t believe I know you.”
“Oh, I’m so embarrassed!” I pressed my hand to my cheek. “Of course, I can see that now. Your eyes are a lovely shade of green, not brown like Susan’s. Please forgive me. I’m Ashlee.” I held out my hand.
She gently squeezed my hand. I hoped that from the perspective of the TJ person, it looked like we were old friends chatting, and the banality of it would cause him to lose interest in me.
“No need to apologize,” the woman said. “I’m Renalda. And I know who you are. Are you here working on your next big story?” She dropped her voice and smiled like we were sharing a secret. “Maybe an exposé of an oligarch? I’ll bet you can find more than one of those here tonight.”
In my line of work, it pays to have a poker face. It also didn’t hurt that I could tell her a half-truth. Which, technically, by definition, is also a half-lie. “It’s nice to meet you, Renalda. I am here for a story, but probably not the kind you think. It’s a human interest piece on Luka Kovac and his interior design career.”
“Luka? That’s wonderful. He’s such a lovely man.” She touched her companion’s shoulder, drawing his attention away from the diplomatic attaché with whom he’d been speaking. “Darling, this is Ashlee Armand. She works for one of the DC newspapers. She’s writing about Luka Kovac. Isn’t that wonderful?”
A surge of warm energy crept up my neck and into my face. My reporter’s instinct tacked to high alert. Between Renalda rhapsodizing and her husband staring wide-eyed at me upon hearing Luka’s name, I was sure they knew something about Izak Kovac’s criminal activities. Maybe my new acquaintanceship was serendipitous. It certainly had gotten me out from under the microscopic gaze of the mysterious man who’d called himself TJ. His back was to me now. His shoulders were relaxed as he talked with a handful of people. My faux friendship with Renalda must have assured him I belonged here, after all.
“If you’re a friend of Luka’s, I’d love to interview you.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a business card. Old school, for sure, but I knew from dealing with the rich and powerful that you had to create the illusion they were in charge. Giving her my contact details without requesting hers was part of the smokescreen. “The story goes to my editor in a couple of weeks, so the sooner, the better.”