Czytaj książkę: «Baby Battalion»
Tess kept her eyes closed. She had no idea how or why this miracle had occurred, but she didn’t want it to end.
His voice was a whisper. “Tess, I need to—”
“Don’t talk.”
For five long and desperate years, she’d been alone. She was a widow, a single mom. Those years were a famine. And now, she was hungry. She wanted to touch every part of him—on the inside and on the surface. He was back. Joe had come back to her.
Am I losing my mind? Logically, this could not be. She reached higher until she was holding his face in her hands. Eyes still closed, she kissed him again. Oh my God, it was him. She knew. Without the slightest doubt, she knew. He was the love of her life, her soul mate, the father of her son.
Baby Battalion
Cassie Miles
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Though born in Chicago and raised in L.A., Cassie Miles has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post.
After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Harlequin Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Tess Donovan —A single mom and successful events planner in Washington, D.C., she was widowed five years ago.
Nolan Law —Scarred by battle injuries, he was the first man hired for CSaI and usually takes charge.
Joe Donovan —Tess’s deceased husband and the love of her life.
Joey Donovan —The 4-year-old son of Tess and Joe, he was born after his father died.
Trudy Bensen —The office manager and assistant for Tess’s business.
Bart Bellows —The 75-year-old founder of CSaI, who has been kidnapped.
Victor Bellows —Bart’s son is supposedly MIA.
Wes Bradley —The alias used by Victor Bellows.
Lila Lockhart —The Governor of Texas hired Tess to plan her event at the Smithsonian.
Stacy Giordano —The governor’s aide keeps everything running smoothly.
Zachary Giordano —Stacy’s son.
Omar Harris —Nolan’s CIA contact.
The Zamir family —Clients who use Tess to plan events.
Pierre LeBrun —The haughty chef is nothing but trouble for Tess in her event planning.
Greenaway —A powerful drug and weapons dealer who has sworn to take violent revenge on Bart Bellows and Joe Donovan.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter One
Five years after her husband’s death, Tess Donovan still sometimes imagined that she heard the sound of his laughter in a crowd. Whenever she saw a marine in dress blues, she remembered Joe standing at attention—so handsome with his perfect profile and fine features. If he hadn’t been involved in so many secret operations, they could have used his gorgeous face for recruitment posters.
Her cab drove along Constitution Avenue, and she peered through the rear window, trying to see the National Christmas Tree in the Ellipse outside the White House. During the holiday season, she missed Joe like crazy. They had always attended the ceremonial lighting of the tree. They’d shopped together for presents, danced together at dozens of holiday galas. Their Christmases had been all about silver bells and snowball fights and hot buttered rum in front of the fireplace.
That was then. This was now.
She sank back in the seat. Starting with the New Year, she vowed to get on with her life. Not that she’d been standing still for five years. As the single mother of a four-and-a-half-year-old son, she seldom got the chance to sit down, and her small catering business had grown into a successful event-planning enterprise. When it came to mothering and working, she was holding her own. It was her personal life that sucked. In five years, she’d only been on a handful of dates, none of which had turned out well. None of those men were Joe.
This year would be different. She’d give herself the chance to meet a special man. It shouldn’t be that hard; she was only thirty-two and not bad looking, with black hair and blue eyes. She deserved a mate. And her son deserved a father.
Exiting her cab outside the National Museum of American History, she heard a group of strolling carolers. The tenor sounded just like Joe; he had loved to belt out a rock-and-roll version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”
Dusk came early in December. She glanced over her shoulder toward the towering Washington Monument, already lit and gleaming. Then she saw something that made her look twice. Her eyes were lying. This couldn’t be. She looked again.
There he was. Joe was walking toward her. She recognized his square shoulders and long stride. In spite of the chill, his trench coat was unbuttoned. He had never minded the cold.
The rational part of her mind told her that she was wrong. Joe was dead, buried at Arlington. But she couldn’t control her imagination. Her heart skipped. Her fingers lost their grip on her briefcase.
She wanted to run to him and throw herself into his arms. He’d lift her off the sidewalk and twirl her in a circle. And they’d be happy again.
As he came closer, she stared—knowing that he wasn’t Joe but hoping for a miracle. He was less than ten feet from her. Their gazes locked, and she saw him clearly. His was the face of a stranger—a young man in his early twenties. Joe would have been thirty-eight by now. Clearly, she was losing her mind.
The stranger smiled politely, picked up her briefcase and placed it in her hands. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
“Same to you.”
Not Joe, he wasn’t Joe, of course, he wasn’t. Though she felt like melting into a weepy puddle on the sidewalk, Tess pulled herself together. She straightened the lapels on her burgundy wool winter coat, tucked her shoulder-length hair behind her ears and firmly grasped the handle of her briefcase as she ascended the stairs into the museum. With every stride across the marble floors, the heels of her sensible black pumps clicked, and she gathered herself. She couldn’t afford to act like a delusional, sentimental mess.
This was business.
In less than a week, on Christmas Eve, Tess was responsible for a sit-down dinner for three hundred in the second floor Flag Hall. The sponsor of this event—Governor Lila Lockhart of Texas—was celebrating the donation of several artifacts to the Smithsonian as well as thanking some of the top donors to Texans in Congress. Tess had never handled such a prestigious event, and she wanted to get every detail right.
In the waiting area outside the office of the Special Events Coordinator, she greeted the governor’s aide, Stacy Giordano, with a hug. A curvy brunette with incredibly long legs, Stacy was glowing in her first trimester of pregnancy. Her wedding was scheduled for New Year’s Eve in Texas, and Tess had used her contacts to arrange for a fabulous five-tiered cake.
“How’s your little boy?” Tess asked.
“Doing better than I am. Morning sickness is no fun.”
The last time they’d met, she and Stacy had talked about their kids, who were almost the same age. Stacy’s son was autistic. “Did you bring him along on this trip?”
“He’s here. We’re staying with Lila’s family at the Pierpont House in Arlington.”
Tess’s home and office were in Arlington, and she was familiar with the Pierpont—a Colonial-style mansion used by visiting dignitaries. The house came with its own maids and cooks. “Nice place. Has Governor Lockhart arrived?”
“Not yet. She won’t be here until the day before the event. I came with Harlan.” When she spoke the name of her fiancé, Stacy’s cheeks flushed a bright, happy red. “He’s setting up security at the Pierpont and for the event. His concerns are the reason for this meeting.”
“How so?”
“He wants blueprints for the museum so he can check all entrances and exits, including the basement storage areas.”
This request might be difficult to fulfill. Homeland Security got very nervous when it came to protecting national treasures like those that were housed in the museum. “I’m not sure if we can get clearance.”
“Not even for Corps Security and Investigations?”
“If it was up to me, no problem.”
Tess respected the reputation of CSaI, a private security firm based in Freedom, Texas. All the operatives were highly-trained, former military men. For the past several months while protecting Governor Lockhart, CSaI had dealt with death threats, bombings and snipers. From what Tess had heard, their actions had been competent and skillful.
The real reason she held CSaI in high regard was their founder—Bart Bellows. The 75-year-old Bellows was a Vietnam vet, a former CIA agent, a billionaire and the kindest man she’d ever known.
When Joe first went missing, Bellows had contacted her. Though he couldn’t tell her Joe’s assignment, he’d given her the impression that her husband had been vital in disarming a terrible threat to national security. Joe was a hero. But she’d already known that.
Instead of merely offering sympathy, Bart had stayed close to her for several days. In spite of his wheelchair, he’d helped in her catering kitchen. It was Bart who had notified her of Joe’s death and arranged for him to be buried at Arlington. He’d also sorted through the mountains of paperwork to make sure she received the proper benefits and the payouts from other insurance policies. Bart had been with her in the hospital four months later when Joey was born.
She thought of him as her guardian angel, but he wasn’t all sweetness and light. More than once, he’d dragged her out of depression and forced her to stand on her own two feet.
While acknowledging her grief, he encouraged her potential. Her move from catering into the more lucrative field of event planning came as a result of his contacts. In fact, he was the person who’d recommended her to Governor Lockhart.
For the past several weeks, Bart had been missing. When she thought of what might be happening to him, she shuddered. He was such a good man. Life truly was unfair. “Any news on Bart?”
“The guys have a couple of promising leads. If anyone can rescue him, they can.”
Tess hoped and prayed that Stacy was right.
NOLAN LAW PEERED through his infrared, night vision goggles at an isolated flat-roof metal warehouse located eighteen miles outside Austin. A big, black Cadillac pulled up and parked outside the building. The Caddy cut its lights. Nobody got out.
From his surveillance position on a low ridge under the spreading branches of a live oak, Nolan could see a long way down the two-lane road leading to this warehouse. Another vehicle approached—an SUV. He parked behind the Caddy. Four armed men emerged and dispersed, setting up a perimeter at the four corners of the small warehouse with only one loading dock.
Through his ear bud, Nolan heard the smooth, calm voice of Wade Coltrane. “Is that everybody that’s coming to the party?”
“Don’t know.” Nolan glanced to his left. He knew Coltrane was out there, but the man was invisible. “I didn’t send out the invites.”
The third man in their attack group, Nick Cavanaugh, said, “If we’d gotten here sooner, I could have set up some explosive charges inside.”
“I should think you had enough of bombs,” Nolan said. Last month, Cavanaugh and his lady had nearly been blown to bits by an explosive device in her son’s day care center.
“I’m just saying,” Cavanaugh muttered. “More time would have made this easier.”
“Couldn’t be helped.” Nolan had gotten his intel from their CIA contact less than an hour ago. They’d been short on time, lucky to beat the Caddy and hide their Jeep in a gully behind the ridge.
The doors to the Caddy swung open. Two more bodyguards in dark windbreakers emerged from the front. From the back came a man in a suit with a white shirt that gleamed in the moonlight. On his arm was a blonde woman in a short, tight, red dress. Her presence was unexpected and would require an adjustment in strategy.
The suit and the woman went up the concrete stairs to an office door beside the loading dock and went inside. A single light over the door went on, casting a glow on the two men in windbreakers who stood directly outside.
“Hold your positions,” Nolan said. “Let’s give them half an hour to settle down.”
The man in the suit was Robby Jessop, a shady defense contractor, who was likely using this warehouse to stash contraband weapons. Locating Jessop was the best lead CSaI had uncovered in their search for Bart Bellows, and Nolan didn’t want to blow this opportunity.
He lowered himself to the ground and stretched out on his belly. On a night like this when the moon was half full, he wouldn’t be seen with the naked eye. His dark cargo pants, jacket and dark knit cap blended into the shadows. But he wasn’t taking any chances. One of the bodyguards might be smart enough to have night vision goggles of his own.
If it was the last thing he ever did, Nolan would find Bart Bellows. Over a month ago, the old man and his handicapped van had disappeared without a trace or a clue. His driver had been shot and killed, leaving no witness.
Nolan believed the old man was still alive. If Bart’s enemies wanted him dead, they would have acted long before this. They’d kidnapped Bart for a reason and would hold him until they got what they wanted—whatever the hell that was.
The lack of apparent motive made CSaI’s search intensely complicated. Bart had lived a long life and had ticked off a lot of scary people. Operating under the assumption that his abduction was related to his former career in the CIA, Nolan and the rest of the men in Corps Security and Investigations fought their way through a tangle of bureaucratic red tape to get secret documents declassified. They tracked down dozens of agents who could brief them on current situations that stemmed from Bart’s former cases.
Nolan’s best contact turned out to be a spy named Omar Harris who had his Irish-American father’s sense of humor and his Afghani mother’s courage. Omar gave him Jessop’s name and told him that the defense contractor was involved in smuggling weapons and the opium trade in Afghanistan. It was Omar who arranged for Jessop to be at the warehouse outside Austin tonight. The defense contractor thought he was meeting with a warlord who would pay a cool million for their next deal.
Instead, Jessop was going to run into the three-man offense of Nolan, Coltrane and Cavanaugh—three former military men who had served with pride and distinction until they’d been recruited by Bart Bellows for his elite security company.
Poor little Robby Jessop didn’t stand a chance.
Through his night vision goggles, Nolan scanned the area. The guard at the north side of the building was smoking a cigar. Both of the men nearest the warehouse door were texting on their cell phones.
None of them were paying attention.
All were distracted.
Taking them down would be cake.
“Are we ready?” Cavanaugh asked.
“I’ll take the two men on the north side of the building,” Nolan said. “You boys take care of the other side.”
“What about the two by the door?”
“We’ll use a flash-bang to get their attention, and then converge on them.”
Nolan rolled onto his back and checked his weapons. The most dangerous part of this mission would be when they entered the warehouse. They were all wearing Kevlar, but Jessop would be waiting for them.
“Use your stun guns,” Nolan said. “We’re not here to kill anybody. We came to talk. Okay, let’s rock and roll.”
He crept through the night. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, heightening his senses and masking the ever-present ache from old wounds. He’d learned to endure the physical pain from injuries he’d suffered five years ago in Afghanistan, when his platoon was hit by a chopper strike and a roadside bomb. The emotional hurt was deeper, more intense, unrelieved by the passage of time.
Five years ago, Nolan Law had been a different man. Handsome and strong, his life had been filled with promise. His beautiful, loving wife had been pregnant. God, he missed Tess. He missed the son he’d never held in his arms, missed the life he should have had.
Nolan shook his head, pushing aside the regrets and the memories. There was no going back. He wasn’t that man anymore. Joe Donovan was dead.
Chapter Two
Nolan circled the warehouse. The man on the far north side sat on the ground with his back leaning against the building. His gun was holstered, and his eyes were closed. Nolan deepened his nap with a blow that rendered him unconscious and then fastened the guard’s wrists with a plastic tie.
The guy with the cigar was an equally easy takedown using a stun gun and a threat. “Make one sound and I’ll shoot off your kneecap.”
Nolan picked up the guard’s gun—a sleek black repeating rifle in the newest generation of M40s. The fine weapon illustrated how being well-armed didn’t matter as much as being well-disciplined. Any of the men in CSaI were capable of protecting a perimeter with nothing but a slingshot and a pocket knife.
As he moved to the corner of the warehouse, he heard a whisper from Cavanaugh, “We’re in position.”
“Do it.”
When fired, a flash-bang emitted smoke, made a loud explosion and a blinding burst of light. The grenade-size device was more effective when used in an enclosed space, but the noise and flare would provide enough of a distraction for them to move on the guards at the front of the building.
Nolan averted his gaze so he wouldn’t be blinded. As soon as he heard the bang, he ran at the guards. Before they could drop their cell phones and aim their weapons, the two men in dark windbreakers were down.
Nolan issued orders. “Cavanaugh, stay here, watch these guys. Coltrane, inside.”
At the door to the warehouse, Nolan didn’t hesitate. He kicked open the door, lobbed a smoke bomb inside and dove out of the way.
A volley of bullets from an automatic weapon sprayed through the doorway.
He heard the woman scream.
There was a lot of coughing. Another spurt of gunfire. More coughing.
Nolan and Coltrane used their infrared goggles to keep their vision clear. Coltrane held his rifle. Nolan had his stun gun and the guard’s M40. They charged through the door into the warehouse.
It wasn’t necessary to map out their strategy beforehand. They were both experienced military men who knew how to secure a building. Nolan went toward the right. Coltrane went left.
The warehouse was poorly lit with only a few bare bulbs. Through the smoke, Nolan saw an array of wooden crates, none of them stacked higher than his waist. Robby Jessop batted at the smoke and fired blindly. The woman had curled up on the concrete floor beside a desk.
“Who the hell are you?” Jessop yelled. “What do you want?”
Hiding behind crates, Nolan got within ten feet of Jessop before he made his move. It would have been tidier to zap him with the stun gun, but he wanted Jessop to be coherent and able to talk. That was the whole point.
When Jessop turned away from him, Nolan moved fast. He delivered a rabbit punch to the kidneys, tore the weapon from Jessop’s hands and knocked him face down onto the concrete. When he had Jessop’s wrists secured, he pulled him up and marched him through the warehouse.
“Don’t hurt me,” Jessop wailed. “I can pay. Just don’t hurt me.”
He was a coward. Good. He’d be too scared to hold out.
It had already been agreed that Coltrane would take the lead in the interrogation. His specialty was infiltration into enemy situations. Not only did he know what questions to ask, but he was smooth enough to convince Jessop to trust him.
Nolan wasn’t so glib, and his physical appearance was anything but charming. He didn’t frighten little children, not anymore. But the facial reconstruction after his injuries had been extensive. He looked like a man who had been to hell and carried the scars.
While Cavanaugh kept watch over the six guards, Nolan brought Jessop around to the other side of his Caddy and shoved him down on his butt. “Don’t move.”
“I’m telling you,” Jessop whined, “let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”
Nolan traded places with Coltrane, taking custody of the woman in the tight red dress. He pushed his goggles up on his forehead and looked down at her. “You got a name?”
“Becky Joy.” She glared up at him. Her eyes were red from the smoke bomb. “I have nothing to do with this guy. He was just a date.”
“Take the woman,” Jessop offered. “She’s yours.”
Angrily, she reacted. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to say who I belong to.”
“Settle down.” Nolan clamped his fingers around her wiry upper arm. “You won’t be hurt.”
Coltrane circled Jessop, who was sitting cross-legged in the dirt with his wrists fastened behind his back. Tears streaked down his cheeks. His shoulders shuddered as he gasped for breath. Jessop wasn’t fat or skinny; he was as soft as a lump of pink clay. His formerly pristine white shirt was smudged and spattered with tiny drops of blood from a cut at the corner of his mouth.
In a calm voice, Coltrane lulled the defense contractor into a state of cooperation as he talked about the business of supplying weaponry for America and its allies in Iraq and Afghanistan. Without accusing, he hinted that maybe Jessop sold some of his guns to insurgents or warlords. And maybe, just maybe, there was a connection with the opium trade. “But mostly,” Coltrane said, “you’re providing supplies for our troops. You’re a patriot.”
“That’s right.” Jessop licked at the blood in the corner of his mouth. “You’re military, aren’t you?”
“What was your first clue?”
“The way you boys stormed into the warehouse. You’ve been trained. I can tell.”
Disgusted, Nolan looked away. This marshmallow knew nothing about the military, except that he could make money selling guns. Coltrane’s gentle approach was trying his patience.
“There was a guy in Iraq you might have known,” Coltrane said. “Wes Bradley.”
“Sure. He was one of my contacts.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Maybe six months ago,” Jessop said. “Why? Are you looking for him? Is he the guy you’re after?”
“Could be,” Coltrane said.
Wes Bradley had been one of their primary suspects for the attacks on Governor Lockhart until they discovered that he’d been dead for over two years. Someone else was using his identity.
After Bart’s abduction, they tested blood that supposedly belonged to Bradley and found a DNA match in the military database for Victor Bellows, Bart’s son. But there was a problem with this identification. Victor had been stationed in Iraq and had been MIA for four years.
“I’ll talk,” Jessop said. “What do you want to know about Bradley?”
“Describe him.”
“Over six feet, thinning brown hair. Not a bad looking guy but he has those crazy eyes. Know what I mean? Those pale blue eyes that seem to stare right through you.”
Coltrane produced a high school photo of Victor Bellows. “Is this Wes Bradley?”
Jessop nodded. “He’s older now, but that’s him.”
It was confirmation. Victor Bellows—Bart’s only son—was involved in his father’s abduction. Either Victor was the kidnapper or he knew who was holding his father.
“I’ve got another question,” Coltrane said. “Do you know Bart Bellows?”
“I’ve heard the name.” Jessop’s manner shifted. He was edgy, not eager to talk about Bart. “He’s a billionaire, right?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Coltrane said. “We’re not here to enforce the law. But if you don’t cooperate, we’ll tell the CIA and Homeland Security about the weapons you’re holding in this warehouse.”
“If I talk, what do I get?”
Coltrane glanced over his shoulder at Nolan. “What can we offer?”
Nolan took out his cell phone. He had Omar Harris on speed dial. “As soon as I make this call, the CIA closes in. They’ll confiscate your weapons, but that shouldn’t be a problem for a patriot like you. These guns won’t end up in the hands of insurgents or thugs. All I can give you is fifteen minutes head start before I make the call.”
Jessop’s eyes darted. “That’s not much.”
“Take it or leave it.”
His mouth quivered. “There’s something big going down. It has to do with a case Bellows investigated in Afghanistan. It’s going to happen soon.”
“When?” Coltrane demanded.
“The next couple of weeks. Washington, D.C., is the location.”
Nolan felt a dark chill. Tess and his son lived in Arlington, too close to the threat. He held up his phone. “I need more. That’s too vague.”
“What do you mean?” Jessop wriggled, trying to free himself from the restraints.
“Something?” Nolan scoffed. “Something is happening in Washington? That’s about as useful as telling me that Santa Claus is coming to town. If that’s all you’ve got, I’m calling the law.”
“Don’t, please don’t,” Jessop begged. “I have a name. Just listen to me. The name is Greenaway.”
A blade of ice sliced into Nolan’s chest. Greenaway was the man who destroyed his life. Five years ago, Greenaway had threatened Tess and his unborn child. If he resurfaced, she was in imminent danger.
He had to find out more, had to stop Greenaway.
From the corner of his eye, Nolan saw the woman in the red dress moving. Too slowly, he turned toward her.
A gunshot exploded.
Blood spread across Jessop’s chest. He fell to his side in the dirt.
The woman dropped her gun. Where the hell had she been hiding that weapon? Her dress was so damn tight that she could barely walk. She raised her hands. “You can arrest me. I don’t care what happens.”
Nolan hadn’t expected this, hadn’t been prepared. “Why?”
“Jessop killed my mother. The bastard deserves to die.”
But not yet. Not when Jessop had information Nolan needed.
The possibility that Greenaway was involved changed the focus of Nolan’s search for Bart. He needed to be in Washington, D.C., as soon as possible, and he had to make certain that Tess was safe.
THE OFFICE FOR Donovan Event Planning was a small storefront near Ballston Common Mall in Arlington. After dropping Joey off at day care, Tess arrived at a few minutes after ten in the morning. She hung her burgundy coat and the jacket of her black pantsuit in the closet and went to the sleek Plexiglas front desk where she sat and closed her eyes for a two-minute meditation.
Getting herself and her son ready in the morning took a lot of energy. Though Joey liked playing with the other kids at his day care, she always felt a twinge of guilt about leaving him. It had never been her intention to be a single mother.
She inhaled through her nostrils and exhaled through her mouth. In her mind, she pictured a blue horizon above a still body of water. Clouds blew in, and the sky and sea faded to the white of a blank slate. A fresh start.
With her eyes refreshed, she rose from the desk and looked with pride at her clean line, modern office. The pale blue walls were hung with clear-framed photos of events, awards and a couple of personal pictures. The chairs at either end of the long white leather sofa were royal purple and lime green.
She enjoyed meeting with clients in this area where she wowed them with old-fashioned scrapbooks of prior events and a brand-new digital presentation that outlined her capabilities.
Behind a half-wall partition at the back of the office was the casual break room with a fridge, a counter and a little round table. There was also a play area for Joey, file cabinets and a scheduling board. Tess went to the coffee maker and got the first pot of the day started.
She heard the front door open and peeked around the partition. Her sense of serenity took an immediate hit when she confronted a muscular man with thick, curly black hair. Pierre LeBrune was the head chef for the catering company she was using for the Lockhart Christmas Eve event. Though he didn’t have an accent and probably wasn’t really from France, he dressed in splendid European style from his silk necktie to his flashy platinum Patek Philippe wristwatch.
She didn’t dare offer him her less-than-perfect coffee. “Good morning, Chef.”
“We have a problem, Mrs. Donovan.”
It wasn’t the first. Pierre had popped up at her office a half-dozen times over the past three months to nitpick. The company he owned with two partners was one of the top-notch caterers in Washington, D.C., and it was the first time she’d worked with them.
Usually Tess used the catering service she’d founded, but the Smithsonian insisted she choose from a list of caterers they had worked with before. Though inconvenient for her, she understood that all the cooks and servers needed security clearance to work after hours in the National Museum of American History, where so many patriotic artifacts were on display.
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