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.
She gestured to the sofa. “Would you like to sit?”
He sneered at the furniture as though the white leather upholstery wasn’t good enough for him. “I won’t be here long. I have a problem with the meat supplier.”
“You have a beef with the beef?”
Ignoring her attempt to lighten the mood, he glared. “I prefer using my regular butcher. This Texas beef doesn’t rise to my standards.”
“I’m sorry, Chef. Our client is the governor of Texas, and she specified the supplier.” She added a compliment. “I know Governor Lockhart is looking forward to your sage-encrusted prime rib.”
He managed to preen and scowl at the same time. “What about the poultry supplier?”
“Also specifically requested. You’ll have to find a way to use free-range Texas chickens.”
“This is unacceptable. I have a reputation.”
He most certainly did. Everyone had told Tess that Pierre was a royal pain in the butt. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to please the client. Did you know that she’s being seriously considered as a candidate for president?”
“Oh.” His thick eyebrows lifted. “I had no idea.”
“Just be glad she didn’t demand barbecue,” she said. “You’re a culinary legend, Pierre. You’ll find a way to make this work.”
“Indeed, I will.”
He pivoted and left.
Had she bitten off more than she could chew with this super fancy sit-down dinner? An evening at the Smithsonian wasn’t her style. As her office manager, Trudy Benson, often reminded her, Donovan Event Planning was best suited to arranging birthday parties with clowns and petting zoos.
Expanding her business to include more sophisticated events was a good move financially, but it wasn’t easy. In a city where everything was measured in terms of influence and leverage, she had zero clout. Yesterday, the events coordinator at the Smithsonian had no trouble turning down her request to see the blueprints. If Tess was going to change her mind, she needed somebody important on her side. Bart Bellows would have been perfect for the job. He could have used his CIA contacts.
The minute she thought of using Bart, she was ashamed of herself. He’d been missing for weeks. Her little problems were nothing compared to what he was going through. God, she hoped he was all right.
She filled her coffee mug and checked out the huge whiteboard where Trudy kept the monthly schedule updated. Five days before Christmas, the Smithsonian dinner was the only event for the week. Next week, she had two small New Year’s Eve parties. Today, Tess would meet a client at lunchtime to plan a dinner party in January.
When she heard the front door open, she poured black coffee into Trudy’s mug and stepped around the partition. “Thank goodness, you’re here. I need your help.”
The person who had entered wasn’t perky, gray-haired Trudy Benson. He was the opposite. A tall, husky man in black slacks, a gray turtleneck and a black leather jacket, he was solid, powerful and totally masculine. Though he wore dark aviator glasses, she felt him staring at her.
Soundlessly, he crossed the floor and took the coffee mug from her hand. When his fingers brushed hers, electricity sparked between them. The buzz surprised her. It had been years since she’d felt that kind of reaction to a man.
She licked her lips. “You’re not Trudy.”
“But I’d be happy to help you. In any way I can.”
His low, raspy voice vibrated in the air between them. In that instant, Tess decided that he was the sexiest man she’d ever
