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
