Cassie Miles - Baby Battalion

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.

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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.

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.

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

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.