Page 55 of One Last Stand
“You met holiday Sofia and Mitch Brooks. This is Chief of Mission, Madam Ambassador Sofia Brooks and her husband.”
Oh.
Their security had gotten out and opened the door, and Shep stepped out to bright blue skies and the smell of early winter in the air. Snow glistened on the high peaks, but down in the valley, the temperature seemed in the midfifties, and the strangest urge to explore the area swept through him. Probably his mother’s restless genes coming to life in a new place.
“Delaney!”
A woman floated down the front steps. Blonde like her daughter, she wore her hair short, with gold earrings, a necklace, a wide-collared white blouse, black dress pants, heels. She walked straight over to London and pulled her into a hug.
Behind her, a man emerged from the double doors. Dark hair, blue eyes, tall. He seemed almost regal, despite his relaxed, almost convivial expression, like he stored his thoughts and let them brew before letting them escape.
Indeed, these were not the flannel-and-jeans tourists he’d met ever so briefly in Montana.
London let her mother go and turned to her father. “Dad.”
He embraced her. “Sweetheart.”
Her mother stepped up to Shep.
“Madam Ambassador,” he said. “Shep Watson.”
“I remember you, Shep,” she said, and as he frowned, she gave him a hug.
Huh.
“Call me Sofia.” She stepped back, patted his arm.
Her father, too, came over, held out his hand. “Shep. I am going to hear the story of how you’ve ended up in Montelena with my daughter, right?”
He gripped the man’s hand, gave a tight nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Mitch.”
“Right.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” Sofia said. “Our chef makes the most amazing schnitzel and fried potatoes.”
He checked his watch, and then didn’t have a clue what time it might be.
Behind them, Tomas and York had gotten out of their car, and Mitch walked up to them, shook York’s hand, and remanded Tomas into the custody of his security. Mitch and York walked off together, so that was interesting, but Shep followed London into the embassy.
Oops,formerpalace, given the travertine tile, the columns that bordered an inner entrance to an open area that, once upon a time, might have been a receiving courtyard. Steps led to an expansive meeting room with deep-blue velvet sofas, a massive Turkish carpet, gold brocade draperies at the soaring windows, and a number of small conversation areas around glass tables.
They walked through the reception area, then through double doors at one end to an enormous dining room. A fresco of angels and alps and clouds adorned the ceiling, with more gold brocade draperies at the windows. The long oak table could hold thirty or more.
“In through here,” said Sofia and took them farther into the house, down a corridor, and finally into a smaller area, probably once regal apartments, but here, in a room that could still hold a small convention, was a sitting and dining area.
“My offices are just adjacent, but this is where we meet with many of our guests,” Sofia said, gesturing to the gold-and-blue sofas. A beautiful black Steinway piano sat in the sun in an alcove. A smaller table, with space for maybe ten, was set with four plates. A gloved attendant was pouring water into a pitcher. Sofia spoke to him in . . . Montelenan? Sounded Italian, of course, what with the border so close.
He nodded and left the room through a back door.
London had wandered to the window, staring out. “I love this view of Mount Aleksandar. It’s so . . . impressive.”
He joined her, staring up at the granite spires, snowcapped and lethal.
“Just on the other side of those mountains is a ski area. It’s probably not open yet.”
“The higher runs are,” said Sofia. She’d pulled out her phone, started to text. “And you’re just in time for a blizzard. King Maximillian is quite worried that the Octavia Gala will have to be postponed.” She looked up. “I do hope you’re staying long enough to attend.”