With a guttural sound, the other woman jerked free and thrust out of her chair. Her own sketch jammed tight against her chest, she whirled and ran out of the room.
Callie didn’t go after her. She wanted to. Ached to. But training and experience kept her riveted in place. The next move—if there was one!—had to come from Amal.
Still, doubts stung like an angry swarm of wasps as she went downstairs to her office and powered up her computer. Simona’s instructions had been specific. Case files were to be updated daily. No excuses, no delays. Any counseling sessions with residents, either one-on-one or in group, went in their file.
Callie curved her fingers over the keyboard while she organized her thoughts. Then entered the password, pulled up Amal’s case file and battled the excruciatingly slow system to detail her failed attempt to bridge the communication gap. The entry complete, she grimaced at the flickering screen. So much for proving to Simona Alberti that she wasn’t just another of Carlo’s do-gooders. She logged out, wondering how long it would take before the director jumped down her throat.
* * *
Simona pigeonholed her that same evening, not long after Callie arrived at Nikki Dukakis’s spacious flat.
Nikki’s husband answered the door. The Greek was seriously gorgeous and wreathed in the same hot, spicy aroma that wafted from the rear of the apartment.
“I’m Dominic Dukakis,” he said as he took her coat, hanging both it and her shoulder bag on an antique clothes tree in the hall. “And you must be Carlo’s American.”
Not quite sure how to respond to that one, she merely smiled and held out her hand. “Callie Langston.”
“Come in, come in. Nicola’s in the kitchen. I’ll tell her you’re here and fetch you a glass of wine. Or would you prefer ouzo?”
“Wine, please. Red, if you have it.”
“Of course.”
“Simona’s here, too,” he said as he gestured to a wide archway that opened onto a high-ceilinged room. “If you care to join her, I’ll bring your wine.”
“‘Carlo’s American,’” Simona echoed sardonically when Callie joined her. “I’ve no doubt you’ll wear that label until his next ‘friend’ takes your place.”
“I’ve worn worse.”
The calm reply earned a sharp look from the director, followed by a reluctant nod. “I don’t doubt you have. I read your update in Amal’s file,” she added in a quick change of direction.
Callie braced herself, but to her surprise, the snowy-haired Simona gave her an unexpected stroke.
“You accomplished what none of us have been able to do. You connected with her.”
“Only for a few moments.”
“You connected,” Simona repeated.
Encouraged by the unexpected praise, Callie shared her thoughts. “Amal whipped a detailed background sketch out so quickly, with such bold, sure strokes. I’m sure she’s had formal training. She’s that good.”
“What are you thinking? That she might be an established artist?”
“Very possibly. I’m going to surf the net and see what I turn up. In the meantime, I’ll try to connect with her via art again. Perhaps use it as a springboard for trauma therapy, as you recommended, or adult cognitive behavioral therapy.”
Simona cocked her head, her blue eyes piercing. “You’re trained in adult CBT?”
“I worked primarily with children in my last job, but I volunteered one weekend a month at the Boston VA hospital. We found CBT to be a very useful tool when working with patients suffering from post-traumatic stress.”
The director glanced away. “Sì,” she murmured. “It can be.”
Whatever she was seeing, it wasn’t the impressionistic rendition of Mykonos’s famous windmills that occupied a good portion of the far wall. Callie knew better than to probe. Not that she would anyway in a social setting. Instead she stood quietly until the Italian shook off her memories and deliberately changed the subject.
“We don’t make Christmas a big celebration at the center, you understand.”
“I would guess not, since so many of the residents are of different faiths.”
“We try to accommodate those who are Christians, however. So if you have no plans for...”
“Here you are.” The interruption came from Dominic, who returned with a bowl-shaped glass. “This is from the vineyard of Katogi and Strofilia, in northern Greece. Although Carlo would never agree, I think you’ll find it as good—or better!—than any Italian red. And speaking of our xenophobic prince,” he said as the doorbell jangled, “that will be him.”
Callie could never quite pin down what it was about Carlo di Lorenzo that seemed to expand whatever room he entered. It certainly wasn’t his appearance. The man was a fireplug, as wide at the middle as he was through the shoulders. What’s more, his shiny bald spot had crept forward another inch or two since Callie had last seen him at Dawn and Brian’s wedding. But his dark eyes danced above his luxuriant handlebar mustache, and no woman alive could remain immune to his obvious delight as he crossed the room, his hands outstretched.
“Calissa, cara mia!”
“Ciao, Carlo.”
He took her hands in both of his and raised them to his lips with a dramatic flourish that had her smiling, Dominic grinning and Simona rolling her eyes.
“You grow more beautiful every day, Calissa. But this...” He dropped his gaze to her ring and twisted his lips in exaggerated sorrow. “I couldn’t believe it when Joe told me that you were engaged. Surely you cannot mean to marry that block of wood. Not when I have offered to show you the delights of Marrakech and Bali.”
“Her,” Simona said with a small snort, “and a hundred other women.”
“Ah, yes.” With a spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to hide a grimace, the prince released Callie’s hands and turned to face his nemesis. “Dominic told me you would be here, il Drago.”
Callie stiffened, expecting fireworks, but Simona Alberti seemed to take the label as a tribute.
“And you still came. How very brave of you,” she drawled, the sarcasm as sharp as dagger points.
He drew himself up to his full height, which put him almost at eye level with the director. He looked, Callie thought, like a mastiff going nose to nose with a whip-thin greyhound. Simona didn’t appear the least intimidated, but before either of them went for the throat, Nikki strolled in from the kitchen.
“Sorry, everyone. I must confess I’m a better nurse than cook. Dominic, my darling, get Carlo a drink. And check the dolmades.”
Sending her husband on his way with an airy wave, Nikki kissed Callie on both cheeks and received one of Carlo’s flamboyant greetings.
“Ciao, Nicola. You’re far too beautiful for that lump of Greek clay you’re married to. Since I can’t convince Callie to run away with me, perhaps I can talk you into abandoning Dominic and allowing me to show you the wonders of—”
“Yes, yes, we know,” Simona interrupted with unconcealed irritation. “Marrakech or Bali or the South Pole. Now, for pity’s sake, may we stop this nonsense and discuss something actually important?”
“By all means,” Carlo returned with soft, silky menace. “Please tell me, Madam Director, what’s so important that we must dispense with civility?”
Whoa! Callie had only ever seen the prince at his most charming. This combination of haughty aristocrat and ice-edged commander made her blink and Nikki step in hastily to defuse the situation.
“It’s the computers, Carlo. Simona and I were talking about them before you arrived. They’re old and slow.”
Callie couldn’t help recalling her frustrating session just a few hours ago. “Not just the computers. The wireless router, too. The signal’s so weak it takes forever to get online.”
“When we can get on at all,” Nikki put in.
“If I’m to submit the ridiculously detailed reports you and the board require,” Simona said tartly, “I must have the tools to do it.”
“Madre di Dio!” Palms up, Carlo surrendered with a return of his urbane smile. “How can I withstand the onslaught of three such determined women? I’ll get you what you need.”
The promise won delighted thank-yous from Callie and Nicola and a curt nod from Simona.
“See that you do.” The brusque order wiped the smile off Carlo’s face. If the director noticed his sudden scowl, however, she ignored it. “Nikki, I think I smell something burning. Shall we go help Dominic in the kitchen?”
“Ochi!”
Their hurried departure left Callie standing beside an obviously irate Carlo. A growl rolled up from deep in his chest as he shot narrow-eyed darts at their retreating backs.
“She never allows me the last word, that one. Never!”
Callie had no trouble guessing which she he referred to.
“If she were one of my troops, I would have her up on charges of insubordination,” he steamed. “But does she care that she shows me little respect? Does she worry that the entire board quakes every time she comes before them? No, damn her, no. Instead, she makes me burn to kiss that condescending smirk off her face every time I’m with her!”
Callie jaw went slack. Mouth open, she gaped at the furious prince and fumbled for a response. Any kind of a response. Thankfully, she was saved by the bell.
The loud jangle brought Dominic’s head popping out of the kitchen door. With it came a cloud of gray smoke.
“Carlo, aprire la porta, per favore.”
The prince balked, obviously torn between answering “la porta” and making a quick call to the fire department. He threw out a spate of urgent Italian and Dominic returned what Callie sincerely hoped were hearty reassurances. Still, she decided to retrieve her phone from the purse she’d left hanging in the hall and keep it close at hand. Just in case. She’d taken only a few steps, however, when she got her second shock in as many minutes.
“Ciao, Giuseppe.”
With a mix of surprise, confusion and pure joy, she watched the prince greet the former chief of his special security detail with a hearty thump on the shoulder.
“I thought you’d left Rome,” di Lorenzo commented.
“I flew home last night and did a quick turnaround.”
“That was indeed quick. But why would you...”
He broke off as Joe’s glance shot past him and fixed on Callie.
“Of course.” The prince’s mustache lifted in a wicked grin. “I would not leave her alone too long, either, were I you.”
“Yeah,” Joe drawled. “That was pretty much my thinking.”
Callie had recovered enough to take exception to that bit of blatant chauvinism. Which she would certainly have done, if Joe hadn’t sniffed the air and suddenly stiffened.
“Jesus! Is this place on fire?”
“I’m not sure,” Carlo admitted. “I’ll go see.”
Joe took advantage of his departure to cross to where Callie stood and brush his mouth over hers. As light as the kiss was, she felt the scrape of the bristles darkening his cheeks and chin. She also took note of the red rimming his eyelids and the deep creases bracketing his mouth.
“What’s happened, Joe? Why did you turn right around and fly back in Rome?”
“Not here,” he said with a small shake of his head.
She didn’t bother to ask how he’d known where to find her. She did, however, want to know why he hadn’t held to his end of the bargain they’d negotiated a few days ago.
“How come you didn’t let me know you were coming right back?”
“Check your phone.”
Frowning, she dug it out of her shoulder bag and discovered it was in silent mode. She’d set it on vibrate before the therapy session she’d sat in on this morning, she now remembered, and had forgotten to take it off. She also discovered two voice mails, both from Joe, and four texts, two from him and one each from Kate and Dawn.
“You need to leave the ringer on, Callie.”
“I don’t want it going off during therapy sessions.”
“Then keep it in your pocket, not your purse. So you’ll feel it vibrate.”
“Why?” she asked again. “What’s going on?”
“We’ll talk about it at your place. Right now we’d better...”
A wild clanging shrieked through the air. Callie winced and clapped her hands over her ears, thunking herself with the phone in the process.
“Smoke detector,” Joe shouted over the din. “Open the door and some windows. I’ll see what the hell’s happening in the kitchen.”
* * *
Stuffed grape leaves. That’s what was happening. Tight little rolls filled with ground lamb, rice, chopped onion, minced garlic and fragrant spices.
Once they extinguished the fire, Nikki and Dominic and their guests discovered that one of the dolmades had somehow tipped out of the baking pan and fallen unnoticed to the back of the oven. It toasted to a blackened crisp before igniting and setting the remaining appetizers and a pan of souvlaki ablaze.
The cleanup didn’t actually take all that long. Dominic drenched the charred remains in the sink, then carried both pans out to the balcony while Nikki assured anxious neighbors their homes weren’t about to go up in flames. In the meantime Carlo, Joe, Simona and Callie waved dish towels to dispel the acrid smoke.
Dominic joined their effort after his trip to the balcony. Flapping a towel vigorously, he threw Joe a curious look. “Have we met?”
“Name’s Russo. Joe Russo. I came to find Callie.”
“Oh. Well, thanks for helping out here, Joe.”
“No problem.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later their collective efforts had replaced most of the smoke with cold night air, and Nikki had been introduced to her uninvited guest. Like Dominic, she thanked Joe for coming to the rescue, then suggested they all repair to a nearby restaurant.
“We promised you dinner,” she insisted. “It’ll take a while yet for the apartment to totally air out, and I don’t intend to turn the stove on again tonight. Maybe ever. I did mention, didn’t I, that I’m a much better nurse than cook?”
“You are,” Simona confirmed before adding a tart, “thank goodness.”
Laughing, her husband retrieved their guests’ coats and shepherded them out into the night. Still puzzled by Joe’s unexpected return, Callie tucked her arm in his and asked quietly whether they should beg off dinner.
“No, this’ll work. I need to talk to Carlo. I’ll get him aside for a few minutes at the restaurant.”
His discussion with the prince took place in a quiet corner of the bar. Callie watched them from the table in the noisier eating area, Joe’s head bent close to Carlo’s, the prince listening with a frown.
Both men wore neutral expressions when they rejoined the group, and Callie was forced to bridle her unease until she and Joe returned to her apartment some two hours later. She waited until they’d shed their coats and gloves and scarves, dumped some grounds in the coffeemaker and pointed to the kitchen chairs.
“Now,” she demanded when they faced each other across the tiny table. “Why are you here? What’s going on?”
“Someone’s been making inquires about the center. Someone my contact at the Defense Intelligence Agency thought had been taken out.”
“Taken out? As in...?”
“Made dead,” Joe said flatly. “Bastard was driving a vehicle that took a direct hit from a drone five months ago. My contact thinks now the driver might’ve been someone who looked so much like the target that whoever called in the strike got it wrong.”
“And this...this target is interested in the center? W
hy?”
“We’re not sure. Best guess is because he knows one of the current residents.”
That might be their best guess, but there were others. Callie knew Joe well enough now to sense he was holding back. Shielding her. Trying to protect her from the big, bad, ugly world.
“What are the other possibilities?”
“They’re a stretch, Callie. Not credible threats.”
“Tell me.”
He didn’t want to frighten her. She could see it in his eyes.
“Tell me.”
He answered reluctantly. “One scenario says the women at the center have forsaken their honor by fleeing their homelands and adopting the decadent ways of the West.”
“So they should be punished. As if they haven’t already been punished enough,” she added savagely. “What else?”
“It’s the other side of the same coin. You people at the center are working a hidden agenda. In the guise of helping refugees, you’re forcing them to deny their heritage, their religion.”
“So we should be punished.”
“Like I said, these scenarios are out there. Not credible.”
“Credible enough for you to jump on a plane and come straight back to Rome,” she pointed out.
He couldn’t argue with that, and Callie couldn’t believe they were actually sitting here talking about drone strikes and retaliating against helpless women who’d already suffered so much.
This was Joe’s world, she thought with a fist-size knot in her throat. And now hers.
“How much did you tell Carlo?” she asked after a futile attempt to swallow the lump.
“Enough. He’s going to advise the other members of the board.”
“What about Simona? You have to tell her, too.”
“Carlo and I plan to brief her tomorrow.”
“She’s not going to like this.”
“Got that impression.” Joe’s gray eyes flickered with something she might have mistaken for amusement under other circumstances. “Funny, I’ve never known di Lorenzo to go six shades of pale at the mere mention of a woman’s name. Your boss must put him and the rest of the board through the wringer.”
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