“I’m completely in awe of your artistic ability,” she told the other woman. “Perhaps...perhaps we could visit some of Rome’s museums together. The Borghese and the Sistine Chapel top my list.”
Amal’s lashes swept down, but not before Callie caught the spark that leaped in her dark eyes. Hiding her own excitement, she took that for a yes.
“The Sistine Chapel might be tough to get into this close to Christmas,” she said in a deliberately conversational tone. “So many tourists here for the holidays. Why don’t I go online and see if I can get us tickets for the Borghese?”
She did a quick mental shuffle of her schedule. “How about tomorrow? I’ll talk to Simona and see if I can move the English class to one o’clock instead of four.”
She waited a few beats. “Amal? I won’t push if you don’t want to go. Just tell me yes or no.”
The nod was short and excruciatingly slow in coming.
“Great!” Excitement shooting through her, Callie wasn’t about to give the other woman time to change her mind. “I’ll go downstairs right now and check on tickets.”
Joe and Emilio were still in the hall. They were deep in conversation but broke off as she approached.
“Is Amal all right?” the Roman asked with concern stamped across his face.
“She’s fine. I can’t believe you got her to speak to you. That’s the first time she’s verbally communicated with anyone.”
Callie wanted to kiss him. Almost did.
“You cracked the door, Emilio, and I squeezed through after you. Amal agreed to go to the Borghese with me tomorrow afternoon. I’m going online now to see if I can reserve two tickets.”
“Make it three,” Joe said. “I’ll go with you.”
“Four,” Emilio put in.
Callie hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I barely got her to agree to go with me.”
“Reserve four,” Joe instructed. “If she balks at an escort, Emilio and I will keep our distance. Neither of you will see us in the crowd.”
“And if there is a problem with tickets,” his associate added, “my cousin’s wife’s brother works at the museum. He’ll get us in.”
Callie didn’t have to resort to Emilio’s relatives. She reserved four tickets for a 2:30 p.m. entrance time. She also printed out the brochure containing a map and description of the exhibit rooms and took it upstairs.
“We’re all set,” she told Amal. “I hope you’re as excited as I am.”
The gleam in the other woman’s eyes was answer enough. Callie prayed that including an escort wouldn’t kill it.
“Is it okay if my fiancé comes with us?” she asked. “And Emilio, the man you met downstairs. When I told them what we were planning, they both said they’d like to go.”
She felt a little guilty withholding the fact that neither man was driven by a burning desire to view the Borghese’s art treasures. Not guilty enough to explain the reasons for their presence, however. Primarily because Joe stressed that the precise details of the drone strike were still classified. Secondarily because Simona had yet to advise Callie on how much or how little to tell the residents.
She saw the reluctance in Amal’s face and moved quickly to counter it. “That’s okay. They don’t have to come with us.”
They’d trail along behind instead.
Callie’s guilt kicked up another notch. Her professional conscience pinging, she realized she couldn’t keep shading the truth like this. She’d destroy her tentative connection with this woman before it even took root.
She’d just decided to cancel the outing, or at least delay it until the security scare was over, when Amal finally communicated verbally.
“The one downstairs,” she whispered in a low voice.
“Emilio?”
“He has a kind face.”
That wasn’t how most women would see it, Callie thought in surprise. With his melting brown eyes, noble nose and sensual mouth, Emilio Mancera was a Roman god come to life. But the fact that Amal had at last deigned to speak with her thrilled Callie so much that she instantly agreed.
“Very kind. So it’s all right if he joins us? He and my fiancé?”
Amal nodded.
“Okay!” Feeling as though she’d just scaled a ten-thousand-foot mountain, she shoved the brochure she’d printed at Amal. “Here’s a brochure of the museum. You can study the layout before we go tomorrow. And I checked. They have wheelchairs available if you get too tired or the baby starts to weigh you down.”
The other woman’s hand dropped to her swollen belly. She hesitated for long moments before revealing the first hint of her past. “We walked for many days, my babe and I. Many nights. We do not need a wheelchair.”
Callie couldn’t help thinking of Joe’s thwarted request to review the residents’ intake interviews and case files. She came close, so close, to asking Amal where she’d walked from. And who she’d left behind.
She resisted the urge. First, because anything Amal shared with her would still be considered privileged information. Second, because Callie’s instincts warned her not to push too hard, too fast.
“Okay,” she said instead, “no wheelchair. We’d better take a taxi to the museum, though. You and the baby may be able to walk that far. I can’t.”
Once back downstairs she confirmed arrangements with Joe and Emilio and left them to finish whatever security improvements they had left while she updated Amal’s case file. That done, she braced herself to brief Simona on the breakthrough, as tentative as it was.
As she suspected, the director had yet to fully recover from her contentious meeting with Carlo and Joe. When Callie tapped on her door, she snapped out a “Come in,” and looked up to give her deputy a decidedly unfriendly glare.
“Have you seen these locks your fiancé’s installed?” she fumed. “They read palm prints.”
“I know,” Callie responded. “He had one installed at my apartment, too.”
The pencil Simona was balancing between two fingers seesawed back and forth, hitting the desk repeatedly. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each tap louder and angrier than the last.
“So tell me,” she demanded. “What’s to stop this ‘security expert’ you’re engaged to from running these prints through various international databases?”
“I asked him about that.”
The pencil hit the desk again. Faster. Harder.
“Did you? And what did he say?”
“The same thing he and Carlo told you this morning. Any prints provided voluntarily outside a therapy session aren’t protected by client-counselor confidentiality.”
“Perhaps not,” Simona fired back. “But running these voluntarily provided prints without their owners’ consent violates their privacy.”
“You’ll have to argue that with Carlo. Joe said the prince got a legal opinion on the matter.”
“Oh, yes,” Simona huffed. “He did. From one of the half dozen judges he has tucked in his back pocket. One who apparently thinks the safety and security of the masses override our residents’ rights to privacy.”
After almost witnessing the Boston Marathon bombing firsthand, Callie’s own feelings were too contradictory to argue the point.
“Actually,” she said instead, “I came in to tell you about Amal.”
“What about her?”
As she described the incident with the ream of paper and the subsequent proposal to visit the Borghese, the director’s angry pencil stilled.
“And she agreed to go with you?” Simona asked incredulously.
“She did.” Callie couldn’t help grinning. “I booked tickets for two thirty tomorrow afternoon. Assuming you don’t mind me moving the English class up to one p.m., that is.”
“Of course not.”
To her relief, her
boss relaxed into a smile. The result was a Simona Alberti that looked years younger. Young enough, Callie thought with an inner grin, to have snared the reluctant interest of Italy’s playboy prince.
“You’ve gotten more from Amal in a few days than the rest of us have in a month,” Simona said.
“I can’t claim all the credit. Emilio coaxed her into talking to him. That broke the ice.”
“This fellow, Emilio. What do you know about him?”
“Nothing other than the fact that he works for Joe.”
“Are you sure it’s wise to include both men in this trip to the Borghese?”
“Amal seemed okay with it.”
“Don’t forget that drawing you told me about. The one she destroyed. The male figure in that sketch may well represent someone she fears.”
“Or hates,” Callie agreed, remembering how viciously she’d slashed the drawing.
“Whatever the emotion is, it’s obviously very close to the surface. Be careful you don’t unintentionally trigger it.”
Callie took the warning to heart but could only hope an excursion to one of Rome’s most famous museums would trigger joy, not hate or fear.
* * *
Joe spent the afternoon helping scan the staff and residents’ palm prints into the electronic keypads Emilio had installed at the front and back entrances. Per Simona’s strict orders, they made sure everyone understood they could use the palm pad or punch in an override code. Since the code consisted of sixteen alpha and numeric digits, neither Joe nor Emilio was surprised every resident went with option A.
Joe disappeared for a while after the key pads were up and running but was waiting in the little café across the street when Callie left work that evening. He noted with approval that she’d dressed for the December night in her long duster, a warm scarf and gloves. After a quick exchange with the man sharing his table, he dodged the traffic and joined her.
“Who’s that?” she asked with a glance at his companion.
“One of Emilio’s crew. Are you up for a walk?”
“Sure. Where to?”
“Via Condotti. We’ve both been cooped up all day. I thought you might like to stretch your legs and see the shops all decked out in lights.”
And Joe needed to buy her a Christmas present. With everything else going on the past few days, it had almost slipped his mind.
“Ooh!” She breathed a delighted puff into the frosty air. “I’ve been dying to see Via Condotti. When Kate researched our trip this fall, she told us it’s the street for high-end shopping. We couldn’t afford to buy anything in those absurdly expensive boutiques, but we’d planned to cruise them anyway.”
That sealed it. Her present would most definitely come from Via Condotti.
“And at Christmastime,” she related in delight, “the window decorations are supposed to be spectacular.”
Not just the window decorations, they soon discovered. The entire street was festooned for the holidays. Monster chandeliers of twinkling white lights illuminated the thoroughfare from the foot of the Spanish Steps to its intersection with Via del Corso. Shops touting names like Prada and Gucci and Valentino all tried to outdo each other with spectacular displays. But Joe and Callie both agreed Fendi took the prize.
A wide band of blue lights belted the Italian designer’s four-story building. As if that wasn’t eye-catching enough, the Fendi’s signature logo sparkled in the white lights that comprised the belt’s massive buckle. Like icing on an extravagant cake, the largest tree Joe had ever seen dominated the traffic circle in front of the store.
“Wait!” Callie dragged him to a halt and yanked her cell phone out of her purse, then stretched out her arm. “I have to send a selfie of us to Kate and Dawn.”
Joe flinched. Years as a Delta Force operative had conditioned him to shy away from having his picture taken. His instinctive aversion had ramped up since Curaçao. He didn’t need a visual reminder of that failed mission. Not when he could see one every time he looked in the mirror.
“I’ll take the picture,” he told Callie. “You don’t need me in it.”
“Yes, I do! Dawn and Kate were so bummed we wouldn’t be together at Christmas. It’s the first time since we were kids.” She waved an arm at the glittering display. “I want them to see you and me together, enjoying all this.”
“You’ve shared every Christmas since you were kids?”
“It’s not all that hard to pull off when you grow up in the same small town,” she retorted. “Hold still.”
Okay. He could pose for one shot. For Callie. Still, he angled his head to hide the scar as she stiff-armed the phone. Her reach wasn’t long enough. She barely caught the two of them in the frame, much less the lights.
“Let me do it.”
He cradled her against his chest and framed them against both the tree and the belted building.
“Oh,” she enthused. “That’s better.”
It was. Much better, Joe agreed. He had Callie in his arms and Rome lit like a Christmas tree behind him. Any thought of Curaçao faded. So did the worry that had goaded him like a vicious spur since Frank Harden’s call. For the first time, Joe felt the joy of the season seep into his bones.
He took the shot, then Callie twisted in his arms.
“Take another.”
She pushed up on her toes. Her arms hooked around his neck. Her mouth went from cool to hot as it molded his. With his arm still extended, Joe could only hope he would hit the right button on the camera app as he hooked his other arm around her waist and tugged her against him.
The applause pulled them apart. That, and a laughing suggestion from some men who’d stopped to watch the show. Luckily, the suggestion was in Italian. When Joe responded with a grin and lowered his arm, Callie grabbed the phone and switched immediately from camera to photo mode.
“Oh, my God! These are great. Look at that tree. And the Fendi belt! Hold on, I have to send the pics to Dawn and Kate.”
Her thumbs flew. When she’d finished, he took her elbow and steered her toward the store entrance. Once again she dragged him to a halt.
“Joe! I can’t afford anything in there.”
“I can.”
“We talked about this. Remember? I want to pay my own way.”
“Christmas presents aren’t part of that agreement.”
“Maybe not. But I’m not into designer bags or belts or boots. Tell you what,” she said when he started to protest. “You can buy me a print at the Borghese tomorrow. Something pretty I can frame and hang on my bright yellow walls.”
He gave in, but only because he was already considering another gift...which turned out to be a smart move, because they never made it to the Borghese.
Chapter Twelve
The other half of her bed was empty when Callie blinked awake the next morning. She groped for her phone and peered owlishly at the digital display. Ugh! Six fifteen. Her alarm wouldn’t go off for another forty-five minutes. She snuggled under the duvet again but couldn’t go back to sleep. The stillness in her tiny apartment was too loud.
“Joe?”
No answer. Not that she’d expected one. She stretched lazily and wondered how in the world the man could slide out of bed, shower and/or shave, dress and depart without making normal human sounds.
Giving up the battle after a few more minutes of snooze time, she stuffed her feet into slippers and wrapped the duvet around her like a tent. When she padded into the kitchen area, she found a note propped against a large takeout coffee and a paper sack containing fresh ricotta-filled pastries.
“Bless you,” she muttered as she pried the lid off the coffee and scanned the note. Surprise, surprise. Joe had some business to take care of.
She hitched up the duvet and carried the coffee back to the bedroom with he
r. In what was sure to become a daily habit, she ducked out on the tiny balcony to get her daily fix of the view. Night still shrouded the city, but the sky to the east showed streaks of purple and red. She still couldn’t quite believe she was standing here, suspended above the rooftops of Rome and gawking at St. Peter’s softly illuminated dome in the distance.
The frosty air drove her back inside. That, and the urge to take another look at last night’s selfie. Plunking down on the side of the bed, she traded the coffee for her phone and scrolled through the photos she’d taken in the past week. As much as she missed Kate and Dawn, her Christmas season was turning out to be truly magical. Sharing Saint Lucia’s day with the Audis. Mingling with the throng in Naples’s street of the crèches. Last night’s stroll through Via Condotti with its amazing display of lights.
She lingered over the selfie and had to smile at how Joe had positioned her in the shelter of his arms. Always the protector. Always the guardian.
Good thing they’d established boundaries this early in their relationship. Without those boundaries Callie knew it would be all too easy to succumb to the seductive promise of being petted and pampered. Now if only...
The phone vibrated in her palm. Joe, she thought. Calling to give her whatever details he could about the task that had gotten him up so early. Instead her boss’s name came up on the caller ID. Surprised and just a little alarmed by the early call, Callie switched instantly from silent to speaker mode.
“Hi, Simona. Is everything okay?”
“No! Everything is not okay.” Anger, hot and scorching, jumped through the speaker. “I want you at the center in fifteen minutes.”
“Why? What’s...?”
“Fifteen minutes! Not one minute later. Capisce?”
Agitation had stirred the director’s accent. It was so thick and heavy Callie struggled to separate the furious words.
“If you take longer,” her boss fumed. “If you are not here then, do not bother to come in. Just pack your bags. Go home!”
“Simona! Wait! Tell me—”
Too late. She was talking to dead air. Callie wasted several precious seconds debating whether to call her boss back. It wouldn’t do any good, she realized. She needed a face-to-face to sort out whatever had Simona in such a fury. Tossing her phone aside, Callie raced for the bathroom.
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