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He scraped a hand over his jaw and forced Curaçao to the black pit where it belonged. The clean feel of his chin reminded him that he’d shaved after showering. He must have bristled like a hedgehog when he’d hustled Callie into bed earlier, though. Wincing inwardly, he could only imagine the whisker burns he must have left on her tender skin.
Hell! That was the wrong direction to let his thoughts take him. Exerting an iron will, Joe slammed the door on the image of this woman soft and hot and panting under him.
“Look, Callie, you’ll just have to accept there’s a big chunk of my past I can’t talk about. All that matters is what’s between us here and now.”
“Funny you should say that. I was actually wondering about that, too.” Those purple eyes skewered into him. “What is between us, Joe?”
Christ! Where were his alternate escape routes when he needed them? Sweating a little, he reached out. Cupped her chin. Felt a weird lurch under his ribs.
“I can only repeat what I told you earlier. You’re a calm port. A safe harbor.”
“Right.”
She lowered her glance. Her lashes fanned against her cheek, as thick and dark as her shoulder-length hair. Joe had fantasized about that silky mass for the past few weeks. He didn’t have to fantasize now. The sight of the dark locks spilling across the pillow had been even more erotic than he’d imagined. It was a sight he intended—hoped!—to enjoy on a regular and frequent basis.
So when she raised her eyes, her calm announcement came down on him like a collapsing brick wall.
“I’m going back to Rome.”
“What?”
“Carlo texted me last week.” She eased her chin from his hold. “He’s offered me a job.”
The quiet response triggered a welter of savage reactions. Before agreeing to provide Carlo Luigi Francesco di Lorenzo the high-level personal security his government had requested, Joe and his people had thoroughly researched the prince. The man might be short, balding and getting thick around the middle, but he’d descended from one of the oldest houses in Europe. He also commanded Italy’s crack airborne special ops unit.
None of which mattered to Joe at the moment as much as the fact that di Lorenzo had racked up more hours in women’s beds than he had hours in the cockpit of his C-130 Hercules.
“Did you know Carlo sits on the board of several charitable foundations?”
Her question brought a curt response.
“Yeah.”
Grimacing, Joe raked a hand through his hair and fought to temper both his tone and his visceral reaction to the idea of Callie heading back to Italy on her own. Without Dawn or Kate. Or him.
“Di Lorenzo gave me a list of the organizations he’s involved with when I agreed to provide enhanced security,” he told her. “Most of his charitable activities are purely economic, but several...”
Joe caught himself. He’d built a reputation and a multimillion-dollar business based on absolute trust. He wouldn’t breach a client’s confidentiality any more than Callie would the privacy of the children she’d represented in court. Still, he couldn’t hold back a terse warning.
“Several of the agencies he’s involved with have ties to Africa and the Middle East.”
“I know. The job he’s offered is with one of those agencies. International Aid to Displaced Women.”
Joe felt the tendons in his neck cord. Prince or not, if Carlo thought he could involve Callie in the type of activity he himself had needed protection from, the man had another think coming.
“IADW operates a sort of halfway house for female refugees,” she was explaining. “Women who’ve escaped or been driven out their own countries and have either lost their male protectors or been abandoned by them somewhere along the way.”
“That right? And what does Carlo think you can do for them?”
The question carried more of a bite than he’d intended. So it was no surprise when Callie stiffened.
“Despite the impression I’ve obviously given you,” she said coolly, “I’m neither helpless nor unskilled. At the least, I can help these women acquire a rudimentary English vocabulary, which many of them will need before being resettled in English-speaking countries. At best, perhaps I can ease some of the trauma they’ve gone through.”
Cursing his lack of tact, Joe tried to recover. “Sorry. That came out wrong. What I meant was...”
What he meant was that he didn’t like the idea of her working with or for Carlo di Lorenzo. Which was why he committed his second major blunder in as many minutes.
“Look, before you accept his offer, take some time to think about mine.”
Her forehead puckered. “Did I miss something? What offer?”
“About coming home. To you.”
Her jaw sagged. “Is this...is this a proposal?”
Her surprise knocked him back a step. Hell! He’d thought—been certain—she’d understood where this was going.
“Yes, it’s a proposal,” he said gruffly. “What’d you think it was?”
“I didn’t... That is...” She gave her head a quick, disbelieving shake. “Joe, we barely know each other!”
“Not true.”
She’d hit the mark when she’d reminded him that he’d had his people investigate every corner of her life. Joe suspected he’d uncovered a few things about her younger years she wouldn’t want her parents to know. He chalked up those early escapades up to her more lively friends, though. Dawn, especially. The voluptuous redhead had started breaking male hearts while still a teenager. Luckily, she seemed to have met her match in Brian Ellis. As Joe had in this dark-haired, violet-eyed siren.
“I’ve seen your strength and grace under the pressure of threats, Callie. Plus,” he added deliberately, “I’d say we got to know each other pretty well this afternoon.”
“We certainly did,” she agreed, recovering from her astonishment. “And it was wonderful. Off the charts, as Tommy’s friend Addy would say.”
He waited for the but he knew was coming.
“So I hope...I really hope...we can build on that mutual desire.”
“With you taking off for Italy?”
“That’s where we met,” she reminded him, her gaze steady. “Where we can continue to meet. You may not be able to tell me much about your clients, but I gather Carlo’s not the first European you’ve worked with. Nor, I suspect, will he be the last.”
She had that right. Joe had put a number of potential clients on hold while he’d tracked the source of Callie’s emails. He could pretty well choose the continent, the risk level and the degree of personal involvement in his next contract.
“We could see each other as often in Rome as we could in Boston,” she said. “Maybe more often. If you want to make it happen.”
Damned if Joe knew at this point.
He’d been so sure she would appreciate what he had to offer. Mutual respect. Sexual compatibility, which they’d more than proved earlier. Financial security. He knew she’d been living on her savings since she’d quit her job. Had thought she’d appreciate that while he wasn’t the most expressive or demonstrative man in the world, he was rock solid. Unlike a certain Italian prince.
“I still don’t understand. Why go all the way to Rome?”
She chewed on her lower lip. When she answered, Joe sensed she was revealing a part of herself she rarely shared with anyone other than her two friends.
“Your job takes you all over the world. But I grew up, went to school and have worked all my adult life within a ninety-mile radius of Boston. Aside from family vacations and a jaunt to Cancún with Kate and Dawn during one spring break, Italy was my first real adventure. I loved the color, the food, the people. And Rome...!”
A full-blown smile came out, so warm and radiant it slammed into his gut like a rifle butt.
“Oh, Joe! Dawn and Kate and I spent only a few days in Rome. I want more time to explore its rich history and culture. On my own...and with you whenever possible.”
Okay. So maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Wandering through the Forum with her. Sharing a bottle of chianti at the tiny trattoria he’d discovered a few blocks from the Spanish Steps. Making love in a hotel room with a view of the old city walls.
They could take the train up to the Lake District for a weekend at some opulent resort. Maybe zip over to Portofino, Italy’s answer to the French Riviera. Now that the first shock had passed, Joe could see himself laying all Europe at her feet.
“I guess I can understand where you’re coming from,” he conceded. “I have one suggestion, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I think we should...”
He caught himself just in time. Dammit, he had to do this right. Had to appeal to this unexpectedly adventurous side of her personality. And that would necessitate a little more planning and execution on his part.
“I think we should sleep on it,” he temporized. “See how we feel in the morning.”
A gleam of laughter leaped into her eyes, but she answered with a solemn nod. “By all means, Mr. Russo, let’s sleep on it. Your place or mine?”
His DC hotel room was modern and efficient but held none of the comforts of the gatehouse. Callie’s smiling invitation to share it with him kicked his pulse into overdrive. It was hammering hard and fast when he tumbled her back onto the sofa cushions.
“Yours, Ms. Langston. Yours.”
* * *
His internal alarm went off at its usual 5:00 a.m. He came instantly alert but had learned long ago to give no indication he was awake. That skill had saved his life several times, most recently in Curaçao.
Slamming the door on that memory, he kept his eyes closed and concentrated on recording sensory signals. He heard Callie beside him. Her breathy intake, her snuffling exhale. Not quite a snore but close enough to make him smile inwardly. He could feel her, too. Soft and pliant and warm against his side. Her scent filled his nostrils. The lemony tang of her shampoo. The faint, yeasty residue of their lovemaking. One whiff and he felt himself hardening. Only his self-discipline and years of brutal training kept him from rolling her over and burying himself in her hot, tight depths.
He lay quiet, mulling over everything they’d talked about last night. Callie wanted to expand her world. He could understand that. He’d explored damned near every corner of it himself, both in the military and out. Before she went traipsing off to Rome, though, he intended to make sure she wore his brand.
He disciplined himself to wait an hour. It was close to six before he eased out of bed. No sign of the December sun poked through the bedroom shutters as he dragged on his clothes. He needed coffee in the worst way but decided not to wake Callie. Instead, he jotted a quick note and propped it on the kitchen counter.
* * *
He hit a Starbucks drive-through and infused the caffeine as he negotiated the still-light traffic in the southeast corner of DC. As early as it was, he knew Frank Harden would be at his desk.
He and Harden had served in Delta Force together before going their separate ways—Joe as a mercenary for some years before starting his own protective services agency, Frank as a civilian analyst with the Defense Intelligence Agency specializing in African affairs. Whip-smart and not shy about voicing his opinion, Harden had progressed steadily up the ranks at the DIA. His current senior executive service rank equated to that of a major general, but neither he nor Joe let that get in the way of the friendship they’d forged all those years ago.
Joe called Harden’s private extension when he was almost to the sprawling complex now known as Joint Base Anacostia–Bolling. The base had been formed a few years back by cobbling together the Anacostia Naval Support Facility and Bolling Air Force Base. Since the two installations sat side by side and ate up a big chunk of this corner of DC, Joe guessed the consolidation made sense.
As he’d anticipated, his workaholic pal picked up on the first ring.
“Russo, you mangy dog,” Harden drawled in that laconic, down-home Mississippi twang that disguised his needle-sharp instincts and encyclopedic knowledge of all things African. “Where the hell are you, boy?”
“About two blocks away.”
“Hot damn! I’ll call down to gate B and clear you in.”
As promised, Harden got him cleared through the main gate leading to the massive complex that housed DIA headquarters and a slew of other intel activities, like the headquarters of the National Intelligence University and the Joint Functional Component Command for Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance.
Harden had an underling waiting to escort his guest into the inner sanctum. Joe surrendered the lightweight Ruger LCR-357 that nested in his ankle holster, accepted a signed receipt for it, clipped on a visitors’ badge and passed through the metal detector.
Harden’s office reflected his exalted pay grade, but Joe had little time to enjoy the view. Rail-thin and every bit as gaunt as the day the two of them had tunneled their way out of a Sudanese prison, the bureaucrat delivered a bone-jarring thump to Joe’s shoulder.
“Haven’t heard from you since the cows came home. What’ve you been doin’?”
“Had a job in the Caribbean earlier this year.” Joe could feel his insides curl but kept his tone casual. “Most recently at a NATO base north of Venice.”
“Yeah, I heard something about that.” Frank gestured to one of the armchairs facing his desk. “Rumor is your pal Ellis got a fat contract out of that gig. Some new avionics package for the entire NATO airlift fleet.”
“Could be.”
Joe knew damn well it was more than a rumor. He’d gotten to know Brian Ellis well during that NATO gig and at his request had recently completed a top-to-bottom scrub of his company’s physical, industrial and cyber security. What had begun as a business association, however, had morphed into friendship.
“So what can I do you for?” Frank asked. “Or did you just come to gloat ’bout me being chained to a desk?”
“I need some info.”
“Figured. Shoot.”
“What can you tell me about a Rome-based charity called International Aid to Displaced Women?”
* * *
Joe left the Defense Intelligence Agency feeling marginally better about Callie’s decision. Although Frank wasn’t personally familiar with IADW, he had his people run a quick screen.
He also made a call to a contact at the State Department responsible for overseeing the US Refugee Admissions Program and the 6 billion dollars provided through the combined efforts of the Bureau of Population, Refugees and Migration and the US Agency for International Development. The contact’s people in turn worked closely with a host of other agencies, including the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, the UN World Food Programme, the International Red Cross, the UN Children’s Fund and the International Organization for Migration. Most of these organizations had special programs in place to protect the most vulnerable sectors of the population, including women and girls.
Harden’s contact had verified that the Rome operation was legit. Equally important, there’d been no documented reports of terrorists or hard-core criminals infiltrating the population the agency cared for. That wasn’t to say they couldn’t. Given the growing number of women being recruited by groups like ISIS, the PLF and Sri Lanka’s Tamil Tigers, programs that helped women enter or resettle in other countries made tempting conduits.
Joe intended to go over the agency’s refugee screening process with Carlo in some detail before Callie started work there. He made a quick call to his twenty-four-hour operations center and instructed the on-duty controller to check on an evening flight. The controller clicked a few keys and said there was a flight leaving Dulles at 5:40 p.m. Joe would have to hump to get everything done and be at the airport the required three hours early for international flights, but he figured he could make it.
“Okay, book it.”
He then contacted the office of the director of the Naples film festival. Marcello Audi was worried that allowing a certain entry to be shown at this year’s festival would put them on radical jihadists’ hit list. He’d requested a thorough security assessment of all venues. Joe had planned to pass on the job, but Callie’s little bombshell last night had triggered a swift reordering of his schedule. The Naples job would only take a few weeks, and it would put him less than an hour south of Rome. After that...
After that, he promised himself, he and Callie would settle on a permanent arrangement. One that gave them both a safe, comfortable haven. With that goal in mind, he steered his rental to the next stop on his hastily constructed agenda.
Chapter Four (#u8c59b598-0523-5405-8c65-656f8f3a7c22)
Callie sat curled up on the sitting room sofa, wearing loose, comfortable sweats and fuzzy slippers on her feet. She had fresh coffee in a Christmas mug and her iPhone within reach. She’d slept late—hardly a surprise given last night’s strenuous exercise—and woken to find Joe gone. When she’d wandered into the kitchen, she found his note asking her to hold off calling Carlo until he got back.
She hoped he wasn’t going to try to talk her out of Rome. He’d seemed to accept her decision last night, even admitted that he could see just as much of her in Italy as in Boston. She really wanted to contact Carlo and tell him she was accepting his job offer.
She itched to tell Kate and Dawn, too. And not just about Rome. There was this whole exciting, surprising, confusing matter of a proposal to share. They’d both already texted asking a) if she was awake b) if Joe was still there and c) whether she’d resolved the Lassie issue. She wanted to go over to the main house, huddle with Dawn so they could FaceTime Kate together. The three of them had shared so many secrets, so many of life’s ups and downs. But Joe’s note had asked her to wait, so she’d held off, prey to a slightly disconcerting tug of divided loyalties.
