“You’d run scared, too,” Kate retorted, “if your parents used you as a pawn in a divorce so vicious it sucked every shred of joy from your soul and ripped your family apart.”
“Okay, okay. I get that. What I don’t get is whether you think it’s a good idea for Dawn to assume nanny duties.”
A pregnant silence followed.
“I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “I like Brian. I’d hate to see him end up as another notch on Dawn’s belt. On the other hand, he’s a big boy. And he’s not walking into the situation blind. He’s got us to vouch for her.”
“Not just us.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s having his people run a background check. Employment history, financial, criminal activities.”
“You’re kidding!” Kate popped up, her face flushed with indignation. “That’s a total invasion of her privacy!”
“Wouldn’t you want to run a background check before we left our son in someone’s care?”
“No! Okay, yes. But...” She shoved back the covers and snatched up Travis’s discarded shirt. “This is Dawn we’re talking about!”
“What’s the big deal? She hasn’t embezzled a couple of million or buried any dead bodies in the backyard lately, has she? Kate?”
She turned away, but not before he caught a glimpse of the guilt that flickered across her face.
“Holy Christ!” Rolling out of bed, he pulled on his jeans and stopped her before she could retreat to the bathroom. “What’s she done?”
She shook her head, not quite meeting his eyes.
“For God’s sake, you can tell me.”
“No, actually, I can’t.”
“We’re talking about a six-year-old here,” he said grimly. “The son of the man I’ll be working with. If you’re privy to something that could impact Tommy’s health or safety, you need to let me or Brian know.”
Her chin snapped up. “First, I’m talking about the woman who’s been as close as a sister to me for over twenty years. Second, Dawn would never do anything that might impact a child’s health or safety. Which you should damned well know,” she finished fiercely, “considering the fact that she’s your friend, too.”
She stomped past him, hit the bathroom and shut the door with an emphatic thud. Travis stood where he was, his jaw working. Two minutes ago he’d been sprawled in mindless bliss beside an equally relaxed and happy wife. Now he was staring at a door panel decorated with a painted hunting scene and wondering what the hell Ellis’s people might find in Dawn’s background that would put Kate in a panic.
This, he decided grimly, called for coffee. And pagnottini. A whole basket of pagnottini.
* * *
Kate emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in one of the hotel’s luxurious robes. She’d pinned her hair up and swiped on some lip gloss. She’d also recovered from the shock of learning that Ellis was having Dawn investigated.
His people wouldn’t find anything. They couldn’t.
Settling beside Travis on the sofa, she accepted a cup of coffee and downed a much-needed infusion of caffeine before tackling the elephant in the room. “I’m sorry I got a little huffy a while ago. And I’m sorry my reaction to that business about a background check worried you. I give you my word—Dawn has done nothing that could adversely impact Tommy in any way, shape or form.”
The carefully prepared speech didn’t appear to satisfy her husband. Frowning, he studied her with troubled eyes. “We’ve never kept secrets from each other. Not that I know of, anyway. Makes me wonder what else you won’t tell me.”
“And that,” she retorted, “comes from the man who doesn’t tell me 90 percent of what he does every day.”
“That’s different. It’s work.”
“How do you know this isn’t?”
The reply surprised him. His frown eased, and curiosity took its place. “Okay, now my imagination’s engaged.”
“Travis...”
“What would a graphic designer at one of the world’s largest health-food firms want to hide?” He tapped his chin in theatrical deliberation. “She photoshopped four ounces off one of their models? Artificially corrected the color on a Monster drink ad? Or,” he mused, turning more serious, “helped disguise the fact that a vitamin supplement was steroid based?”
“No. No. No. And I refuse to respond to further inquisition.”
“Cm’on, Kate. You can’t just leave me hanging. Give me a hint.”
“No.”
To reinforce the point, she popped part of a bun in her mouth. Only after she’d savored its yeasty sweetness for several moments did she reopen communications.
“You were going to take me up to the base yesterday, before we volunteered to watch Tommy. Why don’t we go today?”
“We could do that. But this is Saturday. The base will be on skeleton manning.”
“I’ve driven onto a few air force bases,” Kate reminded him. “Deserted and otherwise.”
“Yeah, you have.” The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Remember the day we arrived at Hurlburt the first time?”
“Like I could forget?”
Kate didn’t have to fake a shudder. She’d studied dozens of articles and websites in preparation for their move to the Florida Panhandle. They’d all touted the glorious sunshine, the sugar-sand beaches, the sparkling emerald waters.
For obvious reasons, the glowing chamber of commerce articles neglected to mention the hurricanes that slammed into the Gulf Coast with frightening frequency. Including the one that hit while she and Travis were on the road. It barely reached category two, but its eighty-mile-an-hour winds and angry storm surge had made a believer out of her. That and the fact that the air base had battened down all hatches. Metal storm shutters were rolled down, streets were deserted and runways had been emptied of aircraft, flown out of harm’s way.
“Tell you what,” Travis said. “I’ll see if Carlo’s flying today. If he is...and you’re real sweet to him...he might introduce you to some of his men. They’re tough. Really tough.”
Which, Kate knew, was pretty much the highest accolade her husband could bestow. Anxious to meet the prince who’d exhibited such generous hospitality to her and her friends, she downed the rest of her sweet roll while attempting to translate her husband’s brief phone conversation. She wasn’t as familiar with NATO acronyms as she was with USAF terminology, but she was pretty sure AAOC stood for Allied Air Operations Center, and NATO 07 was probably the prince’s call sign.
“Roger that, Aviano. Thanks.” Travis cut the connection and pushed off the sofa. “Carlo should touch down about 1100. I’ve asked the AAOC to let him know I want to meet with him after his mission debrief. I’ll go shower and shave. In the meantime, you could call down to the desk and have a vaporetto ready to pick us up in thirty minutes.”
Kate made the call as requested and was about to signal for the operator again and ask to be connected to the Gritti when the phone buzzed under her hand. Startled, she lifted the receiver again.
“Pronto?”
“It’s me. Sorry to call so early.” Dawn didn’t sound particularly apologetic. Then again, she rarely did. “I wanted to tell you I’m making a change in my vacations plans.”
“Good change?” Kate asked cautiously. “Or bad?”
“Good. I think. Oh, hell, I don’t know. It’s all kind of spur-of-the-moment.”
“With you, it usually is.”
“True,” her friend admitted, laughing. “Anyway, I’ve decided to extend my stay in Italy and stand in for Tommy Ellis’s nanny.”
“Brian called Travis earlier,” Kate told her. “He said you’d made the offer. He didn’t mention it was a done deal, though.”
“It wasn’t, until a few minutes ago. Ellis and I just talked. Evidently he’s decided I
’m not a psychopath or registered sex offender.”
And Kate knew the underlying basis for that decision. She started to tell Dawn about the background investigation. Just as quickly, she changed her mind. Ellis’s people had obviously forwarded a positive report or he wouldn’t have taken Dawn up on her offer. And she certainly sounded enthused about playing nanny. Why throw a wrench in the works at this point?
“What about Callie?” Kate asked instead. “What’s she going to do if we both desert her?”
“I’ve pretty much convinced her to stay in Venice with me, at least until it’s time to fly home next week. I suspect she knows I might need backup with this babysitting gig.”
“I suspect she does,” Kate drawled.
But her mind was racing. Her first thought was that Callie and Brian Ellis might connect. Kate still thought they seemed so right for each other, and nothing Dawn had said yesterday or this morning suggested she harbored any particular interest in Tommy’s father.
Her second thought took a completely different direction—the antics of a lively six-year-old would fill Dawn’s days. Maybe, just maybe, a sexy Italian prince could fill Callie’s.
She’d already Googled Carlo Luigi Francesco di Lorenzo, prince of Lombard and Marino. Although his family’s antecedents dated back to the seventh century, their ancient principalities had long since been incorporated into other, more modern states. As a result, Carlo’s royal title was now purely ceremonial.
Not that the empty title seemed to matter to the paparazzi. They brushed aside the fact that the di Lorenzos had lost most of their domains down through the centuries and focused instead on their business instincts. The family had invested heavily in various agricultural and industrial enterprises over the years. One tabloid suggested the di Lorenzos now sat on one of the largest fortunes in Europe.
The articles Kate had read about the current prince were no less enthusiastic. They portrayed him as a slightly older but no less adventurous version of Britain’s Prince Harry. Not surprising, since both men had opted for military careers despite their vast personal wealth and social obligations, at least until Harry resigned his commission last year. The articles also indicated that Prince Carlo thoroughly enjoyed the company of beautiful women but had stated repeatedly that he was in no hurry to marry and settle down.
The photos accompanying the stories weren’t particularly flattering to the playboy prince. He looked short compared to the women he was photographed with. Then again, most of those svelte, impossibly glamorous companions were supermodels and starlets. But Kate thought he also looked a little overweight in his flight suit. When she’d commented on that to Travis, he’d shrugged and said Carlo wouldn’t be a major in the Stormo Incursori unless he was fit enough to chew nails and spit rivets.
* * *
More curious than ever about her husband’s new friend, Kate dressed casually for the drive up to the NATO base in jeans and a coral tank, accented with the colorful scarf she’d purchased in Florence. Travis also wore jeans, and his black cotton crewneck clung to his pecs and abs in ways that turned more than one female head in the lobby.
He hooked on his mirrored sunglasses for the vaporetto ride to the parking garage, where they reclaimed the Ferrari. The VIP parking attendant handed over the keys with obvious reluctance and a last, loving pat on the sports car’s fender.
“You want the top up or down?” Travis asked when they’d settled into the body-hugging leather seats.
“Down. Definitely down.”
While he engaged the system that folded the top into its storage compartment, Kate caught her hair back with the scarf. Mere moments later they were on their way.
The route took them north from Venice through rolling hills, small villages and acre after acre of vineyards. The purple smudge of the Dolomites rose in the distance. A branch of the Italian Alps, the mountains grew taller and craggier with each passing kilometer. Kate skimmed the guide to Italy on her iPhone during the drive to familiarize herself with the cultural, historical and gastronomic specialties of the area.
Although it was just midmorning, she had to sample the delicacies. She asked Travis to stop at one of the tasting rooms that lined the road so they could taste different vintages of prosecco—the sparkling white wine made from grapes grown only in that area. Delighted with its bubbly effervescence, Kate recomputed the cost per bottle listed on a slate above the counter from euros to dollars.
“This is as good as any champagne I’ve had,” she commented to the young woman who poured the samples. “Why is it so much cheaper?”
“It is how the wine is processed, signora. French champagne is made the traditional way, yes? It is fermented in bottles, which must be turned and cleared of sediment by hand. This is very time-consuming and...how do you say—with many people?”
“Labor-intensive.”
“Just so! For prosecco, the secondary fermentation is done in big tanks. The process requires not so many people.”
“Let’s buy a few bottles to take back with us,” Kate suggested. “Dawn’s partial to champagne. She’ll love this.”
“And she’ll probably need it after a day with Tommy the Terrible,” Travis drawled.
They decided to drive into the hillside town of Conegliano for an early lunch. The lower, more modern part of the town offered plenty of cafés and restaurants, but a short flight of steps took them to the historic center. Revived by an endive salad and risotto with cuttlefish served in a creamy black sauce, Kate consulted her trusty digital guidebook again and led Travis to see the frescoes covering the exterior and interior of the Scuola dei Battuti.
“‘Battuti is derived from the Italian word for beaters,’” she read aloud. “‘It refers to the religious lay order that once occupied the building and was known for its brutal self-flagellation rituals.’”
Travis eyed the frescoes and had no comment.
Once back in the Ferrari, they steered straight toward the Dolomites. Thirty minutes later they reached Aviano Air Base, the sprawling installation in the shadow of the snowcapped mountains. The Italian Air Force ran the base and served as hosts to the Thirty-First Tactical Fighter Wing, the only US fighter wing south of the Alps. It also hosted numerous ground and even naval units from a dozen different NATO countries. With its close proximity to hot spots in North Africa and the Middle East, Kate guessed the crews based at or staging out of Aviano had racked up a sobering number of combat sorties in recent years.
Security was tight, and it took a few moments for Travis to get her signed in at the main entrance to the base. From there they drove through a complex of housing, administrative and support buildings all painted in the military’s standard tan and brown. Or in this case, tan and a sort of terra-cotta reminiscent of the tile roofs that capped so many Italian buildings.
When Kate and Travis had reported to their first duty station, she’d commented on the blah colors. He’d explained they were designed to blend in with the terrain. She didn’t doubt the monochromatic scheme had served its purpose thirty or even twenty years ago, but suspected today’s highly sophisticated satellite imagery probably displayed every structure in ultra-clear three-dimensional detail, right down to the ruffles on the kitchen curtains in family housing.
Drab as the colors were, however, they seemed to welcome her home. So did the signs pointing to the base exchange and billeting office and fitness center. Even the flight line had a familiar feel, with hangars and revetments sheltering aircraft of all shapes and sizes and the tang of aviation fuel permeating the warm August air.
What weren’t as familiar were the markings on the various aircraft, at least the ones Kate could spot from the car. She recognized the sleek, lethal-looking US F-16 fighter jets with AV on the tail, which designated Aviano as their home base. But there were also small executive jets, jumbo transports, a buzz of helicopters and several odd-lo
oking aircraft she’d never seen before.
“Where’s your bird?” she asked, searching the ramp for the squat, four-engine turbo-prop Hercules, the workhorse of US and NATO Special Ops.
“Safely tucked away during the day.”
Which meant they only flew after dark, using night-vision goggles. Kate knew her husband was fully qualified on NVGs. He and the crews he flew with had to be, since their missions often involved inserting or extracting a team under cover of darkness at unimproved airstrips deep in hostile territory. The fact that the crews were fully qualified didn’t mitigate the danger, though. If anything, the pucker factor increased exponentially with NVGs.
With her husband’s life on the line, Kate had made it a point to study the risk associated with the increasing use of NVGs in military aviation. One analysis found that 43 percent of class A accidents due to spatial disorientation occurred during NVG flights. Another concluded that NVG operations increased the risk of spatial disorientation by almost five times.
The fact that this supersecret modification Ellis’s company had developed for the special ops 130s involved night flying brought her old fears flooding back. Suddenly, the familiar surroundings of a busy air force base didn’t seem nearly as welcoming or comfortable. Nor could she feel quite the same excitement about Travis’s prospective new job. Not if it put him back in the cockpit, racking up hours under the same—or even more—dangerous conditions.
She was struggling with that sobering thought when they pulled up to a two-story building. A sign in English, Italian and French indicated it served as the NATO Joint Special Operations Center. Just inside the JSOC was a reception desk. Travis fished in his wallet for a green proximity access badge that contained his photo and several lines of bar code. After scanning it at the desk, he requested a visitor’s badge for Kate. Once she’d produced the requested two forms of ID and looked into a camera’s unblinking eye, she was issued a temporary pass. Travis clipped it to the neck of her tank top and guided her to a small visitors’ lounge.
“Hang loose for a few moments. I’ll check to see if Carlo has finished his debrief.”
''I Do''...Take Two! Page 13
