She stood by the velvet cord roping off the statue for long moments, only half hearing the Gregorian chant piped into the chapel through hidden speakers. When she finally turned to leave, she was sorry Joe hadn’t been there to share the experience with her. So she was both surprised and delighted when a cab pulled up less than a half block later and a tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged.
“Joe! How did you find me?”
“The concierge said...”
The rumble of a truck drowned him out. He waited for it to pass before crossing the narrow street. He was in a suit today. Probably because he’d been meeting with the directors of the Naples film festival and touring the various venues. But he’d tugged off his tie, popped the top buttons on his dress shirt and hooked on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Callie had to admit he looked as hot in his big-important-executive uniform as he did in his jeans and bomber jacket.
When he’d crossed the narrow street, she greeted him with an eager question. “Have you seen the Sansevero Chapel? It’s just down the block.”
He hadn’t, so Callie made a return visit. The Veiled Christ struck an even deeper chord on second viewing. Its vivid portrayal of Christ’s suffering was deeply embedded in her memory when they reemerged into the sunlight filtering through the narrow alley.
“Did you have lunch?” Joe asked.
“Coffee and a roll about an hour ago. I was hoping we could share one of Naples’s famous pizzas.”
“So was I. Matter of fact, I asked Marcello Audi for the address of his favorite pizza joint. Let’s grab a taxi.”
His earsplitting whistle brought a cab whipping over to the curb. When he checked an electronic note on his phone and rattled off the address, Callie marveled again at his fluent Italian. She passed the short ride telling him about the mob on the street of the crèche makers and the incredible diversity of nativity figures offered for sale. Only after they’d been shown to a table on the second floor of a tiny restaurant overlooking the bay and placed their order did Callie remark again on the concierge’s efficiency in putting Joe on her trail.
“He just told me where you were headed,” he said with a shrug. “I tracked you via your phone.”
“How?”
“It has a GPS chip.”
“Yes, but I thought...”
Confused, she sat back as their aproned waiter delivered their caprese salads and a carafe of chianti. She poked at the thick wedge of mozzarella in the salad, wondering if it came from the Audi farm, while the server poured the ruby-red vino into thick water glasses.
“You thought what?” Joe prompted when the waiter departed.
“I’ve used the Find My Phone app before to pinpoint its location when I thought I’d lost it. But I thought...no, I’m sure I had to enter my password to access the app.”
“You do. I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“My tech folks developed a program that unscrambles the password.”
He said it so calmly, so casually. As if hacking into someone’s cell phone was just a routine part of his everyday routine.
“Doesn’t the phone have to be turned on to be unscrambled?”
“No.”
“So you can track anyone, just by the number?”
“Pretty much.” A brief smile flitted across his face. “We offered the program to Homeland Security some weeks back. They want it but are still wrestling with the legalities.”
Frowning, Callie poked at her salad again. Although she considered herself a liberal in most respects, the Boston Marathon bombing had tilted her to the right when it came to curtailing the civil liberties of suspected terrorists. She hardly fell into that category, however.
Still frowning, she met Joe’s bland gaze. “I’m not sure I like the idea of being on an electronic leash.”
“Comes with the ring, sweetheart.”
The blunt, masculine possessiveness behind that statement left her sputtering indignantly.
“Dammit, Joe. The fact that I’m wearing your ring doesn’t mean I want you to take control of my life.”
A shuttered look dropped over his face, spurring her irritation.
“I appreciate your wanting to look out for me,” she said firmly. “I do not, however, appreciate you preempting my decisions. Like letting Carlo know I’d decided to accept his offer before I had a chance to tell him myself. Or arranging this weekend in Naples, as delightful as it is, when I have so much to do in Rome. Or...”
“I protect what’s mine.” His eyes had gone cold. “Any way I have to.”
A hot retort rose to Callie’s lips. She bit it back as she remembered the little bit of his past that he’d shared with her on the drive down from Rome.
“The woman you smuggled out of Angola. The one killed by an assassin in Curaçao. Were you...were you in love with her?”
A muscle ticked in one side of his jaw. He sat unmoving, his expression so closed she thought he wouldn’t answer. When he did, she had to strain to hear him.
“I’m not sure you’d call it love. Nattat was fiery and outspoken. And so damned uncompromising. We argued as often as we...”
He broke off, leaving Callie to fill in the blanks. Right. They’d argued as often as they’d indulged in wild, animal sex.
She dropped suddenly clenched fists to her lap. She’d never for one moment imagined she could be jealous of a dead woman.
“She wore her tribal headdress like a badge of honor,” Joe continued after a moment. “She hated the Portuguese who’d plundered her country. Hated the native-born Angolans doing the same. As the youngest member ever elected to parliament, she was an unrelenting thorn in their sides.” His jaw worked. “It was only a matter of time until the bastards got to her.”
The jealousy bit harder, sharper. Callie couldn’t imagine a greater contrast between herself and a young, passionate Angolan member of parliament. She suspected Joe had never categorized this crusader for human rights as a calm port to come home to.
Ashamed of the thought and green-eyed monster nipping at her, Callie said quietly, “She sounds like an amazing woman, Joe.”
“Yeah. Amazing. Also stubborn as hell and too prone to take risks.”
“Which I’m not.”
He hiked a brow.
“Okay, I may be a little stubborn at times,” she conceded, “but I’m not inclined to take risks. So I don’t need to be wrapped in cotton wool. Or kept on an electronic leash.”
He didn’t like it. She could tell by his closed expression.
“I mean it, Joe. We have to respect each other’s boundaries.”
He gave that a polite few moments’ consideration before shaking his head. “I’m not made that way, Callie. I can’t turn it on and off.”
She stared across the table with a confusing sense of having reached an impasse. Intellectually, she flatly rejected the idea of being considered any man’s possession. Training and experience, however, had taught her some primitive instincts were so deeply imprinted on homo sapiens’ DNA that society’s civilizing influences could never eradicated. The instinct to protect one’s mate was certainly one of those instincts.
Unfortunately, she’d worked too many cases where that protective, possessive instinct spilled into jealousy and domestic violence. Could that happen with Joe? Given his admittedly violent past and dangerous present occupation, Callie couldn’t deny the possibility. Yet every primitive instinct she possessed said she had nothing to fear from him.
Still, they needed to establish some of those boundaries she’d mentioned now, before they went too far down the path to misunderstanding or distrust. Their pizza arrived before she could marshal her arguments, however. Just as well, she decided. Better to finish this discussion back at the hotel, in the privacy of their opulent suite.
“Ecco! Pizza
margherita.”
The waiter positioned the pie on the stand in the center of the table with a dramatic flourish and proceeded to serve them a piece. The single slice slopped over the edge of Callie’s plate and smelled of crusty dough, sweet tomatoes, mozzarella and fresh basil. Her first bite confirmed it tasted even better than it looked.
“Oh, God! This is unreal.” She took another bite, swiping at strings of cheese and savoring the explosion of spices and sauce. “Do you know why they call it pizza margherita?” she asked Joe. “I read somewhere it’s named after a queen.”
“Right. The wife of King Umberto the first or second. Maybe third.” He caught a wayward mozzarella strand, tucked it back on his half-devoured slice. “When Umberto and his wife visited Naples and tried pizza for the first time, she said the colors reminded her of the Italian flag.”
Callie could see why. The bright red tomatoes. The white mozzarella. The green of the basil leaves.
“So they named it after her,” she commented. “Would those be the same royals who built that humongous palace in the main piazza?”
“Their descendants, I’d guess, a couple centuries removed.” He downed another man-sized bite. “The palace is on the way back to the hotel. It’s pretty impressive. We could tour it, if you’d like.”
“I would. And tomorrow, we have to visit Pompeii before we head up to Rome.”
“Deal.”
* * *
They opted for a self-guided tour of the grand palace, aided by a free app they downloaded to their cell phones. The wide marble staircase was impressive enough. The opulence of the salons above boggled Callie’s mind. The salons ran into each other, one after another. The blue room. The red. The gold. Each containing priceless works of art, lavishly decorated baroque furniture and some really strange objects brought from the four corners of the world as gifts for the Bourbon kings. Joe held the sack with her purchases while Callie spun in slow circles, her phone to her ear, trying to take in the magnificence.
Pleasantly tired after her day of exploring, she relaxed against Joe’s side during the taxi ride back to the hotel. She’d enjoyed the afternoon so much that she toyed with the idea of just taking things with Joe as they came, one speed bump at a time. Especially since those little bumps occurred between stretches of such thrilling and intense pleasure.
Like the stretch that began after they crossed the lobby and the elevator doors pinged shut. In a swift move, Joe backed her against the paneled wall. His mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry and demanding the response that flared instantly in her belly. She didn’t even try to temper it. Didn’t hold back. Couldn’t hold back. There was nothing gentle in the kiss. Nothing tame or affectionate. The heat in it ignited an answering flame that she knew burned hot in her face when he raised his head.
“Been waiting to do this since I picked you up at the airport yesterday morning. Damned near killed me when jet lag got to you last night.” He dipped his head, took another taste, muttered against her lips, “Tell me the palace didn’t wipe you out.”
Since his hands were as busy as his mouth, Callie could only gasp an urgent negative. “The palace...didn’t...wipe me...out.”
The hum that rose from his throat conveyed equal parts relief, satisfaction and a hunger so fierce that every nerve in her body leaped with anticipation. She had time for only a fleeting prayer that the elevator wouldn’t stop to let anyone else on before it hit their floor. Then Joe raked both hands into her hair, dislodging the scrunchie, and wedged a knee between hers. His mouth devouring hers once more, he rocked her with a pleasure so intense she almost lost it right there.
The elevator made it to their floor without any stops, thank God, and their suite was only a few doors down the hall. Callie spent those few yards raking a hand through the hair now tumbling around her face and tugging at the hem of her sweater. A useless exercise, since Joe swept her into his arms as soon as he’d keyed the door. Her sweater rucked up again and her hair got caught against his shoulder, but she didn’t even wince when the kick he aimed at the door sent it banging into the jamb.
He had to dip to set the security lock and flip on the electronic Do Not Disturb sign. Callie grabbed his shoulders to keep from being upended and held on as he cut through the sitting room. She was still clinging like a monkey when they hit the bedroom.
Housekeeping had been in, she saw as Joe made straight for the four-poster draped in champagne-colored silk. The gold tassels decorating the bed’s richly embroidered comforter marched in a straight line along its hem. A half dozen or more similarly tasseled pillows in varying shapes and sizes sat banked against the carved headboard.
They promptly shot all that neat precision to hell. Joe didn’t take time to yank down the spread. Didn’t bother shoving the pillows out of the way. He dropped to the bed with Callie still locked against him.
She wasn’t sure who attacked whose clothes first. They probably went at it simultaneously. She got his dress shirt off without too much trouble, but Joe was quieter and much quicker. He was feasting on her bare breast while she was still trying to shove his slacks down his lean, muscular flanks. Frustrated, she nipped him on the shoulder. Then nipped again, harder.
That got his attention. His head shot up. Surprise glinted in his eyes.
“You trying to tell me something, tiger?”
“Yes,” she panted.
The surprise deepened. “Interesting. Didn’t think you were into rough stuff.”
“I’m not!” She wiggled under him, fighting the slacks again. “But I could use a little help here.”
When he rolled to one side and shucked the rest of his clothes, Callie didn’t hesitate. Taking full advantage of having him on his back, she swung a leg over his hip even before his shoes and pants hit the floor. A quick push brought her upright. Another wiggle scooted her back a few inches. Straddling his thighs, she had full access to his rampant sex.
He was rock hard and slick to her touch. And salty when she scooted back a few more inches and contorted enough to take him in her mouth. She couldn’t remember ever doing this before. Couldn’t remember wanting to. Yet having Joe at the mercy of her hands and thighs and busy, busy lips shot her into a new sexual stratosphere. She’d gone beyond registering anything other than his taste and his scent and his feel when he gave a hoarse grunt that could have signaled pleasure or protest.
“Callie. Sweetheart.” He nudged her shoulders. “Let me... Crap!”
Joe being Joe, he insisted on giving her the same pleasure she’d given him. Much to Callie’s secret delight, however, it took him a few moments to recoup his strength. Hiding a grin, she wallowed in a trough of feminine superiority right up until the moment he had her digging her nails into the spread and moaning in a long, shuddering, shattering release.
* * *
It was a while before they recovered enough to sluice off in the mammoth shower and wrap up from neck to knees in the hotel’s plush terry-cloth robes. As Callie walked back into the bedroom busily towel drying her hair, Joe winced at the red scrape on her neck.
“Sorry ’bout that whisker burn.”
She looked up from under the towel and smiled. “No complaints on this side. It was worth... Oh!”
She stopped dead. Eyes round, jaw slack, she gaped at the scene outside their floor-to-ceiling windows. Dusk had begun to darken the sky, and a fat, full moon hung just above the stone balustrade of their balcony.
“It’s just like in that song,” she breathed in delight. “The one about the moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie.”
Whipping back her hair, she wrapped the towel turban-style around the still-damp mass and shoved her feet into the hotel-provided slippers.
“Let’s go out on the veranda.”
“Go ahead. I’ll get some Pellegrino and join you.”
While she arrowed straig
ht for the veranda, Joe detoured to the minibar to retrieve two dew-streaked bottles. The chilled water in hand, he took a moment to study the robed and turbaned figure transfixed by her view of the moon-washed bay. She’d turned up the collar on the robe and belted it tighter around her waist against the cooling evening air. Elbows propped on the railing, she leaned forward just far enough to showcase her nice, trim butt.
God, she was gorgeous. She didn’t think so. No surprise there. She’d grown up in the shadow of her two friends and tended to retreat into the background whenever Kate or Dawn took center stage. Not because they were smarter or prettier or more accomplished. Because she was so comfortable in her own skin that she felt no need to compete for attention. Which was one of the reasons Joe had known almost immediately Callie Langston was right for him. He admired her quiet presence. Envied her serenity.
He didn’t have much of either in his own life. Not that he lived on a razor’s edge 24/7. Sometimes he went months between a high-profile client like Carlo di Lorenzo or a seriously vulnerable target like the Naples film festival. Even on the job, Joe had learned to make stress work for him. It kept him and his team alert. Kept them alive. It was those few hours when the adrenaline rocketed through the roof, those days and nights when sleep wasn’t an option, that left him craving a quiet sanctuary to return to after a particularly hairy gig.
He did have a sanctuary or two already. He maintained a house close to his operations base in Houston. Kept a private retreat in the Colorado Rockies. Paid a month-to-month lease on apartment in LA used for strictly business purposes. The places were comfortable. Some might say luxurious. But sterile. Empty. He wanted someone like Callie to fill that emptiness.
Callie's Christmas Wish Page 8
