'I Do'...Take Two!

The elevator doors pinged open. Kate almost jumped in with a promise to zap him a proposed agenda within an hour.

Dawn and Callie were still up and open to further discussion on plans for the remainder of their time in Italy. Snatching up her notebook filled with maps and detailed descriptions of major tourist attractions, Kate worked up an alternate itinerary for them based out of the Tuscan villa. Then she went to work on one for her and Travis.

Driving time. He’d said to factor in driving time. So...

Lips pursed, Kate studied her heavily annotated map of Italy. Since driving in Rome was a nightmare, Kate decided she and Travis should depart the city in the morning, tour the countryside and save Rome for the end of the trip...assuming they were still together at that point. The uncertainty of that churned in her belly as she emailed the proposed itinerary to Travis’s phone.

He emailed back while she was still studying her map. The flight plan looked good. No negotiations or changes necessary. He’d pick her up at eight thirty.

* * *

Kate fully expected to lie awake the rest of the night riddled by doubts. She slid between the satiny sheets, still mulling over Travis’s stated intention to do whatever he could to change her mind about their future. But almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, the combination of rich food, several glasses of wine and mental exhaustion following hours of wildly conflicting emotions put her out.

The alarm she’d set on her iPhone went off at 7:00 a.m., but the happy marimba barely penetrated. Fumbling for the phone, she hit the snooze button. Twice. So when she finally came fully awake, she glanced at the time, let out a yelp and scrambled to get showered, dressed and packed.

Luckily, she’d packed light for the trip. All three of them had. Just one tote and roll-on each. The absence of heavy luggage made traveling so much easier but restricted choices. Kate had opted for two pairs of jeans, one pair of khaki twill slacks, tanks and Ts in various colors, a lightweight cotton sundress, and her slinky, caramel-colored pants and jacket. Since she would spend the day driving, she decided on jeans and a cap-sleeved black T paired with the chunky wooden necklace.

Callie was up when Kate dashed out of her bedroom, but Dawn hadn’t seen the light of day yet. Noting the tote and roll-on, Callie smiled.

“No second thoughts?”

“God, yes! Second, third and fourth. But... Well...”

“You don’t have to explain. Just keep safe, Kate, and keep us posted on how things go.”

“I will.”

The doubts hit with a vengeance while she waited in the Cavalieri’s lobby. The break with Travis had been agony enough four months ago. She had to be certifiable to court that kind of pain again.

She swiped her palms down the sides of her jeans and tried to settle her nerves by admiring the magnificent triptych that dominated the wall above the reception desk. The Cavalieri’s website boasted that it was home to one of the greatest private collections in the world. The hotel’s art historian even offered private tours of the old masters, rare tapestries and priceless antiques that included, among other things, a crib commissioned by Napoleon for his baby son.

At the moment, Kate was too revved to appreciate the art displayed in niches and on pedestals. Last night she’d thought she’d been so precise, so clearheaded and unemotional by laying out those ground rules. Then Travis had to turn them—and her—upside down with his statement of intent.

And that nickname. Katydid. He’d tagged her with it one hot summer evening when they’d spread a blanket under the stars and listened to the quivering whir of grasshoppers feasting on fresh-cut grass. Only he could call her an insect and make it feel like the soft stroke of a palm against her skin. And only he could blot out every one of those zillion stars with a single kiss.

Oh, God! What was she doing?

She tightened her grip on the roll-on, almost ready to scurry back to her room, when she caught a flash from the corner of one eye. Turning, she spotted her husband at the wheel of the convertible that pulled up at the front entrance. It was low, sporty, hibiscus red, and it gleamed with chrome. It also, she saw when she exited the automatic doors, displayed a distinctive logo on its sloping hood. Like the bellman and parking attendant, she was riveted by the medallion depicting a rampant black stallion silhouetted against a field of yellow.

“Is this a Ferrari?”

“It is,” Travis confirmed as he waved off the parking attendant who hurried forward. Rounding the hood, he took Kate’s case and stashed it in the trunk. “Compliments of Carlo.”

“Free use of a villa and a Ferrari? He owes you that much?”

“He doesn’t owe me anything. He just thinks he does.”

Shadowy images of what must have gone down to rack up such a large debt, real or imagined, made Kate swallow. Hard. Trying to blank her mind to the possible circumstances, she folded herself into the cloud-soft black leather of the passenger seat.

“It’s got a retractable hardtop,” Travis said as he slid behind the wheel. “If the wind is too much, let me know and I’ll put it up.”

She nodded, still trying to force her thoughts away from downed aircraft and skies ablaze with tracers from enemy fire. Her husband didn’t help by sharing a bit of historical trivia.

“Did you know Ferrari derived his logo from the insignia of a World War I Italian ace?”

“Why am I not surprised?” Kate said drily. “The symbol for such a lean, mean muscle machine could only have come from a flier.”

“Damn straight.” Grinning, Travis keyed the ignition and steered past a parade of taxis waiting to pick up departing guests. “Count Francesco Baracca was cavalry before he took to the air, so he painted a prancing black stallion on the sides of his plane. Baracca racked up so many kills he became a national hero, and when Ferrari met the count’s mother some years later, she suggested he paint the same symbol on his racing car for good luck.”

“The ace didn’t object to having his personal symbol co-opted?”

“He probably wouldn’t have, but we’ll never know. He went down in flames just a few months before the end of the war.”

Both the dancing stallion and the sleek vehicle it decorated lost their dazzle in Kate’s eyes. “Some good-luck charm,” she muttered. “I hope your pal Carlo hasn’t stenciled it on his plane.”

“No, the aircraft in his unit sport their own very distinctive nose art. The wing’s name in Italian is the Seventeenth Stormo Incursori, if that gives you any clue.”

When she shook her head, his grin widened.

“It translates literally to ‘a flock of raiders.’ Not so literally to ‘watch your asses, bad guys.’”

“Of course it does. Do they fly the K-2, too?”

K-2 was their shorthand for the Combat King II. The latest model of the HC-130 was still relatively new to the USAF inventory and dedicated to special ops.

“They do,” Travis confirmed. “Just got ’em in this year. Carlo and his crew were still doing a shakedown when we got tagged for that joint op.”

Kate dug in her purse for a fat plastic hair clip, thinking that her husband and his Italian counterpart had forged quite a bond. It might be of recent origin, but it sounded almost as deep and unbreakable as the one between her, Dawn and Callie.

“I’d like to meet this new friend of yours sometime,” she commented as she anchored her hair back with the clip.

“I’d like that, too.” He cut her a quick glance. “Want to amend our itinerary to include the base at Aviano? And maybe Venice?”

“I...uh...”

For pity’s sake! They hadn’t even left the Cavalieri’s landscaped grounds and were already making changes to the agenda. But the lure of Venice proved almost as powerful as the desire to meet this new friend of her husband’s.

“Okay by me.”

“Great.”

When they reached the bottom of the long, curving drive, Travis downshifted and hit the brake. His hand rested casually on the Ferrari’s burled walnut gearshift knob while its engine purred like a well-fed feline.

“This baby can go from zero to sixty in three-point-five seconds,” he confided as they waited for the cross street to clear. “Once we shake free of Rome, we’ll open her up.”

Chapter Three

Despite the Ferrari’s impressive prowess, it took Kate and Travis all day to make what would ordinarily be a three-hour drive from Rome to Florence.

They left the autostrada about two hours north of Rome and made a leisurely side trip through the Chianti region, with several stops to sample wine and olive oil. After a light lunch in the historic center of Siena, they followed a winding country road to the fortified hilltop town of San Gimignano.

Its seven towers dated from the Middle Ages. Square and unyielding, they stood like sentinels against a sky puffy with white clouds. The town center was closed to nonlocal traffic, so they parked in a lot outside the main gate and explored the winding medieval streets on foot. By then it was late afternoon. A creamy gelato carried them until dinner, which they ate in a restaurant built into one of San Gimignano’s ancient walls. The view from the restaurant’s terrace of undulating vineyards and red-tiled farms guarded by tall cypresses was a landscape painter’s dream.

They hit the outskirts of Florence as a sky brilliant with purple and gold and red was darkening into night. With typical efficiency, Kate had called ahead to change the reservations she’d previously made at a small boutique hotel perched on a bank of the Arno River just a short distance from the famous Ponte Vecchio.

She felt pleasantly tired from the long day. Not tired enough, however, to banish the awkwardness and unavoidable hurt of checking into two separate rooms. She was the one who’d insisted, she reminded herself fiercely as they took the elevator to the second floor.

Still, she felt as though a fist had locked around her heart and was squeezing hard when she paused outside the door to her room. Key in one hand and the handle of her roller bag in the other, she covered the hurt with a smile.

“Thanks for today, Trav. I...I had fun.”

“Me, too, Katydid.”

They’d both been so careful. No casual physical contact, no sensitive subjects, no reminders of how many times they’d planned this trip. Now all she could think of was how much she ached to kick off her shoes and curl up beside him on a comfy sofa to review the day’s adventures.

Her memories of Italy, she realized suddenly, would always carry this bittersweet flavor. She had to turn away before the tears prickling her eyes welled up.

“I’m more tired than I realized,” she lied, shoving the key in the lock. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

When the door closed behind her, Travis stared at the white-painted wood panel. He was gripping his own key card so fiercely the edges cut into his palm.

He’d known this trip would be hard. Had fully anticipated spending most of the day with his insides balled in a knot. Turned out he’d grossly underestimated the degree of difficulty. It took everything he had to refrain from rapping on that door, folding his wife in his arms and kissing away the sadness that had flickered across her face for the briefest instant.

A low, vicious oath did little to relieve his frustration. Slinging his carryall onto the bed in his room didn’t help, either. Not when all he could think about, all he could see, was Kate’s long, slender body stretched out on the brocaded coverlet, her skin bathed in moonlight and her eyes languorous after a bout of serious sex.

“Dammit all to hell!”

He stalked to the minibar and ripped the cap off a plastic bottle of scotch. Glass in hand, he stood at the window and gazed unseeing at the floodlit dome of Florence’s famous duomo, just visible above the jumble of buildings in the heart of the city.

* * *

When he headed down to the hotel’s breakfast room the next morning, he was feeling the aftereffects of a restless night. Kate was already there, coffee cup in hand and a fistful of brochures fanned on the table in front of her.

Grunting, Travis squinted to block the glare from the picture windows framing the Ponte Vecchio. Despite the early hour, tourists were already streaming onto the medieval stone bridge that spanned the Arno River. The bridge was topped with multistory shops, just as it had been centuries ago, but shopkeepers now hawked gold instead of scalded chickens and haunches of raw meat dangling from iron hooks. Since the bridge no doubt topped Kate’s list of must-see sights, Travis gave fervent thanks they wouldn’t have to battle with the flies and smells of an open-air market like those he’d visited in Africa and Asia.

She looked up at his approach. The faint shadows under her eyes gave him a small, totally selfish dart of satisfaction. Apparently her night hadn’t been any more restful than his.

The rest of her looked good, though. Too good. He pulled out a chair, wondering how the hell he was going to get through another day without dropping a kiss on the soft skin left bare by the honey-colored curls she’d clipped up and off her neck.

“Good morning.”

Her polite greeting only increased his irritation. What was he? Some casual acquaintance? His response came out short and a little gruff.

“Mornin’.”

“Uh-oh.” Cradling her cup in both hands, she eyed him over the rim. “Rough night?”

“I’ve had better.” He debated for a moment and decided there was no point pretending to be noble. “Took a while to get to sleep. The combination of warm scotch and a cold shower finally did the trick.”

“Took me a while, too,” she admitted with obvious reluctance. She looked down at her half-empty cup, then up again. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, Trav.”

“What?” He helped himself from the carafe on the table. “You? Me? Sleeping in separate beds? Dumbest idea since pet rocks.”

She set her cup down with a clink. “What I meant was you. Me. Thinking we could patch our marriage together by playing tourist.”

“Okay, hang on a sec.”

He needed a jolt of caffeine for this. Preferably mainlined straight to a major vein. He settled for taking it hot and black and bitter. Fortified, he met her challenge head-on.

“First, I’m not playing at anything. I’m dead serious. I love you. Always have. Always will. Second, I don’t—”

“Wait! Stop! Back up.”

The crease that suddenly grooved her brow annoyed him no end.

“Cm’on, Kate. Despite that Facebook stupidity, you know...you have to know you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to spend my life with.”

When the groove dug deeper, the thought Travis had kept buried in the dark recesses of his mind slithered out of its hole like a venomous snake in search of something to feed on.

“Unless...” He reached deep, fought savagely for calm. “Have you found someone else? Someone you want to spend yours with?”

“No! God!”

“You can tell me. I’ll understand.” His jaw worked. “I won’t like it, but I’ll understand.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake! Do you think I’d dump Dawn and Callie and take off with you if I had another man waiting in the wings?”

Breathing deep, he lopped off the snake’s head and booted its carcass into the netherworld. “So what’s the bottom line here, Kate? Why did you dump Callie and Dawn?”

“Bottom line?”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. He waited, certain the painful honesty he saw in her brown eyes signaled the end. If it did, he swore with a vow that cut sharp and deep, he would back off. Accept the damned divorce. Let her get on with her life.

“I love you, too,” she said quietly. “Always have. Always will. But we’ve both learned the hard way that love isn’t always enough. I guess I wanted... I needed...one last shot at bridging the gap between what is and what could be.”

His chest unfroze. His heart started beating again. His lungs pumped enough air to fuel an instant decision.

“We need to reopen negotiations.”

Instantly wary, she held up both palms. “No way. I’m not ready for—”

“The itinerary,” he cut in. “Are you up for another side trip?”

“Depends. Where do you want to go?”

“Let me make a call. Then I’ll give you the details.”

He tossed his napkin on the table and found a quiet corner in the hall outside the breakfast room. Digging his cell phone out of his jeans pocket, he used his thumb to skim his list of contacts and found the one he wanted. A few seconds later, the call went through the international circuits.

“Ellis.”

“It’s Westbrook.”

Brian Ellis was president and CEO of Ellis Aeronautical Systems, the prime contractor on the highly classified modification to the Combat King’s avionics that Travis and his Italian counterpart were currently testing. Ellis had flown over to Italy for a progress review and the final test flights.

A former aviator himself, Ellis had struck a chord with both Travis and Carlo. Over beers a few nights ago, he’d let drop that his corporation was in the process of subcontracting with Lockheed for a multinational, multimillion-dollar contract for an upgrade to the jet engine’s electronic injection system. He’d also mentioned that he’d scheduled a visit with one of the other major players in the proposed upgrade.

“You still heading down to Modena this afternoon?” he asked Ellis.

“I am. Assuming Mrs. Wells can manage Tommy.”

“Oh. Right.”

Travis had almost forgotten that Ellis had brought his six-year-old son to Europe. The plan, the CEO had explained drily, was to spend some quality time with his son before school started while exposing him to as much history as his young mind could absorb.

Travis admired the busy executive for wanting to spend time with his son. But he’d had to grin when Ellis confided that the little stinker had already escaped his nanny twice during those hours his father couldn’t be with him. The boy knew better than to leave the hotel on his own, his exasperated father related, and he’d wreaked enough havoc within its centuries-old walls to make it questionable whether they’d be allowed back.

“What’s your schedule in Modena?” Travis asked.

“The meet and greet at the headquarters is set for one, followed by a tour of their engine manufacturing facility.”

“I need ten minutes. How about we catch you before the meet and greet?”

“Who’s we?”

He shot a glance through the double doors of the breakfast room. The sunlight pouring through the windows made a golden nimbus of Kate’s hair. With her creamy skin and classic features, she could have posed for one of the Renaissance masters whose paintings filled Florence’s museums.

Before he could answer, Ellis connected the dots. “You dog! You convinced your wife to take you back?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Then by all means, let’s get together in Modena.”

“Great. See you a little before one.”

Pocketing the phone, he strolled back to his curious wife. “If you don’t mind putting Florence on hold for another day, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“The phantom Carlo?”

“No, a guy named Brian Ellis. He and Carlo and I... Well...”

“I know, I know. You can’t talk about it.”

“Ellis is visiting the Maserati factory in Modena this afternoon. It’s just north of Bologna, about a hundred klicks from here, autostrada all the way. We could get there and back in time to watch the sun set over the Arno.”

Kate arched a brow. “First a Ferrari, now a factory full of Maseratis. You’re coming up in the world, Westbrook.”

“Could be,” he muttered under his breath as he reclaimed both his seat and his coffee. “Most definitely could be.”

Kate didn’t catch the low comment. His mention of Bologna had triggered something in her memory cells. The city hadn’t made her must-see list. Not surprising, with everything Rome and Florence and Milan had to offer a first-time visitor, but it might be worth a short visit.

“You order breakfast,” she instructed Travis, “while I check out what else there is to see in Bologna and Modena besides Maseratis.”

A bunch, she discovered after a quick search on her iPhone. The city of Bologna dated back more than three thousand years. With its central location smack-dab in the middle of the Italian boot, it had survived and flourished under subsequent waves of Etruscans, Celts, Romans and medieval lords.

“Bologna’s home to the oldest university in the world,” she informed Travis, “founded in 1088.”

“Beats UMass by about eight hundred years.”

“It’s also famous for its arched walkways,” she read. “They run for more than thirty-eight kilometers, connecting the largest historical city center in Italy. The porticoes are actually included on the UNESCO World Heritage list of significant historical, cultural or geographical landmarks.”

“Who knew?” Travis commented with a grin.

Certainly not Kate. Fascinated, she Googled away while he ordered an omelet for himself, a fresh fruit cup and a toasted bagel for her.

The order stilled her flying fingers. He knew her so well, she thought with a gulp. Her breakfast routine. Her love affair with classical music, which he’d struggled so valiantly—and unsuccessfully—to share. He also sympathized with her ferocious battle to keep the ten pounds she’d gained since their first meeting from inching up to fifteen, twenty. Not that he’d minded the extra padding. That time in Vegas, when he’d peeled off her bra and panties and slicked his tongue over...

Whoa! This wasn’t the time or the place to think about where his tongue had gone. Heart hammering, Kate went back to working the phone’s tiny keyboard.

“Aha!”

“Aha?” Travis echoed, shooting up a brow. “Does that carry the same connotation as ‘gadzooks’?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t read comic books, like some people do.”

“More than some. Google ‘manga’ and see how far back that cultural tradition goes.”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

He surrendered gracefully. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Bologna is home to Cassa di Molino, one of Italy’s largest banks. It was organized back in the 1800s by a commission of wealthy patrons to manage the city’s poorhouses. The commission also encouraged better-off citizens to save by offering them a safe place to deposit funds they could draw on in emergencies or old age.”

Her fiscal interests fully engaged, Kate skimmed the article describing the minimum deposit—not less than six scudi—and loans tailored to craftsmen and merchants to stimulate the local economy.

“Back then the bank allocated all profits to helping young entrepreneurs, depositors who fell on hard times and women with no dowries.”

“I’m guessing it’s not as philanthropic these days.”

Ignoring the sardonic comment, she worked her thumbs. “And I think... Yes! Here he is, Antonio Gallo. The bank’s new president.”

She angled the phone to display a photo of a distinguished gentleman with a genial smile and a full head of silver hair.

“I met him at a conference last year. He mentioned then that he was being considered for a senior position. I didn’t remember where until just now, when you mentioned Bologna.”

“Sounds like a useful contact.”

“Very useful.”

“Since we’re heading in that direction anyway, why don’t you call and see if he’s available for a courtesy call?”

She hesitated for only a second or two. She hadn’t factored any business calls into her vacation schedule. Then again, neither had she planned a visit to Bologna. As Travis indicated, however, this was too good an opportunity to let slip.

So much for their carefully reconstructed agenda, she thought, as she Googled the number for the headquarters of Cassa di Molino. After speaking to several underlings, she reached Signore Gallo’s executive assistant, who advised that his boss’s schedule was quite full but a short visit at 11:20 a.m. might be possible if he juggled some other appointments. Could he call Signorina Westbrook back to confirm? And in the interim, perhaps she might email a short bio?