Callie's Christmas Wish Read online

  “You did, which was why we didn’t give the Graham case as much scrutiny as some of the others. Only after I had my people go back and do a second scrub did we learn the father’s company transferred him to their Australian office earlier this year.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  With a sinking sensation, Callie sensed what was coming. Otherwise amicable divorce and custody agreements could turn ugly when overseas travel was involved. The cost of the travel itself was often prohibitive, and the court couldn’t discount the possibility a child taken outside its jurisdiction would not be returned. For that reason, Callie’s report to the judge had contained the standard caveat requiring review if either of the parents should relocate outside the US.

  “Rose’s mother flat refused to let her daughter fly all the way to Australia,” Joe confirmed.

  “And the law firm she worked for tied her ex up in legal knots,” Callie guessed. She’d seen that too many times, too.

  “The father had to come back to the States so often for hearings and court appearances that he wiped out his savings and was forced to take out huge loans. As a result, he fell behind on child support.”

  Callie grimaced. “And that in turn led the state to institute proceedings to garnish his wages from his home company in Boston, only adding to his legal woes and burden of debt.”

  “He asked his company to transfer him back to Boston. He’s been waiting for six months for a position to open up.”

  “In the meantime, his anger at the system festered.”

  “And then some.” Joe shook his head in disgust. “I can’t believe it took my people so long to break through the series of firewalls he erected. The man’s damned good at what he does.”

  “But your people are better,” Dawn commented.

  “That’s why I pay ’em the big bucks.”

  “So what happened when you confronted Graham?” she wanted to know.

  “Pretty much what I’d expected. He acted astonished, then indignant. Then, when the Aussie cybercrimes detectives who accompanied me to his place of employment laid out the electronic evidence, he wouldn’t say another word without an attorney present. After his lawyer showed up it still took some persuasion,” Joe said with what both women suspected was considerable understatement, “but he finally admitted to fixating on the caveat in Callie’s report as the root cause of his problems.”

  “Right,” Dawn snorted. “Not the judge who signed the visitation order. Not his ex-wife or her team of lawyers. And of course not himself.”

  “Of course.” Joe’s silver-gray eyes frosted with icy satisfaction. “Bastard’s in a world of hurt now. He’ll be sitting in a cell for months while the US and Australia work out jurisdictional issues. Years, maybe, since the investigation and prosecution of terror-related cybercrimes takes far higher precedence in both countries than his threats.”

  Callie might have felt sorry for Rose’s father if his vicious emails hadn’t disrupted her life for the past three months. She’d have to pick up the pieces and get on with it, she realized. But first...

  “Thank you.” Reaching across the counter, she laid a hand over Joe’s. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me. More than I can ever say. I hated involving you in the mess, but...”

  “Hated me butting in, you mean.”

  “Well, yes. At first.” She had to smile. “After all, we barely knew each other.”

  “A situation I’ve been trying to remedy.”

  He had. He most definitely had. Just remembering the hard press of his mouth on hers the evening before his sudden trip to Australia brought a wash of heat from the neck of her sweater. The heat surged even higher when Joe turned his hand, enfolded hers and brushed his thumb over her wrist in slow, easy strokes.

  Callie didn’t dare glance at her friend. Dawn wasn’t the least bit hesitant to dish out advice or offer opinions. She and Kate had both already suggested—several times!—that strong, silent, super-macho Joe Russo had a serious case of the hots for the quiet, seemingly demure member of their trio.

  Thankfully Dawn refrained from commenting on either Joe’s thumb movements or the heat now spreading across Callie’s cheeks. Instead she invented a quick excuse to depart the scene.

  “I’d better go make sure Tommy isn’t trying to test those aerodynamic principles in the den. Give a shout when you’re ready to, uh, take the action outside.”

  The door to the den swished shut behind her, and a sudden silence descended. Callie was the first to break it. Her hand still in Joe’s, she tried to ignore the skitter of nerves his stroke was generating and smiled up at him.

  “I meant what I just said, Joe. I’m really, really grateful. And so relieved it’s finally over.”

  “Me, too. It’s been keeping me awake at night.”

  “I’ve lost sleep, too,” she admitted. “I can’t ever repay you for the man-hours you and your people put into the investigation.”

  “If it gets the shadows out of your eyes, I’ll consider the debt paid.”

  His gaze locked on hers. “Your eyes are the damnedest color,” he said after a small pause. “Not purple, not lavender. Sort of halfway between the two. First thing I noticed about you.”

  Well, Callie thought with an inner grimace, it wouldn’t have been her ebullient personality or luscious curves. Dawn had the corner on those. And any stray male glances the flamboyant redhead didn’t instantly capture, Kate’s lustrous, sun-streaked blond hair and mile-long legs would.

  “Thanks,” she said for lack of a better response.

  “I tried to find the right way to describe the color when I gave my folks your vitals,” he said with a rueful grimace. “Couldn’t bring myself to go with hyacinth or heliotrope. Their jaws would’ve smacked their chests.”

  Callie’s own jaw almost took a trip south. These were the most words she’d heard Joe string together in one sitting. They were also the most surprising.

  “So what did you go with?”

  “Pansy.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Lovely.”

  “Yeah, they are.”

  His hand tightened and tugged her closer. His other hand came up to slide under her hair. His palm felt warm on her nape, the skin hard and ridged in spots. She’d once read that expert marksmen fired thousands of rounds weekly to maintain their skills and developed shooter’s calluses as a result.

  Okay. She’d read that just a few weeks ago. When she was trying to weave a more complete picture of Joe Russo from the scant threads of his past that he’d shared with her. She was thinking of the still-gaping holes in that picture when he reclaimed her attention with a gruff admission.

  “Those damned emails weren’t the only thing keeping me awake.”

  He lowered his head but didn’t swoop in and catch her by surprise, as he had the night before his abrupt departure for Australia. He gave her plenty of time to pull away, to ease out of his loose grip. So much time she was the one who leaned into the kiss.

  That was all the encouragement he needed. With a low grunt, he pushed off his stool. She came off hers eagerly. The hand still wrapped around her nape moved up. He tipped her head back for a better angle and used his other arm to fit her against him. She strained even closer while his mouth worked hard, hungry magic on hers.

  Within moments, Callie was aching for more. She wanted him out of his shirt. Out of his worsted-wool slacks and his Italian leather boots and...

  “Caaal-lee.”

  She jerked her back and looked over her shoulder to find Tommy glaring at them with equal parts indignation and accusation. His pup wedged through the door with him and yipped, as if wanting to add his two cents to whatever was going on.

  “Mom said you guys were still talking. But you’re not. You’re kissing ’n’ stuff.”

  They hadn’t actually gotten to the �
��stuff” part, but Callie was thinking about it. Thinking hard. So was Joe, judging by the wicked tilt to his mouth.

  “Yeah,” he admitted, “we are.”

  Scowling, Tommy planted his fists on his hips. “When are you gonna be done?”

  Joe slanted Callie a wry look. “How about we finish our...discussion...later? Somewhere private. Inaccessible to kids and dogs.”

  “Deal.”

  “All right, kid. Get your jacket and your boomerang and we’ll go outside.”

  Chapter Two

  When Joe stepped outside, he welcomed the clean, sharp bite of a DC winter. December was midsummer in Australia. During his flying visit, Sydney had been sweltering through usually high temperatures. As a result he enjoyed the brisk chill almost as much as he did Tommy the Terrible’s determination to get his boomerang to fly.

  Before making the first attempt, though, the boy fingered the fine-grained wood surface and gravely explained its aerodynamic principles to Joe. “See, this is a nonballistic missile.”

  “That so?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s different from ballistic missiles. They’re, like, spears ’n’ arrows ’n’ bullets ’n’ stuff. When you throw them or shoot them from a gun, they fly up in an arc till gravity pulls them down.”

  Which was about as cogent a distillation of ballistics as Joe had ever heard. He hid a grin as he thought of the hours he’d spent on the range as a raw recruit learning to calculate distance, velocity and trajectory.

  “But a boomerang’s different,” Tommy continued, his face a study in fierce concentration as he fingered the intricate designs inlaid in the wood. “It’s got this curved shape ’n’ wide surface ’n’ the top is conver...convey...”

  “Convex?”

  “Yeah, convex. Anyway, Dad says if you throw it right, it’ll defy gravity as long as it has enough speed ’n’ the rotation will bring it right back to you.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got the theory down. Want to put in practice?”

  “Yes!”

  Thankfully, Joe’s Aussie contact had directed him to an indigenous arts and crafts store with a very accommodating owner. The man had hooked a Closed sign in his shop window and taken his customer to the soccer field just a half block from his store. It took patient coaching and several attempts before Joe eventually got the damned boomerang to return.

  The Ellises’ backyard wasn’t anywhere near as large as a soccer field, but Joe figured it was adequate for Tommy’s strength and throwing ability. Hunkering down on his heels, he shared his recently acquired knowledge.

  “Okay, hold it in a two-fingered pistol grip.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sorry. Hold it here with your thumb and two fingers. Tuck the other fingers into your fist. Good. Now lift the boomerang vertical to your shoulder. A little higher. Okay. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to throw this. Just bring your arm back and hurl it forward.”

  Tommy’s first attempt sent the boomerang plowing straight down into the snow-dusted grass. The second whizzed past the pup’s nose. The third actually flew off to the right, whirled and started to return before it ran out of speed.

  “Joe! It was coming back!”

  “I saw.”

  Thrilled with his throw, Tommy almost tripped over his pet in his eagerness to retrieve the boomerang. Joe figured he’d pretty well exhausted his expertise and leaned against the garden wall to let the boy enjoy himself.

  He was a good kid. Make that a great kid.

  Looking back, Joe could admit he’d harbored more than a few doubts when he’d heard Brian Ellis had brought his young son to Italy. At the time, Ellis, USAF Major Travis Westbrook and the playboy prince Joe and his team were providing special security for were in the final test phase of a highly classified NATO special ops aircraft modification. The mod had been designed by Ellis Aeronautical Systems, however, and the company’s CEO was a widower who included his son and the boy’s nanny on extended trips abroad whenever he could. Unfortunately, the nanny tripped and broke her ankle in the final and most critical phase of the test.

  Joe didn’t believe in luck. Not many men and women in his profession did. You considered every possible contingency, devised backup plans, worked out alternate escape routes and relied on training and instinct to get you out of tight situations. He was living proof that the formula worked...most of the time. When he looked in the mirror, however, he saw a graphic reminder of Curaçao and the one time his instincts were dead wrong.

  Yet even he had to admit that chance or luck or whatever the hell you wanted to call it had played out in Italy. Kate and Travis Westbrook had hooked up again. Fiery-haired Dawn McGill had stepped in as Tommy’s temporary nanny. And Joe had met Callie Langston.

  It hadn’t been love at first sight. Not even, Joe recalled, instant lust. Callie would be the first to admit that most male glances slid right past her to snag on long-legged, tawny-haired Kate or laughing, flirtatious, extremely stacked Dawn.

  Joe had experienced the same initial testosterone spike when introduced to the other two women. Right up until Callie had turned her head and nailed him with those purple eyes. But it wasn’t until he saw her trying to disguise her reaction to those emails that she snagged more than a casual interest.

  At first it was the cop in him. The military-trained investigator turned covert operator turned personal security expert. Then it was her insistence she could handle the problem herself. Then...

  “Didja see that one, Joe? Didja?”

  “I did. Good job, kid.”

  Then, Joe remembered, it was Brian and Dawn setting sparks off each other. And Kate and Travis getting back together. And the playboy prince putting the moves on Callie.

  Carlo’s heavy-handed seduction attempts had pissed Joe off more than they should have. They also got him thinking about things he hadn’t allowed himself think about since Curaçao. Like someone to come home to. Hell, a home to come home to. And maybe, just maybe, a son like Tommy.

  Suddenly impatient, Joe pushed away from the garden wall. “A couple more throws, kid.”

  “Not yet. I’m just gettin’ good.”

  “Yes, yet. I want to finish talking to Callie. Besides,” he added, taking a cue from Dawn’s devious tactics, “your dad should be home soon. You don’t want to wear out your arm before you show him your moves.”

  “’Kay. Four more.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  “This one,” Joe said in a tone that brooked no further argument, “and one more.”

  * * *

  Inside the kitchen warmed by the dancing flames from a brick fireplace, Dawn and Callie cradled cups of steaming cappuccino and watched the action through frost-rimmed bay windows.

  They’d just placed several calls. The first to Dawn’s husband, Brian, to break the news that Joe had ID’d the originator of the emails. Another to the remaining member of their female triumvirate.

  Kate had whooped with joy and relief and insisted they celebrate. Tonight. Before Joe disappeared again on one of his bodyguard gigs for some rock star or South American dictator. She and Travis would bring the champagne and sparkling cider. Dawn and Callie could take care of the eats.

  They accomplished their assigned task by calling in a to-go order for tapas and paella at Paoli, a top-rated Mediterranean restaurant just a few blocks from the house. Which left them plenty of time to sip their cappuccinos and watch the outside activities.

  “Joe’s really good with Tommy,” Dawn commented casually.

  Too casually. Callie recognized that okay-whatever-I’m-just-saying tone. She buried her nose in the frothy brew and waited. Sure enough, Dawn plunked her own cup down and cut to the chase.

  “C’mon, Cal. Give. To paraphrase my precocious little imp, what was with all that kissing ’n’ stu
ff?”

  Callie lowered her cup and met her friend’s eager gaze. Her own, she knew, no doubt mirrored the welter of confusing emotions Joe Russo roused in her.

  “I’m not sure. It’s just... Well... Look, you’ve known Joe as long as I have.”

  “But not as well, obviously.”

  The drawled retort raised a smile, followed by a rueful grimace.

  “The truth is, I don’t know him as well as it might have appeared. Aside from the fact he can’t—or won’t—talk about his past, he’s not exactly loquacious.”

  “No kidding. But back to that kiss. It wasn’t the first, was it?”

  “No.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me, sister. You might come across as all demure and innocent to outsiders, but Kate and I were peeking through the blinds when you sweet-talked Pimple Face Hendricks into dropping his drawers and showing off his prized possession.”

  “For pity’s sake! We were, what? Eight or nine years old?”

  “Old enough to know Pimple Face didn’t have much to brag about. So spill it. Do you want Joe to deliver a repeat performance?”

  There was only one answer to that. “Yes.”

  “Hallelujah! It’s about time you took the plunge.”

  “Wait! I’m not exactly plunging into any—”

  “The heck you’re not. I can’t count the number of studs Kate and I have fixed you up with in the past few years. After every date you’ve smiled your enigmatic Mona Lisa smile and sent them on their way. Joe’s the first male you’ve invited back for seconds.”

  “Dawn,” Callie protested, half laughing and half embarrassed at how close that barb had hit to home. “It was only a kiss. Although...”

  “Although what, Langston?”