Callie's Christmas Wish Read online

  “I am.”

  “In that case we need to celebrate with our favorite Italian drink.” A smile and an uplifted finger brought the patient server to the table. “We want three Bellinis—two regular and one virgin for the pregnant lady.”

  The young server looked confused. “I don’t know if there is such a thing as a virgin Bellini.”

  “Tell the barkeep to improvise,” Dawn instructed airily.

  * * *

  Despite her friends’ wish that she would wait until after the holidays, Callie stuck to her decision to report to her new job the following Monday. She flew out of Dulles late Thursday afternoon and thoroughly enjoyed the unexpected and unaccustomed luxury of an upgrade to business class compliments of Joe. When she landed at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport early Friday morning, she zinged off a text to let Kate and Dawn know she’d arrived.

  She cleared customs with the intention of spending the day setting up the small flat that came with her new job and the weekend exploring the neighborhood around it. She hadn’t included Joe Russo in her plans, however. Looking like Italy’s answer to Patrick Dempsey in snug jeans, a black turtleneck and his tan bomber jacket, he met her in the arrivals terminal and welcomed her with a hard, hot kiss. She was still recovering from that when his take-charge personality emerged.

  “Are you totally wiped?” he asked as he steered her to the baggage claim area.

  “Not wiped at all. I slept most of the flight in lie-flat leather luxury.” She hesitated, but innate honesty made her ask. “I saw that the upgrade was charged to JLR Security. It won’t be billed as a business expense, will it? If so, I’ll reimburse you.”

  He glanced down at her, amusement flickering in those stone-gray eyes. “Not to worry. I use a top-fifty accounting firm. They keep my personal and professional accounts straight.”

  “Good to know. Except I’m used to paying my own way. I don’t expect—or want—you to pick up the tab every time we’re together.”

  “Well, we shouldn’t have many expenses in Naples this weekend. I’m meeting with my prospective client, so my time will be charged to him.”

  “Naples? I can’t go to Naples this weekend! I’ve got too much to do here in Rome.”

  “You might want to reconsider. Today’s the feast of Santa Lucia. I’m told her day sort of officially kicks off the Christmas season. Marcello—my prospective client—has invited us to join him and his family for their traditional dinner tonight. It would give me a chance to get to know him in an informal setting, assess what kind of man he is.”

  “But...”

  The rumble of the baggage conveyor belt cut off her protest. By the time Joe had snagged her two suitcases, she’d reassessed her priorities. From the sound of it, this meeting was important to Joe. Unpacking and settling into the apartment could wait.

  Or not. To her surprise, he’d planned for that, too. After asking if she needed anything other than her roll-on for the weekend trip, he turned her bags over to the associate waiting beside a slick black SUV.

  “This is Emilio Mancera, head of my operations here in Italy.”

  “Ciao, Emilio.”

  “Ciao, signorina. Benvenuto a Roma.”

  Dark eyed, curly haired and the possessor of a proud Roman nose to go with the muscles that bulged under his fleece pullover, the thirtysomething Italian loaded the bags in the SUV.

  “I will take these to your apartment, sì? And make sure the kitchen contains all you need.”

  “I, uh, sì. Grazie.”

  He conducted a brief exchange with Joe in swift Italian before giving Callie another cheerful ciao and departing.

  She glanced at Joe while he beeped the locks on a second SUV in the adjoining space. Why hadn’t she picked up on the fact that he spoke the language when she’d first met him here in Italy? It was just one more gap in her knowledge about this man and his past. Gaps she intended to bridge. Starting now, she decided after they’d left the parking garage and hit the bright, brittle December sunlight.

  “You sounded pretty fluent in that exchange with Emilio. Where did you learn Italian?”

  “Here and there. My five-month gig with Carlo considerably expanded my vocabulary. Although,” he added with a sardonic tilt to his head, “most of it can’t be repeated in polite company.”

  “Do you speak any other languages?”

  “Some Spanish. A little French. Enough Portuguese to ask directions to the closest bar.”

  “Portuguese? I’m impressed.”

  Shrugging, he aimed for the airport exit. “You take a job in Angola, it helps to be able to communicate with the local cops.”

  Callie tried to sketch a mental image of Africa. She knew Angola was near the continent’s southern tip but couldn’t place it on the east or west coast.

  “What did you do there?”

  He shot her a quick glance. Callie kicked herself, thinking she’d crossed the line again. She was suppressing a twinge of resentment at being shut out of his past when he decided to let her in a bare inch or two.

  “How much do you know about Angola?”

  “Nothing, I’m embarrassed to admit.”

  “It sits on huge mineral and petroleum reserves, and its economy is among the fastest growing in the world. Problem is, a handful of wealthy elites control the economy.”

  “Which makes them prime targets,” Callie guessed.

  “Exactly.”

  Okay, he’d cracked the door. She pushed it just a little harder.

  “Your client was one of these incredibly wealthy elites?”

  His expression didn’t change but Callie could sense him drawing into himself. Again.

  “Dammit, Joe. You brought up the job in Angola. You can’t just leave me hanging. Yes or no? Was your client one of these wealthy elites?”

  “No.”

  Well, she’d set herself up for that one. She was about to let the grudging remark go when he surprised her with a terse follow-up.

  “She was at the other end of the spectrum,” he said, his jaw tight. “A young, passionate member of parliament who wanted to curb the elites’ power. My team and I smuggled her out of the country the day before her appointment with a firing squad.”

  “Good grief! Where is she now?”

  “Dead.”

  The single syllable hit like a glass of ice water to the face. When Callie recoiled against her seat back, Joe wrenched his gaze from the road.

  “An assassin got to her in Curaçao.” His tone was as cold as his eyes. “And I got to him.”

  Her breath stuck in her throat. She had to swallow twice before she got out a quavering, “Good.”

  As shaky as it was, her endorsement seemed to pull Joe from the dark cave of his memories. The taut angle of his jaw eased. So did the tension cording his neck above his jacket collar.

  “Helluva a way to kick off what I’d planned as a fun weekend,” he growled.

  Still startled by the piece of his past she’d pried loose, Callie forced a smile. “I’m sure it’ll be fun. How could a traditional Italian family dinner be anything but?”

  Blessedly ignorant of the noisy, exuberant, exhausting evening ahead, she relaxed in her seat and vowed to keep the conversation away from dark subjects as they hit the autostrada and rolled south.

  Chapter Five

  Since Joe’s client didn’t expect them until late afternoon, they made the drive down from Rome in leisurely stages.

  They stopped first at the Abbey of Monte Cassino. Perched atop a steep precipice overlooking the main road to Rome, the abbey had become a key objective in the Allies’ push north during WWII. Their efforts to dislodge the Germans resulted in a murderous battle than caused more than 190,000 casualties and left the abbey and town at its base in smoking ruins. Rebuilt aft
er the war, Monte Cassino now offered visitors a glimpse of its original medieval glory. The grim history of the battle and accompanying artifacts interested Joe, of course, but Callie delighted in the priceless manuscripts and religious treasures that had been taken to Rome for safekeeping and returned to the abbey after the war.

  Closer to Naples, the warm Mediterranean currents chased the chill from the air, and the temperature rose. Callie wiggled out of her wool duster and tossed it in the backseat. Joe did the same with his leather jacket. When they left the autostrada for lunch at a trattoria recommended by Joe’s prospective client, they opted to sit outside on a vine-draped patio. The setting was idyllic but it was the cloud-wrapped mountain in the distance that held Callie’s fascinated gaze.

  “Is that Vesuvius?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Do we have time to visit the ruins of Pompeii?”

  “Not if you want to do them justice. Maybe tomorrow. Or Sunday, before we head back to Rome.”

  Not quite believing that she was actually here, in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius, she took the friendly server’s recommendation and ordered a local specialty of sausage served with broccoli rabe. Joe went the more traditional route of pasta in a red sauce, with meatballs served separately as the second course.

  Feeling deliciously lazy afterward, she expected them to head into Naples. Instead Joe skirted the city’s sprawling outskirts.

  “Signor Audi lives in the city,” he explained, “but his family’s ancestral farm is another forty-five minutes south. Or more correctly, their ancestral ranch.”

  “They raise cattle?”

  “Water buffalo. They’ve got about three hundred head on their ranch.”

  “What in the world do they do with... Oh! They make mozzarella?”

  “The best in Italy, according to Signor Audi.”

  Despite her extensive reading, Callie couldn’t imagine how the big, plodding, wide-horned water buffalo had migrated to Italy. From Asia, probably, herded across the Mongolian steppes by nomadic tribes. Or maybe imported by the Arabs who’d invaded Sicily. But there was no denying mozzarella had pretty much become associated with all things Italian.

  Still, she wasn’t prepared for Campania’s rich grasslands. Wide, rolling pastures bordered the road and stretched all the way to the sea that could be glimpsed through tall, thin cypresses and silver-barked eucalyptus trees. Dotting these pastures were herds of black buffalo grazing placidly or wallowing contentedly in man-made ponds with sloping ramps. The air wafting through the SUV’s vents carried a mix of grass and salt sea air, along with an earthy hint of dung.

  When the navigational system pinged a few minutes later, Joe turned left and drove through a pair of stone pillars. A cypress-lined road led them past more fenced pastures and ended in a broad yard bordered on one side by a long, narrow building with huge roller brushes at its entrance.

  “Is that a car wash?” Callie asked in surprise.

  Joe’s glance flicked from the brushes to the gleaming stainless steel tank truck parked at the building’s far end. “I’m guessing that’s the barn where they milk the buffalo. They probably have to scrub ’em down first to make sure the milk stays clean.”

  Her mind boggled at the thought of one of those huge buffalo going through a series of washes and waxes like the family car. Trying to visualize the process, she looked around the rest of the yard with some interest. Older buildings and sheds constructed of local stone housed tractors and various other pieces of farm equipment.

  A rambling, two-story residence sat a little farther down the road. Surrounded by ancient cypresses that stood tall and spear straight, its varying levels suggested it had been added to numerous times over the years. Like the other buildings, it, too, was constructed of stone covered almost entirely with a pale yellow plaster. U-shaped terra cotta tiles delineated the varying roof lines, and bright green shutters framed its many windows. Flowers spilled from window boxes, stone urns, even the wooden bucket dangling over what must have once been a working well.

  Adding to the color were the scattered children’s toys...a red-and-blue plastic Big Wheel, a hot pink bike with training wheels and sparkly handlebar streamers, a forgotten doll with the pale hair and blue gown of Princess Elsa from Frozen.

  Callie was thinking of all the times she’d watched that particular video with Tommy when two dogs raced from behind the house and offered a raucous greeting. One was a mottled gray and black of an indeterminate breed, the other a small collie. They were noisy but not vicious, as evidenced by the greeting they gave Joe after he exited the SUV and squatted to let them sniff his hand.

  Callie climbed out as well and breathed in the pungent tang of a working farm overlaid with the perfume of so many flowers. She was letting the dogs scope her out when a woman strode out of the house. In boots, tight jeans and a loose-knit sweater, she moved with the careless, casual grace that seemed as natural as breathing to so many Italian women.

  “Signor Russo, Signorina Langston, welcome. I am Arianna Audi de Luca.” Her dark eyes were friendly, her handshake firm. “My father apologizes that he is not here to greet you. He and my husband are at the barn. One of our buffalo has gone into the milking chamber and does not wish to come out. She can be very stubborn, that Domenica, but she’ll usually come to Papà when he whistles to her.”

  “Domenica? Is that her breed?”

  “No, no, it is her name.”

  Callie’s glance swept past her to the hulking black animals in the pasture. “You name them all?”

  “Not all. But this one is like a pet, yes? When she was but a tiny calf, she followed my brother and me everywhere.” Head cocked, Arianna issued a smiling invitation. “If you’re not too tired from your journey, perhaps you would like to meet her? And see something of the milking process?”

  Callie wasn’t about to pass up the chance to see the cow wash in operation. “I’d like that.”

  Joe seconded the idea, and their hostess gave them a quick history as she led them back toward the barn. With each step the scents of fresh-cut grass and dung edged out the flowers a little more.

  “With Papà and my brother so busy in Naples, my husband and I manage the farm. It’s been in our family since the sixteenth century. We have a framed copy of the original deed in the office.”

  Her expression turned serious.

  “There are many cruelties in this business, but my family has spent much time and money over the years to make ours humane. As you’ll see, we use the voluntary milking method. We also hold to the strict sanitary standards required for DOP certification. Scusi. DOP stands for denominazione di origine protetta. It means our mozzarella meets the highest government standards for quality and excellence.”

  Angling to the left, she pointed out a wide metal chute that led from the pasture to the giant roller brushes. Several large bovines waited patiently in the chute while others milled near its mouth.

  “The females come when they wish to be milked. Since it is all done by machine, they do not have to follow a set schedule. They enter here and...”

  The sudden rumble of an engine starting and gears engaging interrupted her.

  “Ah! Papà has convinced Domenica to leave the milking chamber. Now the others may enter. But first they take a little bath, yes?”

  Streams of water arced across the barn entrance, the giant rollers whirred into action and the lead buffalo in the chute ambled up the low ramp. Tail swishing, it disappeared into the mist.

  “Amazing,” Callie murmured. “They’re not afraid of it at all.”

  “I think they consider it a spa treatment,” Arianna replied, laughing. “We give them jets of cool water in the heat of summer, warm water in winter.”

  Dodging the spray, she ushered them through a side door and into a spacious work area. “This is the office, where my husban
d takes care of all the necessary forms and endless paperwork. And here...”

  She opened another door to show a small room with stainless steel counters and an impressive array of laboratory equipment.

  “Here is where I spend much of my time.”

  Callie could see why. A quick glance at the framed degrees on the wall beside the door indicted Arianna Maria Patrizia Audi had earned a bachelor of science in organic chemistry from Stanford and a laurea magistrale in biotecnologia agricola from the University of Pisa.

  “I’m working to increase the conjugated linoleic acid content in our herd’s milk,” she informed them. “There’s some evidence it possesses anticancer properties. It may also affect insulin response. Sadly, the science is not there yet. One can only keep researching.”

  After the high-powered cow wash and pristine lab, Callie wasn’t surprised to see the single worker in the milking area wearing immaculate white coveralls, a hairnet and plastic booties over his shoes. He didn’t appear to have much of a job, however. Just stood by as the newly scrubbed buffalo meandered into a narrow chamber. A second later, a robotic arm slid under her. The animal got another wash, this one from a gentle up-spray, then six flexible tubes snaked upward. Like cobras, they curled and wove and latched onto their prey.

  “Good grief!” Astonished, Callie watched for some reaction from the buffalo, but she didn’t so much as blink her long, curling lashes. “How did those cups magically attach to her udder?”

  “They’re equipped with optical cameras and lasers that detect the exact position of each teat. Once attached, the cup will rinse the teat again with warm water and gently massage it to stimulate the premilk. That gets flushed into a side line, then the rest will flow through the main milking line and empty directly into the truck you see outside for transport to our plant in town.”

  “No wonder Domenica didn’t want to leave the chamber,” Callie couldn’t help commenting. “She must really enjoy all that flushing and massaging.”

  “She does,” Arianna confirmed with a laugh. “What female would not?”

  Both women glanced at Joe. He merely lifted his brows, but to Callie’s surprise and secret amusement a faint tinge of red crept into his cheeks.