Читать книгу 'I Do'...Take Two! - Merline Lovelace, Merline Lovelace - Страница 9
ОглавлениеDespite 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?
“Certainly.”
She gave him her contact information, then zinged off a copy of the bio she kept stored in her iCloud documents file.
“We’re tentatively set for eleven twenty. Can we make that?”
He checked his watch. “Shouldn’t be a problem if we hit the road within the next half hour.”
“I need to change. Can you get my bagel to go?”
“Sure. Or...”
“What?”
“Rather than drive up and back, we could check out here and go on to Venice after our meetings. Stop over in Florence on the return leg.”
He was right. It didn’t make a lot of sense to drive a hundred kilometers north, come back, then retrace the route a few days later on the way to Venice and Aviano. Conceding defeat, Kate mentally shredded their much-amended and totally useless itinerary.
“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed.
“You go change and pack. I’ll get our breakfast to go, throw my stuff together and meet you in the lobby.”
Upstairs, she hurriedly sorted through her limited wardrobe. The slinky caramel-colored pantsuit she’d worn for dinner at the Cavalieri was her most viable option. It would do for a business meeting if she dressed it down.
The chunky wooden necklace she’d brought to wear with the cotton tanks and sweaters was a little too down, though. What she needed was a scarf, she decided. One that could perform the double duty of adding a touch of sophistication to her wardrobe and keeping her hair from whipping free of the plastic clip during the drive. Remembering the many street vendors she’d seen set up close to the hotel last evening, she shimmied out of her jeans and into the knit slacks.
Signore Gallo’s assistant called to confirm the appointment as she was pulling on a pearly tank. Flinging an emergency makeup repair kit into her purse, she hurried down to the lobby. Travis was already there, holding his leather carryall and a cardboard tray with two to-go cups and a bag she assumed contained their breakfast. He was wearing the gray suede sport coat and jeans again but had paired them with a very European-looking black crewneck.
“I need a scarf,” she told him a little breathlessly. “I’ll duck out and buy one while they’re bringing the car around.”
Most of the street vendors were still setting up, but she found one vendor who offered quite a selection of scarves. They ran the gamut from a neon yellow square imprinted with a kaleidoscope of the city’s most famous landmarks to a red banner featuring a blinged-up version of Michelangelo’s David. She was tempted, really tempted, but decided against walking into Cassa di Molino sporting a naked, sparkling David.
She settled instead for a silky oblong with an ocher-hued palace set amid a garden bursting with spring blooms and moss-covered fountains. The scarf was long enough to wrap securely around her head and neck yet still leave the ends to flutter like colorful wings when they hit the autostrada.
Kate tried to pump Travis for more information about Brian Ellis during the drive, but aside from sharing the interesting fact that the man had brought his young son to Italy, her husband seemed reticent to go into much detail about the reason for this spur-of-the-moment meeting. Shelving her curiosity, she gave herself over to the enjoyment of the sunlit morning and the rolling vista of small towns and hills covered with vineyards.
* * *
With step-by-step directions from MapQuest, Travis navigated the narrow, twisting streets of Bologna’s historic center and got them to the Cassa di Molino twenty minutes ahead of their appointment. Barely enough time, as it turned out, to find a parking place. Dodging heavy traffic and a web of one-way streets, they completely circled the block before they noticed the Riservato Mrs. Westbrook sign. It was right at the entrance to the magnificent pink-and-white marble palazzo that housed the bank.
A receptionist just inside the cavernous lobby called Signore Gallo’s assistant. He came down a few moments later and introduced himself as Maximo Salvatore. Kate tried, she really tried, not to gawk as he led them up a grand staircase graced by wrought-iron railings as beautifully crafted as the paintings and statues gracing the upper level.
Proud of both his heritage and his institution, Maximo had to show them a library with an elaborately stuccoed ceiling, several salons hung with portraits and damask tapestries, and the two antique safes that had secured the hard-earned scudi of the bank’s first depositors. He was about to usher them into the president’s suite of offices when Kate spotted a discreet sign for restrooms.
“I need to make some emergency repairs,” she told the two men. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“But of course,” Maximo said courteously. “We shall await you here.”
The ladies’ room was small but as beautifully decorated as the rest of the bank. It was also occupied by a woman with both palms planted on the marble sink. Her head was bowed, her shoulders shaking.
“Oh!” Kate started to back out. “Scusi.”
The woman whipped her head around. She was older than Kate by some years, her dark brown hair streaked with gray. Tears spilled from her red-rimmed eyes and left glistening tracks on her cheeks. Kate hesitated, caught between chagrin for invading her privacy and an instinctive urge to offer comfort.
“Can I help you?”
The older woman answered in an obviously embarrassed spate of Italian.
“I’m sorry,” Kate responded. “I don’t... Uh... Non parlo italiano.”
That produced another mortified river of words, accompanied this time by an agitated wiggle of her hands. Kate got the message and said nothing further as the woman swiped a wet paper towel across her cheeks and hurried out.
Kate used the facilities, then made the necessary repairs to her own hair and face. She debated mentioning the brief encounter to Maximo but decided against it. Women, especially those in the rarefied upper levels of international banking, had to stick together. Whatever was troubling the older woman, she obviously hadn’t wanted witnesses to her tears.
Pushing the episode to the back of her mind, Kate summoned a smile and rejoined the men. Maximo ushered her and Travis through an outer office with five gilt-edged desks, three of them empty at the moment. It also boasted an entire wall of portraits of appropriately somber bankers staring down at them from elaborately carved frames.
The inner sanctum was paneled in gleaming golden oak. Tall windows draped in rose-and-gold damask filled the office with light. The silver-haired gentleman who rounded a desk the size of a soccer field was every bit as gracious as Kate remembered from their brief meeting at the conference.
Signore Gallo welcomed her enthusiastically, professed himself delighted to meet her husband and accepted her congratulations on his new position as president of the prestigious bank with a deprecating shrug.
“An honor such as this comes if one survives long enough in this demanding and so exhausting profession, yes? As it will to you, Signora Westbrook.”
“Perhaps. If I survive long enough.”
“Of course you will. You are... How do you say it? A rising star. One had only to read your profile in Wall Street Journal to know you are on your way to the top.”
He caught the look of surprise on her husband’s face and lifted a bushy white brow. “Your wife did not tell you she was identified as one of the young superstars, someone to watch in the field of international investments? No, I can see she did not. You should be most proud of her, Major Westbrook.”
“I am. More proud than she knows.”
“Bene, bene. So. You must tell me. Are you in Italy on business or pleasure?”
Travis left it to Kate to answer. “Some of both, actually. My husband is on temporary duty at Aviano Air Base and I, er, flew over for a visit.”
She wasn’t lying. Not technically. Travis was at Aviano, and she had flown over for a visit. Just not with him.
“And you came to our beautiful city of Bologna!” Signore Gallo exclaimed in delight. “There is much to see here and much to do.”
“Unfortunately, we just have time for a short visit. We’re on our way to Modena, then Venice.”
A discreet signal from his assistant reminded the genial banker that his time, too, was limited.
Expressing profuse regrets that he had to terminate their visit, Gallo got to his feet. When Kate and Travis rose, as well, the banker took both of her hands in his.
“You must come to visit again, signora. I should very much like to discuss the recent changes to the liquidity index promulgated by the US Securities and Exchange Commission with you.”
“I’d like that, too, but...”
“Yes, yes, you are on vacation. I understand, and I don’t wish to impose on your precious time. But may I have Maximo call you in a day or two? Perhaps we can arrange something.”
Buoyed by the visit and feeling smug after Gallo’s effusive compliments, Kate exchanged air-kisses with Cassa di Molino’s president before preceding Travis and Maximo out of the sumptuous inner office.
Two steps into the outer office, her startled gaze locked with that of the well-dressed matron seated behind one of the desks. The woman gulped and telegraphed an unmistakable appeal from eyes still showing a faint trace of red.
