''I Do''...Take Two! (3 page)

Travis shot them to Callie's and Dawn's cell phones before the four of them settled in for a truly remarkable meal. Abandoning any inclination to count either carbs or calories, Kate ordered a grilled-peach-and-buffalo-mozzarella salad followed by a main course of lobster ravioli in a sinfully rich cream sauce.

She would have quit at that point if Dawn hadn't talked her into sharing a spun-sugar-and-limoncello confection that depicted an iconic scene from Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling. She felt almost sacrilegious forking into the portrayal of Adam's hand reaching up to touch God's. After the first taste, though, she and Dawn attacked the edible art with the same fervor as the Visigoths who'd sacked Rome in 410 AD.

It was almost 10:00 p.m. when their server cleared the table and poured the last of the sweet, sparkling
asti spumante
Travis had ordered to accompany dessert. Another countermeasure, Kate guessed, to prevent a final round of hostile fire from either Dawn or Callie. If so, it didn't work.

When Kate indicated she wanted to talk to Travis for a few moments, her friends waged a short but spirited battle to pay for their share of dinner. Defeated, they pushed away from the table. If Travis thought he'd bought a reprieve with the astronomically expensive dinner, he soon learned otherwise. Dawn took only a few steps, turned back and aimed her forefinger like a cocked Beretta.

“Do
not
forget, Westbrook. Callie and I are only a phone call away. All Kate has to do is hit speed dial, and we're there.”

“Good to know that hasn't changed in all the years I've known the Invincibles.”

His obvious sincerity angled Dawn's chin down a notch. Just one. The mulish set to her mouth, however, suggested she wasn't ready to quit the field until Callie bumped her hip.

“He got the message. Time for us to make an exit.”

“I guess I deserved that,” Travis commented as the two women wove their way through the candlelit tables.

“Actually, they let you off easy. You don't want to know the various surgical procedures Dawn performed on you in absentia.”

“Most, I would guess, done with a rusty pocketknife.”

“In her more generous moments. Other times she went to work with a hacksaw.”

“Ouch.”

His exaggerated shudder earned him a faint smile. He had to fight the urge to follow it up by reaching across the table and folding her hand in his.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he told her instead.

“About?”

“About being grateful to them. They were there for you when you needed them.”

When he
couldn't
be.

Facing his wife across the table, Travis acknowledged that he'd abrogated his role as a husband too many times. When the Bank of America promoted Kate in recognition of her adroit handling of foreign investments during the recession that panicked markets around the world, he'd been swatting mosquitoes at a remote airstrip in Kenya. And just months ago, while she'd agonized over whether to accept the offer from the World Bank and move to DC, he'd been freezing his ass off at a classified location he still couldn't talk about. Time now, he vowed silently, to realign his priorities and reclaim a place in her life.

Assuming she would let him. He'd cracked the door open by getting her to spend this time with him, but the determined expression that now settled over her face suggested he'd have his work cut out to push it open all the way.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked her.

“We need to discuss the ROE.”

“Are we speaking your language or mine?”

ROE
in her world stood for
return on equity
, a formula that assessed a company's efficiency at generating profits for its stockholders. In his,
ROE
stood for the rules of engagement outlining the type of force that could be employed in various situations.

“In this instance, they represent the same thing. We need a set of parameters that define what we should and shouldn't do during this time together.”

Travis didn't much like the sound of that. “I figured we would play it by ear.”

“Right. Like you did with the villa? Tell me you just pulled that idea out of the air.”

“Okay, I might have scoped out a few possible courses of action...”

“Exactly. And if I remember the principles of war correctly, the purpose of a course of action is to achieve an objective.”

She didn't add
at all costs
, but the implication hung heavy on the air. His brows snapping together, Travis shook his head.

“We're not at war, Kate. At least I hope to hell we're not.”

“No, we're not. Now. And I want to keep it that way.”

“All right,” he conceded, not particularly happy with the direction this conversation was taking. “Let's hear your ROE.”

She raised a hand and ticked them off with a decisiveness that told him she didn't intend to negotiate. “One, separate bedrooms. Two, we share all expenses. Three, we decide on the itinerary together. Four, no changes unless by mutual consent. Five, no surprises of any size, shape or dimension.”

He took a moment. “Okay.”

“That was too easy,” Kate said, frowning. “What am I missing?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you want to add to the list?”

“I think you've covered the essentials.”

Her frown deepened. “This won't work if we're not honest with each other, Trav.”

“I am being honest. I can live with those ROE. As long as
you
understand I intend to focus most of my energy on number four.”

Focus, hell. He intended to use every weapon at his disposal to make it happen.

“That's my sole objective, Katydid. Gaining your consent...to changes in bedrooms, expenses, itinerary and—oh, yeah—our pending divorce.”

“Well.” She sat back, her brown eyes wide. “That's certainly honest enough.”

“Good.” He pushed back his chair, figuring he'd better make tracks before she added to their list of rules. “Why don't you text me a proposed itinerary? I'll look at it tonight and we can negotiate if necessary. Just be sure to factor in some driving time. I want you to see Italy the way it should be seen.”

“I, uh... Fine.”

* * *

The blunt declaration left Kate feeling flustered as they crossed the Cavalieri's elegant lobby to the elevators. Travis didn't touch her this time, not even a gentlemanly hand on her elbow, and she was furious with herself for missing that small courtesy. So furious she jabbed the elevator button before she could miss more than his touch. Like the feel of his breath tickling her ear. The whisper of her name when he...

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.