Chapter 4

STANDING, STARING OUT THROUGH the living room windows, I decided there was something calming about the assignment after all. I didn’t have a say in Callie’s schedule or activities unless they exposed her to potential danger, of which there was none. She was an anonymous teenager in a city full of them. It made my job mindless and reminded me why I dislike protective detail. For two days I’d followed her schedule, escorting her to the American high school every morning, then to the Paris Marais Dance School every afternoon, then home. For the first couple of days it had been relaxing. I could feel tension melt away. But now it was boring. Friday. Eight more days.

I listened to her on her cell phone talking to her father. It was hard not to. Despite the closed bedroom door, her vociferous protestations came through loud and clear. I happened to agree with her - she should get a different agent to protect her. But apparently General George Hollister disagreed. It was her yell, “I’ll never talk to you again, Dad!” that suggested her father was actually the man of steel he was reputed to be.

Callie was proving to be a little bird with a spine; opinionated, forceful, headstrong, and determined to get her own way. Under other conditions I’d appreciate her, but as a protectee, those traits are the worst.

Deciding I didn’t want to face her after that conversation, I went and took a shower.

Fifteen minutes later, clean, shaved, with a towel wrapped around my waist, I walked into my small bedroom to find Callie studying the contents of the armoire.

“What are you doing?” I asked, moving to the dresser for clean underwear and socks.

“You don’t seem to respect my privacy, so I thought I’d reciprocate and see how you like it,” she answered firmly. “You don’t have many clothes,” she added.

“Enough for the next eight days. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like some privacy to get dressed.”

She strolled out slowly, closing the door behind her. I grinned when she’d gone. Back in the day, when protective detail had been my job, most female protectees could be classified as compliant or petulant. I’d never had one like Callie. She was different. It was refreshing.

Dressed, I sat on the bed and, once again, reviewed her file. It still troubled me. Why me? Despite what Mike said, there was no reason to put me on this assignment. There were far more serious problems in Foreign Affairs that needed attention; a leak in our Moscow embassy that was close to embarrassing the American government, a wayward employee in the Japan Embassy who was suspected of sexual assaults, and brewing trouble at the Brazil Embassy in advance of the Olympics. Those were things I could fix. So why here? Why Callie?

Picking up my cell phone, I tried to connect with Mike. No luck - out of the office according to his secretary. I called Jeff Benton, successfully connecting, only to learn he’d be on leave for three weeks, not ten days. His father was in critical condition. Apparently he’d driven off the road into a ravine. The police suspected alcohol, but Jeff was adamant his father never consumed alcohol when driving.

Somewhat gloomy with the possibility of having my assignment extended, I packed away the file and left the bedroom.

The living room was empty. Callie, I assumed, must still be in her room. Inspecting the kitchen cupboards and fridge, I found nothing for dinner. We’d need to shop or go out to eat. Maybe dine out. Perhaps it would mollify Callie after the disappointing conversation with her father.

I knocked on her door and waited. Nothing. No response. One more try. No response. Screw it! I opened her bedroom door. Empty. Well, shit! Where was she?

The bathroom was steamy but empty.

Striding into the living room, my mind tumbling through scenarios, I grabbed my jacket and car keys, now angry with her. Where had she disappeared to?

As I strode towards the front door, it opened, Callie walking in with a small plastic shopping bag.

“Where the Hell were you?” I growled.

Completely unperturbed, Callie replied, “I needed Tampax, so I went and bought some.”

She walked away from me down the hall.

“Hold on just a minute, Ms. Hollister!” I growled again. When she didn’t stop, I added, “Where the Hell do you think you’re going?”

Without looking back, she informed me, “Tampax. Remember? I ran out.” The bathroom door closed.

Shit!

Is this what Jeff meant by her being an escape artist? She’d done the same thing yesterday, slipping away from class without me noticing and making me feel incompetent. I’d found her blithely sipping coffee at the courtyard café with a couple of other students, a twenty-something year old guy showing far too much interest in her. She seemed surprised at my snarl of anger. Didn’t she understand what my job was? Even if she wasn’t in danger, there were protocols that needed to be followed for Christ sake!

Standing, blocking the hall to the living room, I waited. When she emerged, she walked towards me. I didn’t move.

Callie stopped and stared up at me. “What’s your problem?”

“We need to have a talk.”

“So talk,” she replied, trying to ease around me.

I didn’t budge.

“Move!” she ordered, pushing me with a hand. I didn’t. Her pale blue eyes turned up to stare in defiance, flashing with indignation.

“There’s nothing for dinner. We’re going to eat out at a restaurant,” I informed her.

She glared at me. “Maybe I don’t want to eat out.”

“So suck it up. We’re going out.”

Callie waited a beat and, with a voice dripping with sarcasm, said, “I thought it was daaangerous for me to be out.”

“Right now it’s more dangerous for you to be in here with me,” I informed her. “Get your things.”

Her expression firmed up, eyes icy. “I would if you’d get out of the way!” Then she shoved me with both hands.

She was too slender to move me. I waited until she got the message before stepping aside to let her pass. This was shaping up into a battle of wills.

Five minutes later I was striding down the street, Callie matching me pace for pace, albeit with a dancer’s grace. She pointed across the street to a small café, “We’ll eat there.” I shook my head and continued.

Bistro de la Gare, despite being nowhere near a train station, was classically Parisian. Small square tables set with white, starched tablecloths were close together. Waiters weaved in and out serving a loud, boisterous clientele. Wine was in profusion and the air was scented with garlic and rosemary.

“Why here?” Callie asked, opening her cloth serviette and placing it in her lap.

“It’s not quiet and secluded. With all these people around you’ll have to behave.”

Another icy blue glare came my way. “Vin Blanc de maison,” she instructed the waiter when he hovered.

I corrected her order for white wine. “Non. Pas du vin. Perrier, s’il vous plait.”

“D’accord,” the waiter said, walking away.

“Why did you do that?” Callie asked. “I wanted wine.”

“You’re too young, even here in Paris.”

A frown emerged, a prelude to another opinionated comment. I cut her off. “Are you a good dancer?” I asked.

She looked startled at the sudden change in direction. “A very good one.”