by Ana Leigh
“What makes you think so?”
“Because I wasn’t alone in that dressing room.”
She now had his full attention. “Why do you say that?”
“Someone was stalking me. I heard him.”
“Hamilton, I didn’t see anyone else enter that dressing room but you.”
“I know what I heard. There was someone else in there.”
The hazel-eyed gaze locked with hers. “How in hell did you get into this mess, Hamilton?”
The question forced her thoughts back to Clayton, and her voice softened with poignancy. “I met Clayton Burroughs four years ago. I was a fashion photographer and had gone to French Guiana on a shoot. The funny thing about it, I didn’t want the assignment in the first place. I felt burned out, after five nonstop years of living out of suitcases and accumulating frequent flyer points. I didn’t want to see another camera or any more gorgeous women in Gucci gowns for the rest of my life. My boss, Barney Hailey, talked me into it by promising me a month off when I finished. So I agreed.”
The waitress brought their order, and as soon as she left Bishop asked, “And how did you get mixed up with Burroughs?”
“Barney wanted authentic, outdoor shots on Devil’s Island. Well, our plane developed mechanical problems, and Clayton was on the island at the time. He offered us a ride back to Kourou in his helicopter.”
Deep in reverie, Ann smiled, remembering Clayton’s thoughtfulness in the weeks that followed. “When we wrapped up the shoot, Barney and the crew returned to the States. Clayton coaxed me into remaining in Kourou.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
His suggestive tone snapped her out of her reflections. “What’s that supposed to mean, Bishop? You don’t get it at all. From the beginning Clayton and I were kindred souls. He was lonely. He had lost his wife and daughter fifteen years before. He thought of me as a daughter, and I envisioned him as the father I had never known.”
“Until you found yourself alone with him one night with his hand up your skirt.”
Her eyes flashed in anger. “You’re pathetic.” She started to gather up her parcels to leave.
“Okay, I apologize. Sit down and finish your lunch. So the old guy was dead from the waist down and the relationship was purely platonic. So how did a photographer get into the rocket business?”
“I doubt that you’re really interested, Bishop.”
“I said I was sorry.” Irritation had crept into his voice. “Finish the story.”
Although she doubted his sincerity, Ann did want to finish the story—for her own sake, not his. Once started on this sentimental journey, it was difficult to stop. This was the first chance she had since Clayton’s death to talk about her feelings to someone…even if that someone was as cynical as Bishop. She settled back down in the seat, and after several sips of coffee Ann continued.
“Clayton was a marvelous raconteur, always relating little anecdotes about the history and culture of the country. When the time came to return to the States he persuaded me to remain as his assistant. He said intelligence and common sense were the only essentials needed to succeed in the position. Well, the whole space program was fascinating to me. I had naively believed that only the United States and the Soviets were involved with outer space. I soon discovered that European markets launched satellites as well. And after the frenetic pace ofy old job, working with the relaxing atmosphere provided by Clayton soon cured me of burnout. I even began to enjoy taking photographs again.”
“You gonna finish those fries?” She shook her head and handed him the plate. “What about the kid? Did Burroughs raise him?” he asked, popping a French fry into his mouth.
Her face softened in sadness. “Two years ago Clayton’s son and daughter-in-law were killed in an airplane tragedy, and that’s when Brandon came to live with his grandfather.”
She finished her coffee and smiled. “Well, you asked for it. That’s the whole story.”
Whatever doubts he still harbored remained concealed behind an enigmatic gaze. “More coffee? Dessert?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll see you back to your hotel.” He threw down some bills on the table, then gathered up her packages.
Once outside the mall, he flagged a cab and they returned to the Watergate.
“Mind if I come in and check your room?” he asked when they reached her door.
“I thought you said you were off the case, Bishop?”
“After the incident today, I put myself back on it, Hamilton.”
He entered the room ahead of her, and after a quick check in the closet, bathroom and even under the bed, he walked to the door.
“What do you intend doing about dinner?”
“I’m intending to eat it,” she said. He ignored her flippancy.
“Well, there are two selections on the menu—with me or with me watching you. Which do you prefer?”
“Are you inviting me to have dinner with you, Bishop?” she asked, amused.
“Pick you up at seven. Lock this door after me.”
Her gaze followed his broad shoulders and tight buns as he walked away. “I haven’t heard the click of that dead bolt, Hamilton,” he called back without turning.
Smiling, she closed the door, turned the dead bolt and then slipped the chain into place.
The hotel room was lonely without Brandon. In the past two years he’d been such a big part of her life that she’d come to think of him as her son.
Ann plopped down on the bed, grabbed the telephone and dialed the number of the British Embassy, which Avery Waterman had given her. After being shifted from one extension to another, she finally heard Brandon’s “hello” on the other end.
“Hi, honey, this is Ann.”
“Hi, Ann.” He sounded glad to hear her. And just hearing his voice lifted her spirits.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?”
“I’m having a good time, Ann. Mrs. Millen—but she said I should call her Sarah—is real nice. She’s the taking care of me. We’re playing a game of Old Maid now, so I gotta go, Ann. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, honey. I’ll be there.”
“Bye,” he said, and hung up.
Ann slowly put the phone aside. She felt more depressed than ever. He sounded as if he was having such a good time that he didn’t miss her. Like she never played Old Maid with him. Dear God, what if they found some legal loophole to take him away from her? It would be more than she could bear to lose Clayton and Brandon, too. They were as near to a family as she had. Ann lay back dejected, thinking what her life would be like without Brandon.
Chapter 7
Ann woke up with a start. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost six o’clock. Bishop was picking her up at seven. And her instinct told her he was the kind who was always on time. She didn’t have that much to choose from as to what she would wear, since she hadn’t bought anything really dressy. Bishop wasn’t the candlelight-and-wine type anyway, so she selected the pair of black crepe slacks and a white silk blouse with flowing sleeves cuffed at the wrists. She was glad now she’d bought the pair of black sandals, which were nothing more than a few straps on three-inch heels. They would dress up the outfit.
She took a quick shower and then brushed her hair. Fortunately the weather in French Guiana provided a year-round tan that necessitated only a light dusting of blush, powder and a touch of lip gloss. She took greater pains with her eyes. She’d photographed enough beautiful models to know that the eyes were the focal point of any woman’s face. When properly made up, they could detract from a large nose, weak chin or thin lips.
As she applied the finishing touches of mascara to her eyelashes, she thought of Bishop. No doubt he preferred his females devoid of any makeup at all. She ought to paint it on heavily just to irritate him.
She dropped her arm and stared into the mirror. Why, Ann? Why do you want to irritate him? Because he’s domineering, arrogant, and the…“Sexiest man I’ve ever known,” she m
umbled, disheartened. Face it, girl, you’re scared of him. CIA! Covert missions! Megamale. Why would she want that kind of complication in her life right now? Not only was Clayton’s death an emotional heartache to her, there was the problem of Brandon’s guardianship to resolve. The last thing she needed was this hazel-eyed walking hunk of testosterone, whom she couldn’t look at without thinking midnight kisses and the soft strains of a Sinatra love song in the background.
Doggone it, Ann. You spent too much time in that French Guianian jungle!
Promptly at seven there was a knock on the door. Ann released the chain and dead bolt and opened it. Bishop leaned on the doorframe.
“What is the sense of using a chain and dead bolt if you’re going to open the door to the first person who knocks?” he asked.
“I knew it would be you.” He looked like a Ralph Lauren ad in a tan cashmere sport shirt and khaki slacks.
“an you be so certain?”
“Bishop, I’d stake my life savings on a bet that you came into this world on the exact month, day, hour and minute that the doctor predicted you would.”
“I like punctuality.”
“Tell me, are you going to be your usual grumpy self, or are we going to have a pleasant conversation over dinner?”
“It all depends on what we’re going to discuss.”
She grabbed a purse and shawl and stepped ahead of him. “I can hardly wait to find out.”
Once outside the hotel, he hailed a cab. “You like Italian?” he asked.
“Sounds good.” She glanced askance at him. Maybe dinner would be candlelight and wine after all.
He was his usual reticent self, but that was fine with Ann. She was enjoying the sights and sounds of Washington again. It seemed a lifetime since she had seen the familiar landmarks of the city.
The cab pulled up in front of a brownstone that looked no different from the other ones that lined the block. A small flight of stairs took them down to the entrance of a restaurant where a neon sign above the door glowed Sardino’s.
The restaurant was delightfully heavy on atmosphere with a cozy, intimate ambiance. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths covered the tables. The smell of hot wax and spaghetti sauce permeated the air, and hazy smoke rose from empty wine bottles coated with dripping wax that served as candleholders. Breadsticks protruded from jelly glasses in the center of the tables, and there was even a strolling concertina player who nodded at Bishop when they entered. Ann loved it on sight.
Angelo Sardino greeted Bishop like a long-lost son. He gushed over Ann’s beauty when Bishop introduced her, and then the owner led them to a corner booth. Very cozy. Very secluded. And very lethal in its intimacy.
“This is wonderful. I never found a really good Italian restaurant in Kourou. Seems like everything was French cooking. I hope the food lives up to the atmosphere.”
“I’m strictly a spaghetti man,” Bishop said, “so I can’t vouch for anything else. But I’ve never heard any complaints.”
“Do you live in D.C., Bishop?”
“It’s Mike, Ann.”
She laughed lightly. “So you do have a first name.”
“We don’t throw our names around on a mission. Never know who might overhear.”
“You mean you work undercover, too?”
“No. Our mission is usually to get in and out in a hurry.”
At that moment a waitress came over to take their order. “Glad to see you back home safely, Mike.”
“Thanks, Nina. How are you doing?”
“Getting married in two months. Hope you and the squad are in town for it.”
“If we are, we’ll be there. How’s Mama doin
The girl’s eyes saddened. “Missing Tony. We all are. Poppa covers it up better than the rest of us do. My wedding plans are helping Mama to get through it.”
“That’s good. Danny’s a lucky guy. Nina, this is Ann Hamilton. Nina’s Angelo’s daughter,” he explained to Ann.
Ann smiled warmly. “Hi, Nina.” For a moment Ann had been afraid she would have to go through the awkwardness of meeting an ex-girlfriend. Not that there was anything other than business between her and Bishop. It just would have been uncomfortable.
“Glad to meet you, Ann. Hope you know you’re out with the best guy in the world.”
“Other than Danny, of course,” Ann teased.
Nina’s eyes widened with pleasure. “Do you know Danny?”
“No, but it kind of shows when you mention his name.”
Nina giggled. “Am I that obvious? Are you ready to order?”
“The spaghetti comes recommended, so I’ll try that.”
“Sausage or meatballs?” Nina asked.
Ann arched a brow and looked at Bishop for his preference.
“Meatballs,” he said. “House dressing on the salad, and a bottle of Chianti.”
That was Bishop all right. Precise. Succinct. Why waste words even among friends?
“They all seem to know you very well,” Ann said as soon as the girl left. “You must come here often.”
His mouth slashed into a grim line. “Yeah. Ann’s brother was a member of our squad. He was killed last month in Beirut.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. So obviously D.C.’s your home.”
“I keep a small, walk-up apartment. Nothing fancy. A place to sleep when I’m in town. You planning on returning permanently to the States?”
“I think so. As soon as I settle this custody battle over Brandon, I’ll go back to Kourou and pack up.”
Mike shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about Brandon’s custody. Sounds like a slam dunk to me.”
Her hopes soared. “You really think so? Mr. Waterman didn’t sound too encouraging.”
“He’s a priss. Are you planning on legally adopting the kid?”
“If I’m allowed to. I don’t know the rules in a situation like this, but I’m going to get a lawyer and find out. If I can’t, I’ll have to settle for just being his guardian, but I would love to legally have him as a son.”
“No boyfriend to object.”
“That’s right. Even if I had one, it wouldn’t do him any good to try. I love Brandon. What about you, Bish…ah, Mike? First night back in town. I’d have thought you’d want to hook up with a girlfriend instead of baby-sitting me. After all, this dinn is in the line of duty.”
“If it were, I wouldn’t have brought you here. These are friends. I don’t mix business and pleasure.”
The irritation in his tone was a slap on the hand. At the same time it pleased her to find out he was attracted enough to her that he’d ask her out to dinner.
“I’m surprised you’d want to go dinner with me. I recall you telling me what a big pain in the rear end I am.”
He chuckled. “I’m masochistic by nature.”
“You’re so flattering, Bishop.” Couldn’t he ever say something pleasant or complimentary? She snatched a bread stick and took a bite from it.
Nina came back with a plate of antipasto and a bottle of wine, winked at Ann, then left hurriedly.
“Is that a smirk or a grin you’re wearing, Bishop?”
“It’s a grin,” he said, and filled their glasses.
“What’s so amusing?”
“Your body language. You’re pissed.”
“I am not. It’s simply that you can be so irritating at times.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you to dinner if I didn’t want to be with you.”
“Then, why couldn’t you have said that?”
“I thought you were smart enough to have figured that out for yourself.”
“Why should I have thought any differently? You indicated you were protecting me. The dinner invitation came under that mantle of responsibility.”
“So I stretched the truth. I’m on my own time.”
“Stretched? It was an out-and-out lie.”
“You saying you wouldn’t have come otherwise?”
“I didn’t say that.” Frustrated, she took another bite o
f the bread stick. Fearing she might resemble Bugs Bunny chomping on a carrot, she quickly put the stick on the bread plate. “What?” she asked, when he stared bemused at her.
“Some guy do you wrong, Ann?”
“Why do you think that?”
“I’m trying to figure why a woman with your looks feels so insecure around a man.”
“Insecure? That’s ridiculous.” He was really pushing her buttons now. She grabbed a pepper from the antipasto.
“Hold up, don’t—”
His warning came too late. She had already taken a hefty bite of it. Suddenly her throat felt on fire, her eyes began to water and her mouth gaped open as she tried to suck in air. Groping for her glass, she literally gulped down the wine.
“I tried to warn you.”
“What was it?” she gasped
“Mama Sardino’s personal hot pepper recipe.” He refilled her wineglass. “You okay?”
“Yes.” Then she began to laugh. “I must have looked ridiculous. You must think I am a real pain in the rear end, Mike.”
He picked up his glass of wine and tipped it toward her in a gesture of a toast. “You’d be surprised what I think of you, Ann Hamilton.”
Her eyes swept his face, trying to read what lay behind that ambiguous comment. “At one time I’d have said I don’t much care, but now…” She picked up her glass and took a sip of the wine. “I have to admit I’m curious.”
“Okay. Great eyes, long legs, which I’ve yet to see because you’ve always been in pants, nice boobs and a trim little tush.”
“Bishop, I wasn’t referring to physical characteristics.” She reached for the bread stick again.
“I was getting to that. Smart, witty and insecure around men. I even detect a dislike in general for the gender. You wouldn’t be… I mean you’re not—”
“No, I am not gay, if that’s what you’re implying. Why would you even think that?”
“Father died while you were still young. You’re twenty-eight. You’ve never married. Never had a steady or live-in boyfriend. You chose a profession that centered on beautiful women. Your closest relationship with the opposite sex is a six-year-old boy and a man who was old enough to be your father. And right now you’re sitting there all uptight as if you expect that I’m about to jump your bones any minute.”
