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 of my 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 one 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.
