was a knockout beauty. Looking at her and breathing in that perfume she wore conjured up an image of tropical nights, soft music, the smell of jasmine drifting in from outside—and the two of them in bed making out all night long.
She sure had more going for her than just a pretty face. He’d seen the spark in her violet eyes when she had challenged him, and he liked that. It was a sign she was a survivor. The woman had taken a couple of knockout punches in the last twenty-four hours and appeared to be climbing back up on her feet. Yeah, there was more to Ann Hamilton than just the damnedest pair of eyes he’d ever seen.
Ann woke up in darkness. They were landing but she had no idea how long she’d been asleep or where they were. She felt the touchdown, and then the plane taxied for several minutes before coming to a halt. When the door opened, the light was almost blinding. She shaded her eyes to avoid the glare, and by the time her eyesight adjusted, Bishop and his crew had transferred them into another helicopter. The copter’s rotors were already revolving and within seconds they had lifted off.
This one was larger than the previous one, and had actual seats. She was grateful for that, because her aching body was feeling the effects from the two previous uncomfortable means of transportation.
But where were they, and where were they going now? She reached to shove aside a curtain that shrouded the windows. Immediately a firm hand clamped over her wrist.
“Give it a couple more minutes, Hamilton.”
Ann turned around in disgust. He was leaning across her, their faces inches apart. She sucked in a gasp, and the hazel eyes shifted to her parted lips. For a breathless moment she waited, speechless, then he released her wrist and settled back in his seat
“As much as I hate helicopters, I have to say this one is more comfortable than any I’ve ever been in before. What kind is it?”
“What in hell difference does it make to you?”
“Chapter Two. Have you forgotten?”
Annoyed, he shook his head. “It’s a H-53 Sea Stallion. So now you know. Does that clear it all up for you?”
“No, but I’m impressed. It has windows! Can I peek now?”
He leaned over her again, and she breathed in the husky male scent of him as he shoved aside the curtain to reveal a huge window that offered a panoramic view. The lights below appeared as plentiful as the stars above, but it was too dark and they were traveling too swiftly to distinguish any landmarks below.
Suddenly her heart seemed to leap to her throat as she gasped with joy. Ablaze with light, the alabaster beauty of the Washington Monument pierced the darkness like a shining beacon.
They were in Washington, D.C., United States of America.
Ann turned to Bishop and smiled through the tears of joy that streaked her cheeks.
She couldn’t believe it when the helicopter landed on the top of a building. But before she could even comment on it, they were rushed into an elevator and then hurried outside to three parked limos. Cassidy hustled Ann into the back seat of the middle car and then sat down next to the driver. Bolen and Fraser moved to the lead vehicle. Ann looked out the back window in time to see Williams and Bledsoe thrust Brandon into the last car. Before she could protest this latest separation from Brandon, Bishop climbed in beside her and slammed the door.
“We’re rolling,” he mouthed into the radio clutched in his left hand. The limo shot forward with the smooth glide of an Olympic skater.
“What now, Bishop?” Ann’s feeling of complacency at being back in the States was becoming eclipsed quickly by the continued security measures.
“Debriefing.”
“Debriefing? Is that where you strap on the electrodes or shoot me full of sodium pentothal?”
She perceived the barest glimmer of a smile—or was it a smirk? Bishop turned his head and stared out the window.
The conversation had ended, but her awareness of the man beside her increased as the male essence of him continued to tantalize her senses as much as his autocracy provoked them.
Chapter 4
Purring like a contented black cat on a velvet cushion, the limo continued to move swiftly on the beltway. After a short ride, they passed through a gate with an armed guard and pulled up at the rear of a building.
Ann and Brandon were whisked up several floors in an elevator and led to an office. Bishop rapped lightly, opened the door and peered inside. Satisfied, he stepped aside for Ann and Brandon to enter and then followed them into the room. As irritating as the man could be, she felt relieved to have his commanding presence beside her.
The two men awaiting their arrival rose to their feet, and one stepped forward to greet her.
“Miss Hamilton, I’m Avery Waterman. I can’t tell you how relieved we are to see you’ve arrived safely.”
His clipped accent was clearly British. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. Everything about Waterman mirrored refined elegance, from a well-groomed mustache to the European cut of the charcoal-colored cashmere jacket tailored to fit his slim figure.
Waterman shook Ann’s hand, then leaned over and patted Brandon on the head. “And this chap must be our young Mr. Burroughs.”
The move was too aggressive for the confused six-year-old. He slipped his hand into Ann’s. She grasped it securely.
Waterman did not miss the gesture. He straightened up, and his gray eyes focused on Ann. “Please be seated, Miss Hamilton. May I introduce my associate, Jeffrey Baker?”
Baker nodded his head of salt-and-pepper hair closely cropped in a buzz cut. “Miss Hamilton.” The deep guttural greeting seemed to be dredged from the abyss of his barrel chest.
She observed that Baker appeared to be the antithesis of his colleague. Shorter than Waterman by several inches, Baker resembled a retired Marine gunny sergeant. Missing were the familiar string of hash marks running up his sleeve, or rows of combat ribbons lining his chest, but she was convinced the inscription Semper Fi was probably tattooed somewhere on the solid brawn concealed beneath his wrinkled, gray flannel suit.
Ann sat down on a nearby couch. When Brandon curled against her side, Waterman addressed the youngster. “Brandon, would you like something to eat?”
Brandon looked to Ann for approval. He grinned broadly when she nodded. Bishop led the boy to the door, and for several moments carried on a whispered conversation with the men in the hallway. Two of them departed with Brandon in tow.
“I hope I’m finally going to get some answers,” Ann declared after Bishop returned, crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
Avery Waterman sat down opposite Ann and settled back with a condescending smile. “Ask away, Miss Hamilton. We’re at your service.”
Yeah, right! She resented the cat-and-mouse game still being played. Within the past thirty some hours Clayton had been murdered, she and Brandon terrorized and virtually spirited out of South America. Now this man had the audacity to patronize her.
“Mr. Waterman,
