Face Of Deception

Curious, she glanced around but all that she saw was a deserted airstrip. No hangars. No tower. Nothing. She couldn’t venture a guess as to their location.

Was it possible these men, in fact, were the ones responsible for Clayton’s death? Maybe the men at the villa merely intended to abduct Brandon and her for ransom.

Ann felt certain about one thing: the long-on-silence, short-on-explanation Bishop was not about to volunteer any information.

Brandon’s boyish laughter penetrated her rumination. Ann turned her head to look back and saw that the one named Bledsoe was carrying the youngster on his shoulders. Thank God there’s a spark of humanity in at least one of these men.

Immediately she regretted her callous attitude. She was foolish and ungrateful, allowing her imagination to run rampant. These men had risked their lives to save her and Brandon.

Under a blush of guilt, she stole a glance at the sculpted profile of Bishop, who was walking beside her. Now that he had wiped off the greasepaint, the man appeared to be in his mid-thirties. His nose had clearly been broken at least once, and tiny lines crept from the corners of his eyes; but these features tended to add character to his face, she reflected with the objective eye of a photographer. A thick mustache nestled above a firm mouth with a sensual lower lip. Seasoned by sun and wind, this was not a handsome face by Hollywood standards—no Brad Pitt or Antonio Banderas for sure. No, indeed. But she was willing to stake her professional reputation that women who had gazed into those melancholy, deep-hazel eyes of his had found the face sensuously irresistible.

Daring to intrude on the thoughts of her taciturn guard, Ann said boldly, “I’d like to know where we’re going, Bishop.”

“You’ll find out when the time comes.” That earlier, welcome-sounding American voice now had a decided growl of irritation. But its huskiness, coupled with those bedroom eyes of his, could still play havoc with a girl’s libido.

For heaven’s sake, Ann, there hasn’t been time enough for you to have developed Stockholm Syndrome!

She had had enough of the whole scene and stopped abruptly, shrugged off their hands and with flashing eyes squared off against the two men.

“I don’t want to appear ungrateful for what you’ve done for Brandon and me, but I’ve tolerated all the pushing and shoving I intend to. Until I start getting some answers from you wardens…watchdogs…or whatever, I’m not going to budge another step.” She folded her arms across her chest to reinforce the declaration.

The party following halted, shuffling impatiently as they looked to their leader. Without saying a word, Bishop swept her up in his arms, carried her onto the plane and then dumped her into what appeared to be a seat.

“Be sure and fasten your seat belt, lady.”

The smug gleam in his hazel eyes taunted her to go for his jugular. However, her dignity prevailed. Instead she bestowed a scathing glower upon him. “Do you have an aversion to heights, Bishop?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You seem to prefer airplanes without windows. Or haven’t you noticed there are no windows in this plane, either?”

“We’ve been told that after this trip we’ll have earned enough frequent-flyer points to rate one that does.”

His sarcasm was exasperating. “What kind of plane is this, Bishop?”

“You writing a book?”

“An exposé. I’ll be sure to spell your name correctly.”

He didn’t even blink. “It’s a C-17.”

“C as in cargo?”

“You’ve got that right.”

“Is it privately owned, or does it belong to the United States? There are no markings on it.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said.

He was a very exasperating man. To her further chagrin he sat down beside her.

Determined to ignore him, Ann turned away. An awkward silence developed as they marked time while the others got situated. Brandon was put in a jump seat directly across the aisle from hers. She watched Bledsoe tighten the boy’s seat belt, then pretend to tickle him.

The sound of Brandon’s irrepressible laughter brought a tender smile to Ann’s lips. “Your friend seems to like children.”

He glanced at Bledsoe and shrugged negligently in reply. Ann decided to remain civilized, no matter how much this man irritated her.

“Do you like children, Bishop? Ah, do you have a first name or is Bishop a clerical title?” She thought it was a clever remark. His expression never changed.

“Bishop will do,” he said.

“Do you like children, Bishop?”

A brow quirked. “Never thought about it one way or another.”

Their conversation ceased when the plane started to roll down the runway, and she waited until they were airborne to pose her next remark.

“I think Brandon and I should be sitting together.”

He fixed a condescending gaze on her. “We have a reason for everything we do, Hamilton.”

“Who is ‘we,’ Bishop?”

“You’ll get your answers when we land.”

This time he grinned. Ann figured if she hadn’t been sitting, the devastating shock would have knocked her off her feet.

“Why don’t you try to rest?” His crooked smile was engaging. She quickly turned her head away from the appealing sight. The Stockholm Syndrome wasn’t going to work on her.

Shifting to her side, she leaned her head against the windowless cabin wall of the C-17 and closed her eyes.

Mike watched her as she slept. For damn sure she 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?”