She nodded, and they rose together. Keeping a discreet distance between them, they made their way across the lobby, to the elevator. She waited primly while he pushed 6.
The doors closed.
They lunged at each other. For twenty-five seconds, while the elevator ascended to the sixth floor, they pulled at each other’s bodies. They kissed, groped, rubbed, fondled, stroked, until —
Ding. The door opened on the sixth floor and the outside world reappeared. A middle-aged European couple stood there, regarding them curiously. Resuming their three-foot separation, Delancey and Spam made a wobbly but dignified exit from the elevator. They walked down the hallway in a stately promenade.
To Room 612. DeLancey made a quick check in each direction. All clear.
He unlocked the door and let them in.
Thunk! She kicked the door closed and pressed her body into him. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” she said in a throaty voice. “I don’t care. I want you. I’ve wanted you since that day I first saw you…”
Brick and Claire sat in the sand at the water’s edge.
Over a distant loudspeaker they heard a muezzin wailing the morning call to prayer. The eastern sky was glowing orange, gold, pink. Overhead, Venus was a brilliant dot, offset by the sliver of a crescent moon. The symbol of Islam.
In the harbor, an ancient dhow was getting underway, drawing a V-shaped wake through the glassy water. Barely visible in the distance was the gray shape of the USS Ronald Reagan. Maxwell knew that the crew of the warship — those who were not ashore in Dubai — would be getting about the business of the day.
She broke the silence. “You miss it when you’re not there, don’t you?”
Maxwell nodded. She was reading his mind again.
It was like the time five years before, when they first met. They had talked until the sun came up. With Claire it was easy, he remembered. It was natural.
They talked about the good times, her passage through the labyrinthine world of international reporting. He told her more about his time at NASA. They hung on each other’s stories, filling in the gaps of the past five years. By silent agreement they steered around the bad parts. There would be time for that later.
Claire was different in one way, he noticed. She possessed an inner confidence that she lacked before. During the journey from cub reporter to becoming one of the top broadcast journalists in the business, she had acquired self-assurance. But she was not particularly happy, Maxwell guessed. He didn’t know why; it was just a look in her eyes. Perhaps, he thought, she would tell him.
Claire leaned forward and scooped a handful of sand across her bare feet. Maxwell watched her, noticing the smooth curve of her legs from her ankles, past her knees to her thighs, up to the hem of her dress.
Looking at her bare legs, he remembered something. It was a vision that had remained in his memory for the past five years like a secret treasure.
“Do you still have the scarf?” he asked.
She looked surprised. She shook her head and said, “No. Not after we broke up.”
He remembered now. They were at her apartment in Georgetown. It was her birthday, and he was taking her to dinner. He surprised her with a gift.
He still saw the excitement in her eyes when she unwrapped the package. The scarf was silk, with gold brocade and a floral pattern. She held it up to the light. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she said, “Oh, Sam, that is… absolutely… the loveliest gift I have ever received.”
She kissed him. Then, impulsively, she declared that she would wear it that very evening. But first she wanted to run upstairs and change.
Maxwell waited for her to come back. He waited for what seemed a long time, but was in fact only five minutes. Finally, she appeared at the top of the stairs.
Maxwell had to catch his breath.
“Well,” she said. “Do you like it?”
Claire was wearing the new silk scarf around her neck. And nothing else.
“I like it,” he said as he ascended the stairs.
They never made it to dinner.
“You’re staring, Sam.”
Her voice returned him to the present. “Sorry. You caught me.”
She brushed the sand off her feet and tugged the dress over her knees.
“Do you still think I’m pretty?”
Maxwell looked at her face. She was peering at him the way she used to back in the old days, with that quizzical, teasing expression. He remembered how much he had loved that look. He hadn’t expected ever to see it again.
He was feeling an unmistakable stirring inside him. It was good to be next to her, sitting with her like this. He wondered if she felt the same way.
“Yes,” he said. “I think you’re prettier than ever.”
Claire moved closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “I like that,” she said.
They fell silent again.
The red-orange ball burst above the rim of the sea. At the same time, a breeze rippled from the water, wisping Claire’s closely cropped auburn hair. The morning air was turning warm and balmy, a prelude to the day’s desert heat.
Claire said, “So you’re not going to tell me what happened?”
That was the other thing about her he remembered. The relentless curiosity. “Happened? When?”
“Don’t tease. You were in the No Fly Zone the day of the MiG shootdown.”
“You already know. One MiG-29 down. The other bugged out. End of story.”
Claire eyed him skeptically. “So Sam Maxwell, astronaut-turned-fighter pilot, didn’t shoot down the MiG?”
“Did you stay up all night with me because you wanted to be with me, or because you needed a story?”
“Both.” She squeezed his hand. “But I’ll settle for just being with you.”
He looked in her eyes for any trace of insincerity. Claire was a good reporter — and a hell of an interrogator. Maybe she was just pumping him for a story. But he was sure they had more between them than just a news a story. He could feel an electricity.
“Let’s make a deal. I’ll ask the command intelligence officer what I can and cannot say. Then I’ll get official clearance from the Public Affairs Officer to talk to you.”
She nodded excitedly. “Terrific. What’s my half of the deal?”
“It might be expensive.”
“Anything you want.”
He liked that answer. He gave her a grin, and she grinned back.
“Dinner first,” she said.
“No more interrogation?”
“No more interrogation.” Then she reconsidered. “Well, maybe a little. No more than necessary.”
He gave it a second, pretending to deliberate. “Sounds like a deal.”
They stood up and brushed the sand off.
“Well, since you’ve kept me up all night, why don’t you take me to breakfast? I’d kiss you for a coffee and a croissant.”
“Another deal.”
They kissed, then held it several seconds longer than necessary. Claire stepped back and peered at him. “Whew,” she said. “You haven’t forgotten anything, have you?”
DeLancey needed a break.
Actually, he decided, what he needed was a transfusion. Never in his career had he encountered a female with such prodigious sexual energy. She had used him like a stud animal. Then she wanted more. More to drink, more attention, more sex. She was insatiable.
He needed to get the hell away.
Getting her out of his room was difficult enough. She was ready for a matinee session, and he just didn’t have it in him. Anyway, he was sober enough to start worrying. What if his wife called? These phones didn’t have caller ID. Who might stop by his room? That was all he needed, CAG or some flag staff puke or, worse, some journalist to catch him shacked up with one of his female officers.