Hiding Jessica

by Alicia Scott

  He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. She could feel the focus like a probe, and it made her breath want to come out in restless gasps. Instead, she simply stood, willing her eyes to appear uncaring as she waited for him to leave.

  At long last he turned toward the door. But at the doorway he abruptly stopped. His eyes were on her neck, then her hair, then finally on her face.

  “Why did you do it?” he asked softly, the question that had been puzzling him for weeks finally pushing forth. “Why did you turn Capruccio in?”

  She was silent for a moment, her face carefully turned from his. Then she glanced up, looking at him with the same cool blue eyes she’d had on the witness stand.

  “Les broke the law,” she said out loud. “Wasn’t that enough?”

  Slowly Mitch shook his head.

  “He was your lover. People don’t just hand over their lovers for illegal activities. If that was the case, you should have turned him in years ago.”

  “Maybe I didn’t know about it then.”

  He raised a cynical eyebrow. “Sweetheart, everyone knew what kind of man Les Capruccio was. And you didn’t exactly roll out of the cornfields of Kansas yesterday.”

  For a moment, he saw a faint tugging at her lips, like a small smile trying to break through. But what kind of smile? Sad, bitter, humorous, sweet? There was nothing in her eyes to give it away.

  “If you know so much about Les,” she said out loud, “then surely you know he’s not an easy man to defy.”

  For the first time he nodded. And for the first time she thought she saw a glimmer of something besides the speculative disdain in his eyes. Maybe respect. It was hard to be sure.

  “Was it worth it?” Mitch asked abruptly. “Was putting him away worth all this?” He gestured to the room with his large hands.

  This time she did smile, a small smile of satisfaction. “Oh, yes,” she told him with conviction. “It definitely was.”

  He digested this. So whatever sentiments she had toward Capruccio, they weren’t affectionate ones. But why hadn’t she admitted to it on the stand?

  He looked at her long and hard.

  “And if it does cost you your life?” he asked loudly in the quiet of the house, “will it still be worth it?”

  She looked at him almost impatiently. “Come now, Mr. Guiness. Do you honestly believe that it won’t?”

  “Won’t be worth it?”

  “No, won’t cost me my life.”

  He paused for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his eyes were intensely serious. “Not as long as you’re here it won’t,” he told her evenly.

  She looked him over once again, her cool eyes appraising this time. He could almost see the struggle in her face, her assessment warring with her obvious dislike of him.

  Abruptly she turned away with a small shrug.

  “Perhaps” was all she was willing to concede. “But the problem is,” she continued levelly, “sooner or later I will leave here. And what then, Mr. Guiness? What then?”

  “In the next two weeks you’ll find out,” he told her.

  She shook her head, moving over to her bags.

  “I already know,” she said softly. “You do, too. But it will be interesting to see how long it takes Les to find me. And it will be even more interesting to see how much it will cost him. Because I won’t go down without a fight. Not this time, Mr. Guiness.”

  The very dispassionate nature of her voice seemed to lend the words credibility. He felt it again, the glimmer of emotion he didn’t want to feel toward this arctic supermodel: respect.

  “Mitch,” he found himself saying. “Call me Mitch.”

  She gave him a sideways glance, then shook her head. “It won’t do you any good to tell me your name,” she informed him coolly as she unzipped the first bag. “I don’t bother to learn names.”

  The words were so arrogant, so completely cold, they practically begged to be challenged. And Mitch Guiness was not a man who passed up challenges.

  He found himself moving forward before he formed a conscious plan. He didn’t stop until he was a mere six inches from her, the movement bringing her head up.

  This close, he could see the faint filter of emotions flickering across her eyes. Only one could he pinpoint directly: wariness. Her chin came up, and she looked ready to meet his challenge head-on.

  He raked her up and down, his eyes penetrating and intense. Leaning even closer, he caught the faint hint of a light fragrance. Peaches, he thought abruptly. He smelled peaches. And damned if it wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever smelled.

  “By the end of this week,” he uttered softly, “you’ll know my name, Jessica Gavornée. And you’ll know it well.”

  Her chin came up even higher.

  “You may leave now,” she informed him coldly, her eyes not giving any ground at all. “I have things to do.”

  Oh, he wanted to press her further, he realized suddenly. He wanted to take another step forward until his face was inches from hers. He wanted to push her until the arctic control gave way, and he was looking at the woman instead of the carefully constructed Ice Angel.

  He wanted to kiss her until the ice melted into passion, until she clung to him and whispered his name in fiery heat.

  The thought came out of nowhere, and slammed into his gut with a fierceness that almost staggered him. What was he doing, having such thoughts about a witness?

  Stunned at his own reaction, he took a step back instead. She watched him move back, and once again nothing flickered in her eyes.

  The woman would drive even a saint to madness, he rationalized to himself, shaking his head like a man just emerging from a stupor. He moved back to the relative sanity of the doorway.

  “Dinner will be in two hours,” he informed her over his shoulder as he left. He didn’t bother to see if she agreed or not.

  Somehow she thought that might be a sign of things to come.

  Chapter 2

  “You realize, of course, that if you ever reveal your true identity, you will be eliminated from the Witness Protection Program,” Mitch was saying in clipped tones. For the last hour and a half he’d been going over all the guidelines of the program, guidelines she’d heard enough times in the past five months to recite in her sleep.

  She didn’t bother to hide her impatience as she nodded yet again.

  “I’ve been over all this before,” she pointed out coolly. “Since it’s getting late, I’d just as soon cover new ground or no ground at all.”

  Mitch frowned at her. “I know you’ve heard it before,” he replied firmly. Fifteen years of Northeast living had eliminated most of his North Carolina drawl, making his words curt and fast enough to match her own. “But the point is, do you absolutely understand? Because up until now it’s just been talk. Here is where the rubber hits the road. We’re talking about a new name, a new identity. We’re talking about cutting all your ties with the past. Your family, friends, lovers—they don’t exist for you anymore. Can you do that? Are you truly committed to that process?”

  Her blue eyes remained emotionless. “I’m committed to staying alive,” she informed him levelly. “As for friends, family and lovers, you ought to know as well as I do how few of those there are.”

  This was true, and he was aware of it. What amazed him was that not only was she aware of it, but it didn’t seem to bother her at all. Then again, if dinner had been anything to go by, she certainly wasn’t a social creature.

  She’d come down when he’d requested her for dinner. By then she’d changed into a pair of designer jeans, covered by a long, thickly woven sweater. She’d accented the off-white sweater with a crimson-and-blue scarf draped artfully around her neck. She looked at once earthy and elegant, a look he was sure only someone like herself could ever completely pull off. And whereas the sweater should have made her look shapeless and bulky, it had a habit of moving with her, offering short, tantalizing glimpses of curved hips and rounded breasts before it swung back into p
lace. He realized he was much more aware of these things than he really should be.

  On the other hand, she seemed totally oblivious to him. She’d hardly spared him a glance upon sitting at the table. She’d simply passed around the food, eating in complete silence that was only occasionally interrupted by a polite “Please pass the rice.”

  She’d eaten her small, sparrow-size servings of everything. Then she’d sat back and, with her cool, expressionless features, patiently waited for everyone to finish.

  The only redeeming quality he could find was that once everyone had finished, she’d risen silently and begun doing the dishes without discussion. At least the supermodel wasn’t spoiled.

  She seemed determined to make up for that in stubbornness, however.

  “What about family?” he pressed on now. From all his research, he’d never come up with anyone. But then again, he knew nothing of the woman before age sixteen. “Is there anyone that can be held against you? Anyone Les can use to manipulate you?”

  “No,” she informed him coolly, her chin coming up defensively. This, of course, was a blatant lie, but she had no intention of telling him that.

  “What about other lovers? Friends?”

  “Look,” she stated flatly, her patience clearly running out as her blue eyes darkened. She didn’t want to be pressed and quizzed. Despite the long years of practice, lying disturbed her. Deep down inside, she knew it wasn’t right, even as she knew wrong could become right, and right become wrong, all depending on the circumstances. “I have no ties, no commitments,” she said out loud, keeping her eyes focused on the tabletop in front of her. “Which was one of the reasons I considered the Witness Protection Program such a viable solution,” she continued. “Now let’s move on.”

  “Fine,” he answered curtly. He should be glad she didn’t have any family or friends left. That simplified matters considerably. But for some reason he didn’t feel comfortable about the subject yet. Still, it was getting late and they did have a lot of ground to cover.

  “I want to start training you on your new life in the morning,” he informed her bluntly. “Tonight we’ll go briefly over the profile so you know what it is. Tomorrow the drilling will begin. At the end of the two weeks, you will be your new identity. Is that clear?”

  “I’m not an idiot,” she said in clipped tones, her eyes flashing arctic fire.

  Her rest certainly hadn’t improved her mood at all, Mitch thought dryly. At least she wasn’t as dispassionate as before. Instead, she seemed to be driven by some icy anger he did not understand any more than he could avoid. Funny, the way she was acting, one would have thought he was her enemy, rather than the man working to save her beautiful blond life. At least public relations wasn’t a required part of the job.

  Keeping his own mood curt enough to match hers, he tossed her a manila file.

  “There you go, Jessica,” he informed her. “Meet the new you.”

  The expression in her eyes was wary as she picked up the folder. She looked at him once, but he merely sat there at the kitchen table, arms folded across his broad chest. The other agents had gone out on rounds, leaving the two of them alone in the kitchen.

  She didn’t like just the two of them, Jessica thought as she opened the file. She didn’t like sitting with this man a scant two feet away. He was too big, too powerful. His presence filled the tiny space, crowding her. The effort at maintaining her control was beginning to drain her, and that made her even more resentful.

  Why did he have to keep staring at her with such all-knowing eyes? Why couldn’t he just do his job and leave her in peace?

  She needed some time to herself, desperately. Some time away from this man. Besides, she had business to attend to.

  Very soon, she promised herself.

  She scanned the file.

  “Jessie McMoran,” she read aloud. “Isn’t that name too close to Jessica?”

  “Has anyone ever called you Jessie?” he quizzed.

  Silently she shook her head.

  “Good,” he told her. “And actually, we didn’t want to change your name too much. It makes slipups less probable. This way, no one can try to trap you by calling you Jessica. Though, by the end of the two weeks, you’ll be polished enough not to automatically respond to anything other than Jessie.”

  She nodded, though her eyes remained critical. “How about Jess? I’m not so sure I like Jessie. No one calls me Jess, either, for that matter.”

  With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Mitch agreed.

  “Saleswoman,” Jessica read under the occupation title. “No,” she said abruptly, “that won’t do. I want to be a schoolteacher.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I want to be a schoolteacher.”

  “Sweetheart,” he drawled once more, his voice definitely impatient, “this isn’t fantasy life. You can’t just choose whatever occupation you’ve ever dreamed about. You have to actually do it, which means you have to be qualified. And considering the fact you never went to college, you’re not in the position to be a teacher.”

  “I know this isn’t a fantasy life—that’s exactly my point. Whatever this occupation is, I’ll be living it day in and day out. Which means I want something I would enjoy doing. Schoolteacher. Second grade would be nice. But I’m willing to teach anything in grade school. As for qualifications, I happened to have taken a number of classes by mail during my career.” He nodded, having discovered that himself. “While none of them add up to a degree,” she continued, “I believe that’s beside the point. It doesn’t matter what Jessica Gavornée has, only what Jess McMoran does. I presume that proper credentials will be provided as part of the new ID package.”

  He nodded slowly, reluctant admiration filling him. She certainly caught on to the game quick enough. Still, he wasn’t convinced.

  “But you’ve never actually taught a class,” he pointed out. “And taking classes doesn’t equal teaching classes.”

  “I taught adult literacy,” she responded smoothly, “once a week for two years. While it was more of a one-on-one interaction, it taught me a lot of the principles of teaching. Besides, at the age of twenty-four, people would expect me to be inexperienced.”

  “What if you’re not twenty-four?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Look,” Mitch said, leaning forward in earnest now, “everyone knows you’re in the Witness Protection Program. So they won’t be looking for you. They’ll be looking for someone that fits the general characteristics of you. For example, someone with your height and build. Someone with your mannerisms and your age.”

  There was a long period of silence. She sat there, her blue eyes giving nothing away, as she appeared to be considering what he had said. She shifted once, bringing her hands down to her lap.

  Her hands were trembling—she could feel the tiny tremors—but she didn’t have the concentration just now to make them stop. There were so many things to think about, so many changes to be made if she was going to pull this off. It would be easier to handle if he wouldn’t keep looking at her, easier to take if he would stop leaning forward like that.

  She could see the stubble on his cheeks once more. It would feel rough and raspy to the touch. Really, he had a strong face. As a model, she could appreciate that. The cheekbones were well sculpted, his jaw square. His black eyebrows and black, glossy hair added to his masculinity, while definitely giving him an untamed edge. Women probably found him very appealing.

  But not her, she reminded herself squarely. He was much too large for her tastes, too powerful looking. And his eyes were much too intelligent when they skimmed over her. He seemed to understand her tricks better than she did, and she couldn’t afford that right now. Earlier today, when she had pulled back her scarf, she’d gotten the impression he’d known exactly what she was doing. Even worse, he’d found it amusing.

  This man was much too dangerous.

  And he made it very hard for her to think.

  She composed hersel
f once again.

  “So what do you propose?” she asked as calmly as possible.

  “We want to make you a thirty-year-old,” he told her evenly, watching her carefully for her response. “With cosmetic surgery, we can add some wrinkles around your face and mouth, perhaps a few lines in your forehead. Nothing drastic, but enough to alter your current, smooth-skinned appearance.”

  He waited for her to protest. Surely a woman that made her living off her looks would resent deliberately destroying them.

  But instead she nodded. “Good,” she said. “My looks must definitely be altered. They are entirely too well-known.”

  He nodded, trying to keep the surprise off his face. Where was the anger, or even the fear? He was used to dealing with people who logically accepted the program, but were still emotionally fighting the change. This kind of deep-rooted transformation was very traumatic. Yet the woman across from him examined it with the same logical scrutiny she’d displayed on the witness stand.

  He wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or worried.

  “Then,” she was continuing out loud, “we can simply have Jess graduate from college later than most. Of course. We’ll incorporate both ideas. Graduated from high school, worked as a salesperson and then, at twenty-five, went back to college to become a teacher. Thus, I can be older and still be inexperienced.”

  Damn, the woman was amazing. Slowly he nodded his head. “That will work, then, if you are sure you have the ability to teach. I’ll make the arrangement for the teacher’s license in your new state.”

  “Perfect,” she said evenly.

  “Well, then,” Mitch continued, “about further changes to your appearance. We’ll dye your hair, of course—probably dark brown—and give you brown eyes.”

  “The hair should be very dark,” she told him, “almost black. That way it will look natural with my fair complexion. We’ll have to do my eyebrows, as well. I can also wear darker, richer colors in clothing. Given my traditional choice of pastels, that will further enhance the difference.”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought,” he observed dryly. Indeed, in all his years he’d never quite met anyone like her.