Hiding Jessica

by Alicia Scott

  But in the last year, that kind of absolute control had begun to slip away from her. She hadn’t functioned well anymore at work. The black smudges under her eyes had taken more makeup to conceal, an unwilling testimony to just how her life was catching up with her.

  And sometimes the nightmare returned, and she would bolt awake at 3:00 a.m., her body shivering with a light sheen of sweat while the image hovered just beyond the reaches of her mind.

  Luckily, Les was a heavy sleeper. The few times she’d awakened him, he’d merely grunted with impatience and rolled back over to oblivion. He wasn’t a man who liked to be disturbed by other people’s problems.

  It was never a coincidence that those nights followed the times he gave in to his own ugliness and hit her.

  In the darkness of the night, Jess allowed herself a bitter smile. Funny how life seemed to go in circles. And the very act of trying to escape the loop sent you back into it, curving around another spiraling cycle.

  She started walking again, holding the comforter closer as if it could actually warm the chill that resonated so deeply inside of her. The cycle was over, she reminded herself. This time she’d broken it for good. And in a matter of days, she would be by herself again. A new name, a new person.

  A stronger person.

  And she would live alone forever, build a sweet, isolated life where no one could hurt her, and she could hurt no one. The violence would at long last end, and maybe, with enough time, the blood on her hands would fade.

  It would work out. She swore it. She’d come too far, borne too much, risked too much, to fail now.

  Still, it would not be easy.

  Unbidden, another picture rose to her mind, but it wasn’t of the grasping Les Capruccio. It was the dark, powerfully muscled Mitchell Guiness.

  She found herself shivering, and tightened her grip on the blanket once more.

  He was such a large man, large and powerful and magnetic. He filled the room with his presence, and it made her at once nervous and angry. If he’d been petty or bullish or stupid, he would have simply been a source of uneasiness. But his brown eyes reflected sharp intelligence, and his face a slow, easy smile.

  That made him terrifying.

  She knew what he was trying to do, she thought abruptly, drawing on the anger. That little display of his to let her know he slept in the room right next to hers. He wanted her to understand that he was in charge, that he was watching her.

  Well, she’d just have to show him, she decided resolutely, walking now with quick steps back and forth at the foot of the bed. Les had also thought he controlled her, but she’d shown him. When push came to shove, she was not a woman to be trifled with.

  She just needed the new identity, she reminded herself. She’d get her appearance altered, master her new mannerisms, learn how to shoot, and then she’d be out of here. Away from all the blue suits and the one dark man with his knowing brown eyes.

  Her steps slowed, the exhaustion catching her all at once. And maybe, maybe in time the nightmares would leave her again. Living alone, the pictures would fade, and this new life built on the ruins of old lives would finally bring her the peace she’d been trying to find.

  And in the dark of the night, she wouldn’t have to remember the sound of her own silent screams, nor the color of the blood soaking into the gold-patterned carpet.

  She shook her head against it, but it didn’t do any good. And she knew if she looked in the mirror right now, the Ice Angel would be gone, and there would only be the large haunted eyes of a sixteen-year-old girl who was still running away.

  She turned back to the bed. Sleep restored the body, sleep rejuvenated the mind. In the morning her control would be back, her face once more the smooth, expressionless slate she’d perfected so long ago. And she would need it, she thought, remembering once more the feel of Mitch Guiness’s penetrating gaze upon her.

  She would need it dearly.

  For even as she slept, her dreams were filled with the visions of a large, dark man whose brown eyes knew all her secrets.

  * * *

  “I should have known you were a morning person.” The deep voice came from behind her, only slightly out of breath from running. Identifying the voice immediately, she felt her face automatically freeze up. Unconsciously, she began to jog a little faster. He caught up without any effort at all.

  “Do you always jog at 6:00 a.m.?” he asked, looking over at her as he easily kept pace with her long, lean legs. She still looked like a model, he thought abruptly. She was wearing some all-white, fancy jogging suit that probably cost more than a piece of fine jewelry. No worn-out sweats and baggy socks for her. He found himself smiling beside her, half shaking his head.

  He could tell she was mad that he’d caught up with her. Her blue eyes were dark and determined as she stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him with even a glance. He smiled a little wider.

  “I imagine this is the first time you’ve been out in a while,” he continued conversationally, unperturbed by her behavior. “You’ve got to admit, the air here is beautiful.”

  It was, Jess thought to herself as she struggled to draw in another lungful. It was crisp and clean and perfect for running. Except that she hadn’t jogged in over five months, and was beginning to feel it in every aching muscle in her body. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe.

  But she’d be damned before she’d show any signs of weakness in front of him. Keeping her head forward, she continued running. Maybe if she just ignored him long enough, he would go away. And then she could walk. Or collapse. Whichever came first.

  “I love the snow,” Mitch was saying, trotting right along. He jogged six miles a day, so this morning stint was nothing new to him. In fact, he was rather glad to find she jogged, as well. If he had to stay cooped up all morning just to keep an eye on her, it would have been rough. But instead, he’d heard her up and moving a little after five. At five-thirty, her door had creaked open, and he’d heard her wander downstairs. Apparently, after a glass of orange juice, she’d journeyed outside. Coming downstairs, he’d seen her begin jogging and decided he would take advantage of the situation himself. “There’s just enough moisture on the trees to keep the snow sticking to the branches,” he continued cheerfully. “Really, this is as close to a New England postcard as you can get.”

  She seemed to nod slightly as he looked back over at her. Despite her steady pace, he could see the strain in her face. Her eyes looked grim, her hands balled into fists in front of her. It occurred to him that for someone who probably hadn’t jogged in a while, she was going pretty fast. Almost imperceptibly, he slowed. She slowed with him, but did not relent.

  “I grew up in North Carolina,” he said out loud, not really noticing the words as his attention focused on her instead. “Every now and then we got ice, and maybe a little snow. But nothing as beautiful as this.”

  He eased back a little more, and she adjusted accordingly. Her breath was coming out harder now, in fast, frosty puffs, and he found himself frowning. Would she really run herself into the ground rather than stop in his presence? He would’ve tested the theory, but he figured he already knew the answer. Damn, but he had never met anyone so stubborn in his entire life.

  He suddenly broke into a walk, and after a few more jogging steps, she slowed into walking, as well.

  “Are you ever going to speak?” he asked, pretending to be winded, though why he was trying to protect the pride of such an arrogant woman was beyond him.

  Speak? Jess’s mind registered. Speak? Hell, she didn’t have the breath left to sneeze. She didn’t want to speak. She wanted to collapse on the ground and drag in huge gulps of air like a dying fish. As it was, she could barely restrain herself from hanging her head between her knees to gasp for air. Turning all her concentration inward, she forced herself to take two deep breaths. She could feel her pulse pounding away, but slowly it began to cool down. She took another steadying breath.

  “You’re sweating,” Mitch s
aid. She gave him a cool look, but he merely shrugged his shoulders like some innocent kid. “I didn’t realize the Ice Angel sweats,” he told her, then flashed his easy grin.

  “I sweat,” she said levelly, her blue eyes icy. “The only difference is that I look better doing it than you.”

  He arched a black eyebrow, clearly amused by this line. He halted, crossing his arms in front of him. “I don’t know,” he told her. “Most women don’t complain when they see me sweat.”

  “Most women,” she informed him, “are too polite.”

  He chuckled, a deep sound that seemed to reverberate through her own nerve endings. “And you’re not afflicted with that state, are you now?” he said.

  “What state?”

  “Politeness.”

  She had to bite back another retort. It was clear he found her amusing, and that only grated on her nerves more. She didn’t want to be amusing. She wanted to be cold and aloof. It was much more effective.

  Abruptly she pivoted, and without giving him a second glance, walked gracefully back toward the house, her head high.

  “Perfect,” Mitch said, falling in step beside her even as she turned her head pointedly away. “I was getting hungry. What do you say? French toast? Or maybe blueberry pancakes with fresh maple syrup?”

  He was walking so close, she could feel the heat radiating from him, a small envelope of warmth amid the frosty winter’s day. And she could see the sheen of his perspiration when she glanced over. In spite of what she’d said, it wasn’t disgusting at all. In fact, it was a whole host of things she refused to consider.

  “I don’t eat breakfast,” she found herself saying coolly, taking longer steps as if she could honestly put distance between them.

  “From what I observed,” Mitch replied dryly, “you don’t eat much for dinner, either.”

  She refused to reply, but it seemed she didn’t have to. “You’ll eat breakfast today,” the man beside her said, and there was no more teasing in his voice. “You agreed to gain at least fifteen pounds and that’s never going to happen with you picking at food like a small bird.” His voice relented a bit, and he looked over at her once more, noting that her face was remote and controlled even at 7:00 a.m. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll make you chocolate-chip pancakes. I have a sister who’s a chocoholic and she will tell you that I absolutely, positively make the best chocolate-chip pancakes in the whole wide world.”

  “Do I have a choice?” she replied stiffly.

  He frowned next to her, and before she knew it, he’d grabbed her arm and jerked them both to a halt. He spun her around before she had time to react, forcing her to look at him. “Look,” he said clearly, his dark brown eyes intent in the early-morning light. “I am not your enemy here, Jess McMoran. I am not the one out to get you. In fact, I’m trying to save your precious blond hide. So why the hell do you insist on acting like some arrogant martyr around me?”

  Because you’re large and strong and powerful, her mind registered as her pulse suddenly soared and her heart leapt to a frantic beat. Because your grip on my arm could snap the bone in two and there would be nothing I could do but bite back the scream.

  She met his gaze fiercely, but at the last moment just had to look away.

  “Let go of my arm,” she said, as if her heart weren’t pounding in her chest.

  He swore, but released her arm. His eyes darkened with frustration as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m telling you to gain weight for your own good,” he said finally.

  She turned back around and continued walking to the house. His impulse said to stop her, but what else could he say to her? When push came to shove, this was going to be a battle of brute will. And he would simply have to emerge victorious. It was the only way to keep all of them safe.

  He folded his arms, a frown on his face as he watched her near the door. With her white designer jogging suit, she almost blended into the snowy surroundings, her pale flaxen hair all that gave her away. This evening they would dye and cut that hair. And definitely give her the contact lenses, as well. Perhaps, the sooner he started changing the outside, the sooner he would gain access to the inside. It was a small and feeble hope, but all that he had.

  “Oh, Jessica,” he called out abruptly, his deep voice carrying easily across the winter sky. She pivoted, her face already frozen into an expressionless slate.

  But he simply shook his finger at her mistake of responding to her real name.

  “Gotcha,” he said. She froze, then turned sharply back around. This time, she did slam the door behind her. And standing out in the cold, Mitch found himself grinning once more. Oh, he would win this battle all right. Simply because whether she liked it or not, she needed him. He was the best there was.

  Whistling slightly to himself now, he went back to the house.

  * * *

  When Jess came down after showering, she found that Mitch had indeed made chocolate-chip pancakes. At least some had chocolate chips, while others looked plain. Having regained some of her composure while showering, she did her best to appear unconcerned while she took one of the small unadorned ones, poured herself another glass of orange juice and sat down at the table.

  Not, of course, that Mitch Guiness could leave well enough alone. Already seated, he took in her meager breakfast with a shaking head.

  “You’re missing the point,” he told her sternly. Then, before she could stop him, he placed a pat of butter on the pancake and drizzled syrup on it. “Now eat,” he said.

  Meeting his eyes with her cool, expressionless gaze, she picked up her fork and took the first bite, chewing mechanically as she stared at him. It was sweet and warm and rich in her mouth, things she wasn’t suppose to dwell on. Life was a matter of control. If you liked things, then you would want them. That led to problems. But feeling the butter melt on her tongue, thick and creamy, it was hard to remember all that. Which was why she rarely ate anything sweet or rich. It merely reminded her of all the denial a model’s life entailed.

  Then again, she wasn’t a model anymore.

  She took the second bite, still meeting his eyes with her own defiantly uncaring stare. But she cut the third bite even faster than the second.

  Behind her, the front door opened.

  “Good morning, Miss Gavornée,” Bill called out. This time, she didn’t respond, and Mitch smiled at her approvingly. It was that simple easy smile again, and she could feel its impact all the way to the tips of her toes. Who told this man he could smile so charmingly? What in the world was there to be so charming about? Her hands were suddenly shaking, and she set down the fork to take a long drink of the orange juice, tart and fresh on her tongue.

  Mitch hadn’t showered yet, but his black hair was still damp from jogging. She could see the way it faintly curled on his neck, and smell once more the compelling mix of sweat and soap. Her appetite left her completely, her stomach suddenly churning with a desperate sort of restlessness.

  Summoning control from deep inside, she forced her breath out in a steady sigh. Picking up the fork, she took another bite. But this time, the pancake tasted like ashes on her tongue.

  “You should really try a chocolate-chip one,” Mitch said idly, his attention caught up by the barest flicker of emotions passing across her face. Bill had just stepped into the kitchen and was pouring himself a glass of orange juice, but Mitch hardly glanced at him at all. He was much more interested in the tightly controlled woman in front of him.

  “I’m fine,” Jess managed to reply, keeping her eyes slightly away from his steady gaze.

  “They’re very good,” Mitch continued. “I used to make them all the time for my sister, Liz. When she was little, she would follow me around the house on Sunday mornings and beg for chocolate-chip pancakes.”

  “How nice,” Jess answered emotionlessly.

  But he ignored her tone, his fingers tapping mindlessly on the tabletop as he continued to watch her. “It’s a shame you don’t have brothers or sisters. I have three
younger brothers and, of course, Liz, and it made all the difference growing up.”

  Jess took the last bite of the pancake, washing it down with the orange juice. Her hands were trembling, and her stomach kept clenching and unclenching. She had never felt this nervous in her entire life, as if she wanted to run, but didn’t know where to run to. As if she were hungry, ravenously hungry, but no food sounded appealing. She slipped her hands under the table to hide the shaking, and it seemed to her that he saw her do it and knew exactly why.

  “Where is your family now?” she found herself asking, seeking desperately for a normal, casual tone.

  “Oh, scattered about I imagine,” he said with a shrug. “Garret’s a Navy SEAL, so we never know where he is. Last I heard, Jake was in Eastern Europe looking at some possible investments in manufacturing. Cagney’s now a police detective in D.C. Then Liz—” He paused, and Jess risked a glance long enough to see the sadness abruptly wash over his face. In surprise, she didn’t look away. “Liz’s husband was killed two and a half years ago,” he said quietly. “They’d known each other all their lives, and it was very hard for her. So she took a job as a nanny in Connecticut, working for some genius recluse named Richard Keaton. I was pretty suspicious in the beginning—some strange things were certainly happening. But last time I talked to her, she was positively glowing. They’ve been married a year and I’ve never seen her happier.” His little sister was lucky—she’d found love twice in one lifetime. Himself... He didn’t dwell on it. Things happened in their own good time.

  He shrugged now, his face once more returning to normal, and Jess found herself nodding.

  He seemed to really care about his sister. Truly and genuinely care. And suddenly the emptiness yawned in her so huge, she had to look away. Her whole life had been alone, and she would continue it alone. Alone meant safety and security, and finally after all these years, peace. By herself, she didn’t have to mask every emotion or fear. And by herself, she didn’t have to wonder when the other person’s true colors would emerge, and the violent cycle would set in once more.