Hiding Jessica

by Alicia Scott

  “Nice night for a walk,” he said casually. “Damn cold, but at least the sky is clear.”

  She nodded, taking a tentative step forward. The dim glow of the half-moon swept over her features, at once illuminating her features and plunging them into darkness. Her dark hair was tousled around her face, softening her finely boned silhouette. And it seemed to him that her eyes looked huge and luminescent, no longer cold but full of haunting shadows and swirling emotions.

  His imagination was probably getting the better of him.

  Still, his sharp eyes could detect the subtle signs of strain. The burdens of her secrets were catching up with her, he observed. The hour was past midnight, and Cinderella was dangerously close to turning into the ragged housemaid. The gun today had disturbed her. She’d refused to talk about it for the rest of the day, but at dinner he’d seen her hand shake when she’d tried to eat. She’d caught him watching her and had set down the fork with a brittle clank, yet her gaze still hadn’t been able to meet his with its usually cool equanimity.

  He should push her now, use his interrogation skills to wrench some of those secrets away from her while he had the chance. But as he watched her peer out into the clear night, shivering against the bitter cold, he couldn’t quite find the desire to push his advantage.

  “Trouble sleeping?” he found himself saying softly, his eyes watching her.

  Slowly she nodded.

  “My mother used to make warm milk with vanilla and nutmeg,” he continued quietly. “Of course, a good glass of cognac works just as well.”

  “Did you learn that from your mother, too?” she whispered, her eyes still out on the stars. The emptiness was back, raking through her, and she could feel each tremble in her body. Funny, she was standing a good five feet from the man, yet it seemed she could feel his warmth, smell the faint scent of soap and shampoo. And she wanted to take a step closer, even as she wanted to rail at him for being out here, too, when she just wanted to get away. It seemed the man was everywhere, including the traitorous corridors of her own mind.

  “Some talents,” Mitch said with a grin, “I picked up on my own.”

  She nodded and the night fell silent. He could practically see the heaviness of her thoughts on her shoulders. And even as he watched, a faint shudder rippled through her.

  “It’s too cold to be outside,” he told her gently. “Come on, let’s go on in and I’ll see if I can’t find some cognac.”

  She nodded once more, but still didn’t move. He walked toward her, reaching out his arm to her, then froze. Perhaps it was just a trick of light, perhaps the funny effects of a half-moon, but from this angle, her dark eyes sparkled with the suspicious moisture of suppressed tears. And the set of her lips didn’t look so cold anymore, but rather like the tight lips of a woman fighting a huge battle.

  He didn’t question what he did, reacting instead on instinct. The arm that had meant to lead her inside turned her against him instead. Before she could utter a word of protest, he drew her against his powerful frame. She went rigid at the first contact, but he soothed her with a small hush.

  “You’re just cold,” he whispered. “Stand here just for a moment and I’ll warm you up.”

  She should fight him, she thought dully. She should push him away and hit him for daring to touch her so. But instead, his words echoed through her emptiness. She was cold. Cold, so deep down, she thought she might never be warm again. And yet even the warmth scared her, for the ice enclosed things better left entombed. Until she hated the cold but couldn’t risk the warmth. So instead, she stood in Mitch’s arms like a child, not quite able to move, and feeling only the relentless ache that wouldn’t go away or give her peace.

  And he was warm. Warm and spicy and soapy. And she suddenly wanted to uncurl her fists against his chest, burying her hands against the solid strength. Slowly she rested her head down against his chest. She could feel the reassuring thunder of a pounding heart, the rich leather of his coat soft against her cheek. He didn’t move, and slowly she relaxed another fraction. He was tall and powerful. She could feel the whisper of his warm breath in her hair, and the ache within her grew.

  Her head moved on its own accord, not knowing what it wanted but driven by the mixture of emptiness and fear. Until she shivered even harder, though this time not from the cold at all. And the fear raced down her spine even as she raised her eyes to find his own, dark and soft in the freezing night.

  Her lips parted, her breath catching as her gaze came down to settle on his lips, full and sensual. He had a strong jaw, stubbornly set like she knew he could be. And there was the faint shadow of midnight whiskers. They would feel raspy and rough to the touch. Would he press them against her hard, until her soft skin scraped and bruised from the fierceness? Or would they brush against her gently, a tingling and tantalizing blend of rough against smooth, sandpaper against silk?

  She parted her lips a little farther and unconsciously arched her neck back. The fear reared harder and she closed her eyes against the intensity.

  Mitch saw the lips presented to him so openly, and even as his mind told him this definitely wasn’t right, his head moved of its own volition. He could sense once more that flood of emotions sweeping through her. But the deep blend of shivering confusion and dark pain lent her a mysterious softness that drew him in as surely as a drug.

  Gently, tentatively, his lips brushed over hers. She stiffened in his arms, her spine jerking straight. Soothingly, his hands smoothed down her back, willing her to relax. Murmuring soft words of nonsense, his lips swept over hers once more. This time he was rewarded by the soft sigh of her previously pent-up breath. One more time he brushed over her lips, and this time her lips followed his, seeking more. He responded by coming back to the fullness, deepening the kiss ever so lightly.

  He felt her tremble, a deep shiver that filled him with need. He arched her neck back a little more, outlining her lips with the gentle teasing of his tongue. Another soft sigh and her lips parted, sending a surging rush of warmth to his groin. This time he did press the advantage, his tongue plunging in to find her sweetness. Far off he heard a soft moan, and he pressed her more tightly against him, fitting the warm curve of her hips more intimately against his own.

  Then suddenly she wasn’t pressing against him anymore. The same hands that had flattened against his chest abruptly balled into fists and hit him. With a sharp jerk, she pulled away, practically falling down in her haste.

  “No,” she gasped out, her chest heaving in the night. Her eyes were round and huge, the fear engulfing her in waves. “I don’t want this! I don’t want you, I don’t want any man!”

  His own breathing was sharp, his blood still thundering in his ears. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at her darkly.

  “Sweetheart,” he drawled thickly. “That wasn’t what your lips were telling me just thirty seconds ago.”

  She scrambled farther back, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth as if trying to rid herself of his taste. “Get away from me,” she warned.

  He didn’t move, but nor did his eyes relent. “If you will recall,” he said tightly, “I didn’t start this little interaction.”

  “You took advantage of me,” she accused. In some small corner of her mind, she knew what he was saying was true. But the fear and confusion were racing through her now, consuming her blood as she shook with tremor after tremor. Visions and sensations warred within her mind until she wanted to cover her eyes with her hands and will nothingness to descend. Already she felt the sharp chill of the night, the warmth suddenly torn from her until she was lost and cold and filled with uncertainty. “You said you were just going to keep me warm,” she found herself saying. “But you’re like all men. That was just an excuse for one thing, and one thing only.”

  She knew she shouldn’t have said the words, and the minute she did, she saw him stiffen dangerously. Slowly he took one step forward.

  “I’m going to say this only once,” he told her, his voice as s
mooth and low as velvet. “Whatever emotional baggage you got from Les Capruccio is between you and him. You want to talk about it, I’ll listen, sweetheart. But don’t you go accusing me of being like other men. All men didn’t just kiss you. I did.”

  She looked at him dully, the bitterness washing over her sharply, cleansing her of all else. “A woman is raped every five minutes,” she declared slowly. “Every sixty seconds a child is physically abused. You don’t have to be all men. Just being male is dangerous enough.”

  He swore something low and dark in the night. Looking at her now, he shook his head. “I’m not sure I didn’t like you better as the Ice Angel,” he told her. “And I certainly don’t consider you some helpless victim. Whatever Capruccio did to you, you made him pay for it, sweetheart. In that courtroom you made him pay for it dearly.”

  He stepped back, looking at her one last time. “For the record, you kissed me. When you’re ready to deal with that, you know where to find me. I’m not Les Capruccio, Jess. I’m the man risking his life for you. And if you will recall, one of our agents already lost his life trying to protect you. You can’t look at the evil men do without seeing the good, as well.” He looked her up and down with scornful eyes. “Then again, maybe you can.”

  He walked back into the house before she could say anything else. In truth, she had nothing to retort, just the emptiness swirling inside of her.

  Once more, the images flooded her mind. The gold-patterned carpet. Blue-suited Darold arching back as the bullet hit home. Les’s face contorted as he stretched his hand back for another blow.

  And a powerful dark-haired man drawing her close, the scent of his after-shave, the touch of his lips, the soft rasp of his beard on her cheeks.

  Her hand came up and rubbed across her cheek in the night. No bruises, no scratches.

  And she decided then that she hated Mitch Guiness as she’d never hated anyone before. Because she knew how to deal with Les, and she had indeed made him pay.

  But she had absolutely no defense against tenderness. Les had never lied about who he was and what he wanted. Far more dangerous was the man that led you in, the man you wanted to love, the man you wanted to trust.

  Far more dangerous was the man you needed.

  She shivered in the night, the thick wool jacket worthless against a chill reverberating from the inside.

  * * *

  The next morning, the Ice Angel was back. He could tell simply by the way she walked back into the house from her early-morning jog. Sure, her hair was now brown and colored contact lenses camouflaged the true frost in her eyes, but the rigid bearing of her spine and haughty expressionless face was pure Jessica Gavornée. Mentally, Mitch cursed himself. Last night his behavior had been beyond unprofessional. You did not get involved with people in the Witness Protection Program. One, it was a very vulnerable time for people as they were asked to give up everything they’d ever known. Two, it was precisely the point that they had to give up all ties to the past. Which in roughly a week and a half would include Mitch Guiness.

  Had Jess not pulled away last night, he would have. Or so he liked to tell his pricked conscience. And he certainly would have handled the whole thing better if she simply hadn’t compared him to all men. That rankled. Mitch Guiness lived his own life by his own standards. And he had no intention of paying for other men’s crimes. Not even for a fresh brunette beauty.

  But last night was last night, and no matter how he looked at it, he was still a man with a job to do. As much as she might want to ignore him, that certainly would not be happening.

  He pushed himself off the bench in the kitchen to stroll toward the entryway. She didn’t even bother to glance up as she finished stretching out her tired legs. He could see a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, and her chest was still heaving from her exertions. He had a feeling that if he got any closer, he would also catch the faint scent of peaches.

  He remained several feet away.

  “Good morning, Jessica,” he said casually. She ignored him and moved toward the stairs.

  “It doesn’t matter if you don’t respond to the name,” he called out after her. “Every step you take, every expressionless muscle in your face gives you away. You’ve worked hard the last few days. Don’t lose all the progress simply because of one midnight walk.”

  She turned finally, her brown eyes as cool as only she could make them. “Duly noted,” she said evenly. And then even as he watched, her shoulders curved in, her face muscles relented and her left hand began to fidget with her right-hand ring.

  He grinned at her, half in jest and half true admiration. “That’s my girl,” he said. She stiffened abruptly, her face taking on an instantly wary stance. But before he could probe it any further, she whirled away from him and pounded up the stairs.

  He watched her go without saying anything, a frown furrowing his brow. Funny, the more he thought he was on the verge of understanding her, the more he realized he didn’t know her at all. He thought she was gun-shy from Les Capruccio, but was there anything else in her past to make her so cold? And then something hit him on the head so hard he couldn’t believe he’d never considered it sooner. Les Capruccio hadn’t been the new variable in Jessica Gavornée’s life. She’d become the Ice Angel six years before meeting him, and her life had been suspiciously absent of all men, even back then.

  No, the riddle had far more to do with Jessica Gavornée. It had to do with a woman that had no record of existence until she was sixteen. A woman with no known parents, friends or past.

  It had to do with a woman that smelled like summer and looked like winter, a woman that kissed with a lush innocence and retaliated with bitter anger.

  Slowly he began to whistle to himself as the wheel turned in his mind. He had over a week left. And if need be, he would use every last one of those days to unlock the woman upstairs. He’d been right last night. He wasn’t other men. He was Mitch Guiness, and he could do magic.

  * * *

  He found her an hour later in the kitchen. Much to his surprise, she was cooking, and the warm scent of French toast wafted through the air.

  “A late breakfast,” he breathed, inhaling deeply. “I like it.”

  She barely glanced at him, but at least she was standing in her new, relaxed posture. “I figured it was my turn to cook by now,” she said neutrally.

  “By all means,” he agreed. He looked over her shoulder enough to make out the fresh stack of warm French toast. “Are these ready?” He couldn’t quite keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  She nodded, doing her best to keep her back to him. But it was hard to ignore a man when he practically filled the kitchen, and even now was reaching over her shoulder with one strong arm to grab the plate. She moved to the side the best she could, but in the small confines of the kitchen that didn’t stop his arm from brushing against her shoulder. She felt goose bumps creep up her neck, and did her best to ignore that, too.

  She’d lost too much control, she’d concluded late last night. Mitch had told her to leave Jessica Gavornée behind, and now she saw the truth. She could leave Jessica behind because Jessica had never been more than an act, like Jess McMoran would be yet another act. Deep down, the nightmares and the control were simply hers. She would keep both, even as she adapted to her new role. And she would shut this large dark man out of her mind once and for all because she had the control to do so.

  She swore it.

  “These are very good,” Mitch said from the table.

  “Save some for Bill,” she said. “He should be in soon.”

  “Sure thing. So is cooking French toast a common modeling skill?” His voice was still casual, and she remained neutral.

  “Models don’t eat French toast,” she replied. “But I imagined schoolteachers do.” She didn’t have to turn around to know he would be grinning at her.

  “You are a fast study,” he told her, the approval plain in his voice. “A real natural for adopting assumed identities.”

>   Did she hear a faint edge in the last statement? She couldn’t be sure, and so she did her best to ignore him completely. She flipped the last piece of thick bread, nodding approvingly at its golden tone.

  “If models don’t make French toast,” Mitch was saying from the table, “did you learn it from your mother? My mom makes amazing French toast.”

  This time she did tense. Mitch could sound as casual as he wanted, but she knew better by now. Already she could sense his sharp eyes probing her back. The man was on a fishing trip, but she wouldn’t be the one to take the bait. Let him wonder all he wanted. By midnight she would be out of here.

  She turned around as if she hadn’t heard his last statement at all, bringing the final plate of French toast to the table. Slowly, almost leisurely, she sat down and helped herself to one steaming piece. She drizzled the fresh maple syrup over it, admitting only to herself that she actually liked not having to worry about what she ate anymore. She did like French toast, not to mention thick maple syrup.

  “Do you know where I’ll be living yet?” she inquired casually, taking a bite of the new treat.

  Mitch watched her with an arched eyebrow. He’d never seen her show so much interest in a meal before. Probably figured between it and him, the French toast was the lesser evil.

  “Actually,” he said now, prompted by her question, “we’re looking at Portland, Oregon. Good size, reasonable distance away.”

  He watched her closely, wondering how she’d respond to this after her previous insistence at staying in the Northeast area. But she simply nodded, swallowing her bite of toast.

  “And ID?” she inquired. “I haven’t seen anything to go with my new identity yet.”

  “It’s in the file,” he told her. “Social Security card and birth certificate. Once Oregon is official, I’ll have the driver’s license and the teacher’s license for you, as well. It’ll all be taken care of.”

  She nodded, her brown eyes neutral as she absorbed this bit of news. She would have preferred having all the ID, now, but the Social Security card and birth certificate would do. With those she could get anything else she needed.