Hiding Jessica (18 page)

“Fine,” Mitch said, his own voice curt as he watched her pull away from him. He half wanted to strangle her for being so damn stubborn and for keeping secrets that would probably cost him his life. And once more he wondered if there wasn’t some man after all. Then again, given how skittish she was around him, the logical part of his brain dismissed it.

Then who was she protecting? And why wouldn’t she just tell him? He’d done everything in the world to deserve her trust. But no matter how much he’d worked on her identity, Jess McMoran was still the Ice Angel.

And no matter how much she’d wanted his kiss earlier, she still locked him out of her thoughts now.

He was the fool to even let her get to him.

“I’m going to shower,” he said flatly. His watch told him it was already nearly seven, and they had a long day ahead. “You can have the bed.”

“I’ll be fine on the floor,” Jess returned. She took two steps away, but in the small room, that still didn’t put much space between them. She turned, willing her face to be neutral. “You need the sleep worse than me, I got to nap earlier.” It was a small lie, but for a good cause.

“Whatever,” Mitch said finally. The sleeplessness was catching up with him, and he certainly had no intention of wasting precious time arguing with her. “We have until nine. Then we need to get a car.”

She nodded. That meant only two hours of sleep, but she didn’t complain. She stepped back to let him pass, but even then, his shoulder brushed her. Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water penetrating the silence.

She was left alone in the tiny space, pulling the cheap floral comforter off the bed to wrap herself up with on the floor.

Her eyes closed wearily, and she used her iron control to will herself to sleep.

She didn’t wake when the sound of running water shut off. And she didn’t wake when the large man emerged from the bathroom to contemplate her sleeping form on the floor. Her face remained expressionless even in slumber, the smooth, soft skin not giving anything away.

Briefly, Mitch imagined Les Capruccio bringing back a powerful arm and hitting that smooth skin. He could almost see the bruise, and it filled him with a rusty rage. So help him God, if he ever met Les in person he’d teach that man what it meant to feel pain.

Forcing the thought away, he bent down and easily lifted her up into his arms. She mumbled once, but remained soft and relaxed in his arms. He could feel the curve of her breast against his chest, and his body reacted accordingly.

“Rutting bastard,” he murmured to himself. He deposited her gently onto the bed; she rewarded him with a soft sigh, stretching out like a languorous cat without ever waking. He had to forcefully turn away.

With a grim expression of control, Mitch laid his own large frame down in front of the door. In a matter of minutes, he, too, was asleep.

And for Jess, the nightmare stayed away. Instead, slumberland stirred with the faint heat of a faraway kiss, and the gentle warmth of a strong embrace. She slept well.

Mitch slept, too, but one thought remained solid in his unconscious state: How had Les known about the retreat? Where had it all gone wrong? And in the darkness of his mind, a blond woman appeared with icy blue eyes and a perfect porcelain face. She turned to point a carefully manicured finger at him, and even as he watched, her hair abruptly turned brown and short, though her eyes remained blue as they bore into his own.

For one moment, the ice relented and the blue depths grew shiny with yearning. He reached out to her, discovering for the first time that his legs were shackled.

She remained captive beyond his reach, and as if she realized it herself, tears began to softly roll from those blue, blue eyes.

He reached down, grabbing the iron shackles with mighty hands. But they wouldn’t budge and he looked up in time to see the dark shadows rolling in, threatening to take her from him.

He held out his hand, but it was too late. Suddenly she was gone, and only her cries still rang in the corridors of his mind.

Chapter 9

M
itch awoke in approximately one hour and forty-five minutes, his internal alarm clock performing well. A quick glance at his watch told him it was five minutes after nine, and more than time to get ready. Slowly he sat up, wringing the last of the sleep from his sore and tired body.

He could feel the strains of last night every time he moved, and the exhaustion hovered like a shadow behind his mind. Dim images of a forgotten nightmare floated just beyond his reach, leaving him feeling muddy and apprehensive.

Unbidden, his gaze swept up to the bed. Jess still slept soundly, rolled up like a caterpillar in a floral cocoon. Only the top of her hair was visible, shining in the dim light of the shaded room.

He should wake her. The day before them would be long.

He took a deep breath and swept away the last of the sleep. He’d operated on little sleep before, and knew that adrenaline could keep a man moving long after normal physical endurance. Already his mind began to race with the multitude of unanswered questions.

Something had gone wrong, something that now put his and Jess’s lives in immediate danger. He could handle that—it was his job and he’d been through the drill, time and time again. At the beginning of the assignment, he’d made plans just for nights like last night. In his wallet, he already had a driver’s license and credit cards for a whole new identity, while the duffel bag held two thousand dollars in cash. In two other cities, he’d opened safe-deposit boxes, all in different names, that held yet two more sets of new identities and more than an ample supply of cash.

He could keep them going for a long time without leaving a plastic trail. And he could incorporate enough identities to further complicate the chase.

The question was, Who were they running from?

He frowned, running a large hand through his hair. He stretched once more, wincing at the tight muscles in his back. Hell, what he’d give for a hot Jacuzzi and a cold beer. He stood.

He didn’t know what had happened to Jamie or Bill. One of them could have been the leak. Not Bill—he’d worked with Bill before. Unless something had happened in the meantime...

Men like Les Capruccio had a lot of levers at their disposal, and not all of them were money.

Still, Mitch shook his head. He trusted his instincts with people, and his instincts had told him Jamie and Bill were the right choice. And God knows, there were other ways Les could have learned about the retreat: Dan, the other agents who’d come to the retreat, Mitch’s boss...

His gaze went to Jess. How much did he know about this woman? She’d told him she’d hated Les, and yet she wouldn’t say why she’d stayed with the man for a year and a half. Just nine hours earlier, she’d tried to sneak out of the retreat, though she claimed there was no man involved.

Hell, the woman kissed like a yes and pulled away like a no. Nothing about her made sense. Could she have intentionally betrayed them? He thought of how she’d acted last night. The surprise had at least seemed genuine, and the shudders of her frame had seemed real enough. No, she’d been scared last night. If she’d given away their location, at least it hadn’t been intentionally.

But that didn’t matter, Mitch thought grimly. The results remained the same. The woman hoarded her secrets, and those secrets might very well become deadly.

And he’d done this job long enough to know paranoia was the best policy. When all else failed, the answer was the one that had been before you all along.

He walked the two steps over to the bed.

Her eyes opened the minute he approached. He could see the top of her lashes as they fluttered up.

“Is it time?” she asked quietly. He could hear the thickness of exhaustion in her tone and he nodded.

“It’s after nine,” he said.

She sat up, the comforter still wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair fluffed out around her, mussed and rearranged by her two-hour nap. Dark rings rimmed her eyes with strain, and he knew she was tired even as he knew she’d never admit to it.

“You should shower,” he said, “Get cleaned up the best you can, do your hair. There’s nothing so obvious as people who look like they’re on the run.”

She half grimaced, then nodded. “I’ve known photographers less demanding,” she informed him wryly.

He spared her a grin, but motioned her out of the bed. They really didn’t have much time to waste. He noticed she climbed out on the far side of the bed, and shook his head.

The woman didn’t give an inch.

Soon he heard the rhythmic sound of running water. Then he put his plan into action.

Jess emerged just twenty minutes later. With no blow dryer, she’d pulled her shorter hair back into a tentative French braid. The loose braiding gave her a soft, romantic look that went well with her dark rose sweater. Mitch’s hands paused on the table, his gaze momentarily caught.

She didn’t look the same anymore, he thought, telling himself he was making the suitable observations of the official trainer. The darker hair and brows gave her skin a vulnerable translucence, a girl-next-door image that belied her frigid reputation. Maybe it was the coaching, but now she did stand looser, her shoulders curled enough to look relaxed. And her face looked soft, her dark eyes beguiling with the faint smudges of a long night.

As he watched, one hand came up and she began to slowly twist her ring.

He looked away, feeling a sudden, unfamiliar hollowness. Was he watching one more act, one stage of Jessica Gavornée’s metamorphosis into a new and elusive identity? Or was he seeing the woman beneath the ice, the possible Jess McMoran?

He wanted to believe in the act, he realized suddenly, even as he knew he’d helped create the illusion. And magicians knew better than to be swept up by their own tricks.

He looked up, keeping his brown gaze hard.

“You do that very well now,” he said levelly. “Your new identity is coming along well.”

She faltered for just a moment, and something like a shadow swept behind her eyes. A flash of pain? He knew better than to think such things. But then she stepped forward, the faint scent of peaches wafting in, and he felt himself lose his mind all over again. God help him, this job would kill him yet.

“What’s all this?” Jess asked softly, uncertainty edging the words.

Mitch had pulled the night table away from the wall, and was sitting behind it in the feeble desk chair that would most likely crash from the burden of his weight. His hands rested on the bare wood of the table, and from the few feet that separated them, she could see the dull gleam of silver coins.

“Have a seat,” Mitch said, and gestured to the bed. She hesitated, feeling the beginnings of apprehension. He looked so intent sitting there, and obviously this had all been set up with a purpose.

“Sit, Jess,” Mitch said flatly. She slowly crossed to the bed.

“Do we really have time for this?” she prodded, her voice wary.

“You don’t even know what this is,” Mitch replied curtly. His grin was gone, and at once she recognized this was the strong, relentless Mitch before her. Her apprehension doubled as she sat down gingerly on the very edge of the bed.

“You look like you’re on the verge of flight,” Mitch commented, looking at her intensely now with his piercing brown eyes.

“Should I be?” she returned levelly, summoning her control to return his gaze. Her shoulders and back were ramrod straight, and her hands rested calm and controlled on her lap. Nothing at all gave her away.

Mitch shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers. “Here’s the deal,” he said briskly. He spread out his hands to reveal four silver dollars lying on the table. “I’m going to make these silver dollars go through the table, one by one,” he told her.

“Is this another bet?” she asked sharply.

“Not at all,” he replied levelly. “I know you don’t believe in magic. I know you believe it’s just a bunch of con man high jinks. So this time—” he paused meaningfully “—this time I’m going to tell you how it’s done.”

She remained suspicious. “Surely we don’t have time for a brief magic-trick interlude. Didn’t you say something about renting a car this morning?”

“Absolutely. But this isn’t just a brief ‘interlude’ as you said. See, knowledge isn’t for free, Jess. I’m going to show you how right you think you are, but I want something in return.”

“What?”

“Nothing you can’t refuse to give to me,” he said obliquely. He held up the coins. “Four silver dollars.” He handed one across the table to her. Her gaze remained skeptical and impatient, but she took the coin.

“It’s a real silver dollar. Correct?”

She nodded, and he took the coin back and handed her the other three. “All solid. Correct?”

Once more she nodded.

“And the table, Jess?” He rapped it lightly with his knuckles. “Solid, as well. Correct?”

“Yes, yes,” she agreed, with an impatient wave of her hand. “Everything is solid. You shouldn’t possibly be able to do what you’re going to do, et cetera, et cetera.”

He grinned at her this time, some of the old Mitch back in his eyes. “It’s good to know you believe,” he said wryly.

He placed the four coins on his open palm, then curled his fist around them. He rested the fist on the table, showing her his other empty hand. “I’m going to rap on the table,” he said evenly. “And when I do, one coin will pass from this fist, through the table, to my waiting hand.”

She looked openly skeptical. The table and the coins were solid, so what he was saying was indeed physically impossible. Which meant, of course, she reminded herself, that it wasn’t actually going to happen. It would just appear as if it happened.

“Four coins. See?” he prompted her, showing her the coins in his one hand again. She nodded, watching his empty fist go under the table. His closed fist abruptly knocked on the table. There was a small pause and a look of concentration on Mitch’s face. Abruptly, she heard a small metal clink.

Mitch brought out his one fist from under the table and opened it for her to see. One shiny silver dollar gleamed on his palm.