Hiding Jessica (22 page)

“It will have to do,” Mitch said at last, trying to keep the wariness out of his own voice. He’d been hoping for more space. A lot more space. His nerves were on edge and his body seemed to be in a constant state of half arousal. She thought she’d sleep better in her own room. Hell, he knew he would.

But, he reminded himself grimly, this was the safest course given the situation, and he was a man whose primary concern was safety. He walked over to the first bed and sat down.

The mattress sagged so damn much, he practically reached the floor. This time, he couldn’t quite keep the frustration from flickering across his face.

Jess saw the look, and tried to give him a narrow berth as she crossed to the other bed. Given the tight quarters, however, she brushed past his legs, causing him to stiffen so fast, she was surprised he didn’t snap in half from the motion. Her own jaw clenched and her nerves tightened to near breaking point. She pretended nonchalance while pressing down on her bed with a tentative hand. It was at least a little better.

“I hope you didn’t pay too much for the room,” she said at last.

“A dollar would be too much for this,” Mitch grumbled back. He stood wearily. “We have five and half hours left before ten. I’m getting some sleep.”

Jess nodded, watching him behind shuttered eyes as he turned once more to the bed. With a sigh, he sat down again and began taking off his boots. Jess watched that, as well, her nerves slowly stretching tighter.

Would he sleep in all his clothes? Or maybe just take off his shirt? Surely it couldn’t be comfortable to sleep in jeans. She imagined he slept in the buff most of the time. Totally and completely naked.

Her head pivoted sharply toward the wall, but she still had to take a deep, shuddering breath. Behind her she could hear the complaining creak as Mitch lowered all two hundred pounds of himself onto the bed. She risked another glance to see him sprawled on his back, fully clothed, on top of the covers. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out to the smooth, low tones of sleep.

Now why did she feel so disappointed?

Trying to move quietly so she wouldn’t disturb him, she tentatively stretched out on her own bed, also fully clothed. But while her muscles protested their exhaustion, her mind refused to shut down. Never in her life had she felt so tired. And never had sleep seemed so far away.

Staring at the water-stained ceiling above her, she could still see the bodies of Jamie and Bill, propped up so coldly against the base of the tree. And she could see Darold, falling down into the crimson-colored leaves. And the sound of the shotgun, her father’s own surprised face as he stumbled suddenly forward, the dim comprehension that never fully materialized as he died in an instant at her feet.

She shivered, unable to block out the image, and rolled onto her side. But the curtains of the room were gold-and-orange patterned, seeming to mock her until, once more, she felt the anger and pain.

She’d hated the violence. Hated her father for coming home late at night and beating her poor mother even after he’d sworn just that morning that he would never hurt them again. And she’d hated him for always crying afterward, for begging their forgiveness and swearing that he’d quit the booze and he’d control his temper and somehow they’d all be a family again. Because he never quit. And even as her cheek had bruised and the blood had dripped from her cut lip, she’d known he would come home drunk again.

At times, she had hated her mother for shooting him. More than that, however, she hated herself and that one small flash of relief she’d felt as her father had fallen once and for all at her feet. No more fear. No more pain. No more promises of the good life that had never come.

The terror was gone, but it had only been replaced by the nightmares. Because she had loved him. He’d never been a good father, he’d never been anything other than a drunken, violent man, railing at the world and his wife and his daughter for his own failings. But he’d been the only father she had. And even at that last bitter moment, the bile rising in her throat, the tears stinging her eyes, a part of her had still loved him.

And had still wanted to believe that someday he would be the father and husband he’d always promised he would be.

She curled up tighter, feeling the burning in her eyes and refusing to give in. It had all been so long ago. A horrible, awful past she’d spent her whole life shutting out. When they’d taken her mother away to prison and pawned Jess off onto the Social Services system, she’d made her vow. She would walk away, and she would walk proud. She knew never to trust, because even those who were supposed to love you were weak and petty and violent. And the only person you could ever believe was yourself. Promises were too easy to make, and even easier to break.

She’d thought she’d done so well, too. Until Les Capruccio had started the cycle all over again, blackmailing her with his knowledge of her mother. Even then, she’d thought she’d found a way out. She wasn’t going to be the victim anymore. It had all seemed so simple.

Until Darold fell into the fall leaves. Until she looked into the shocked eyes of Jamie and Bill, and realized that ten years later, the blood was still flowing and it was all on her hands.

No matter how far she ran, she never escaped.

She was shivering; she could feel each violent tremble as she curled up tighter. Control, she reminded herself, control. But all she could see was Jamie and Bill sitting at the base of the tree. Dead because of her. Because of her.

And the gold-patterned carpet turned red while the sound of her own silent scream echoed down the hall.

“Jess?” Mitch’s voice cut through. “Jess, are you all right?”

She didn’t trust herself to speak, didn’t even trust herself to move. There was one horrible moment when she was flooded by the panic. He couldn’t know, he couldn’t know. She just wanted to be left alone. Very, very alone. Because then the nightmare would fade, leaving her in a solitude where no one could hurt her, and she could hurt no one.

But through the stomach-hollowing panic, another emotion cut through: relief.
Because this man knew how to hold her. This man could do magic....

She heard a groan as the bed behind her protested Mitch’s departure. Then abruptly her own bed sagged as Mitch sat down. It rolled her half toward him, but she couldn’t stop the trembling. Softly he placed his warm hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay, Jess,” he told her in his low, strong voice. “Death isn’t an easy thing to deal with. It’s better if you just let it all out.”

She half nodded, concentrating on the feel of his hand on her shoulder. Firm and warm and gentle. Like an anchor back to the present, something to cling to. But it wasn’t enough, she realized dully. She didn’t want just his hand on her shoulder. She wanted all of him, warm and solid, pressed next to her. She wanted to bury her head against the strength of his shoulder while her body shuddered away the last of the aftershock. She wanted to feel him against every inch of her, solid and giving.

And she wanted his lips hard upon her own, chasing away all the shadows from her mind until she wasn’t Jess McMoran or the Ice Angel or anyone else. Until she was just a woman with a man. Nothing more, nothing less.

She didn’t know exactly when she rolled over. She never met his eye, never gestured with a coy glance. She simply found him in a blaze of movement, sitting up and claiming his lips all in one smooth blur that left no doubt in his mind what she wanted. He could taste the desperation in her lips. Taste the salt of unshed tears, the earnestness of unfinished pain. She hurt, and the pain moved him.

In this one moment he didn’t care what his training told him. He didn’t care he had every right to be suspicious, that indeed she was a woman with secrets. In her kiss, she was a woman who needed him, and he knew at this moment he needed her, as well.

His hands buried themselves in the thick silk of her hair, drawing her closer to deepen the kiss. She responded immediately, pressing against him urgently as her arms clung to his neck and her breasts flattened against his chest. She was a tormented woman, and he could feel that torment in each raging kiss, her lips slanting savagely across his own as her hands clutched fiercely at his shirt. The wildness called upon something deep within him, as well, until his normally restrained desire was gone, leaving just the urgency and fire.

She bit his lower lip, a light nip that made him growl and press her closer. His fists closed around her sweater, and without ceremony dragged it over her head. Far from protesting, she tugged his own shirt from him with quick vigor, then pulled his head down for another deep and hungry kiss. Her bare skin pressed hotly against his own, and the contact was electric.

He felt like a man on fire, wanting and desiring and hungering beyond all sanity. He wanted to tame this wild woman. He wanted to absorb all the rage and torment inside himself until she shuddered and sighed and gasped with the relief. He wanted to hear his name drawn like a prayer from her lips. And he wanted to bury himself deep inside her until the fury left even himself, and they could lie like exhausted children in the aftermath.

His hands traced the lace outline of her bra on her back, searching for the clasp while she arched and rubbed against him. With something akin to savagery, his deft hands twisted the clasp free and quickly tore the bra from between them.

His hands slid forward and found her breasts.

The sigh escaped her in a tiny rush, fueling them both. She could feel the rough calluses of his thumbs, rasping over her tender skin until her nipples puckered with sharp intensity. Each sensation coiled down to her stomach, feeding a deep and growing ache.

There was no room for darkness here. No room for bitter memories of Les’s clutching hands, no room for the hatred and the pain. Just this one man whose touch lit her aflame until she hungered for things she knew too little about to hunger more. She wanted this man and she wanted this moment. She welcomed the intensity of his touch, the way it chased all the thoughts from her mind until she was simply a wild and sensual creature searching for the release he could provide.

His lips returned to hers, blazing away the unshed tears while his hands curved around her breasts. She shuddered, a low shudder that had nothing at all to do with fear. Her own hands grew bold with the urgency, splaying themselves flat against the muscled contours of his chest. She could feel his heart beating, powerful and true. It accelerated at her touch, and for the first time she realized her own ability to impact him. Emboldened, she trailed kisses along his jaw before dipping her head down to find his corded neck. He tasted of salt when she nipped his neck, and this time, he was the one who gasped.

He pushed her back farther onto the bed. She did not protest, but dragged him down on top of her, not wanting to let him go even for an instant. His chest pressed against her breasts, and she could feel the prickling sensation of his sparse black chest hair tickling her nipples. Instinctively, she rubbed herself against him, firing them both with desire. Her jean-clad legs instinctively wrapped themselves around his hips, seductively pressing herself against the hot, rigid heat of his desire.

He growled low in his throat, his hands reaching instantly for the clasp of her jeans before he completely lost all control. He pulled away long enough to tug at her jeans, pulling them down and off her long slender legs. She shivered slightly from the impact of the cold, her eyes growing rounded and suddenly unsure. But then Mitch was there, his lips upon her own, returning her to the world of his touch. He blazed his own trail to her ear, wanting to learn every nuance and intrigue of her body. He found her earlobe, sucking it gently between his teeth. The arching response of her hips told him she liked it. Then there was the spot above her elbow he discovered with his tongue, the dipping hollow of her throat. And finally the taut bud of her nipple, which he gently rolled into his mouth.

Her body tensed, every muscle responding as the bolt of desire shot fiercely through her. Her hands tangled in his hair, holding him close, because surely if he left now she would die. Her body seemed on fire, raging and coiling with sensations and energy she’d never felt before. She wanted him, needed him.

“Please,” she gasped, unaware of the sound.

But Mitch heard and understood. Oh, the Ice Angel might have done her best to appear cold. But he was learning quickly enough there was a wealth of woman underneath all that control. A woman capable of great pain and great passion.

He rose, his hands falling to the waistband of his jeans. For a moment, she opened her mouth to protest his leaving. But then she watched him roll down his jeans, and her eyes once more grew round. She tensed, the panic hovering around the edges. He was such a large and powerful man. Surely such a man would most likely hurt her. How could he not?

Mitch saw the uncertainty penetrate her eyes once again, and at that moment he would cheerfully have liked to kill Les Capruccio. To fill such a beautiful woman with fear...

He rolled on a condom and came back to her on the bed more gently this time, his passion tempered by her gaze.

“Let me please you,” he whispered. “Trust me, Jess. Just this once, trust me.”

She closed her eyes, her body still half on fire, and nodded.

He lay down fully beside her, gently bringing her body against his own until flesh pressed against flesh. His lips found hers once more, teasing and beguiling this time as he allowed her to become fully accustomed to him. Then, in a quick and fluid motion, he rolled her on top of him, legs intermingling with legs, skin pressed against skin.

For one moment she tensed, but as his hands smoothed sexily down the curve of her back, she relaxed once more, marveling in the feel. He was so strong and hard, a distinct and tantalizing difference from her own rounded softness. Experimentally, she rubbed one leg against his own, unconsciously positioning her hips more comfortably against his rigid hardness.

Mitch had to clench his fists to keep from taking her then and there. He could feel the moist softness of her so incredibly close. An easy twist of his hips and he could sink into the softness, bury himself in her femininity. His eyes darkened to near black with the erotic strain.