Hiding Jessica (6 page)

But he was starting to catch on, starting to see the little signs. And right now, all the signs told him this woman was not as she seemed. People learned to control their emotions for a reason, and generally that reason was to hide something.

He would be watching her very closely the next couple of days. Hell, by the time he was done, she’d think she had a shadow, because he had no intention of letting her out of his sight.

What he’d told her earlier was the truth. If she made a mistake, broke the rules, they would all pay for it.

And Mitch Guiness knew just how dear that price could be.

Chapter 3

S
he jerked awake with the scream still ripe in her throat. She lay there for a long, tortured moment, her fingers dug into the mattress, her eyes wide with terror. Then slowly, with more control than any one person really should possess, she forced herself to exhale.

It was all right now. Les was locked up and could never hurt her again.

His fists couldn’t pummel her face. His legs couldn’t kick her ribs.

It was all over.

But as she pulled herself out of bed, she felt sick. For a moment she pressed her hand to her stomach and willed the images to pass.

She really did just want to believe it was over. But sometimes, in the twisted workings of her unconscious, Les was no longer Les, but Harry. And even as she fought to escape the raining blows, she could hear the sound of her mother crying in the kitchen.

Wrapping the quilted comforter around herself for warmth, she began pacing the room.

The nightmares were a fairly new phenomena, she forced herself to acknowledge. Before, her body had simply slept when she told it to sleep. Indeed, it had been one of her greatest strengths as a model. She could keep the erratic hours and exhausting schedules simply by dictating her body’s performance.

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 said. 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.