Hiding Jessica (9 page)

The gesture also made him seem larger and more intimidating. She wasn’t sure whether she should back up or arch one hand of carefully manicured nails across his challenging face. Never had any man treated her like he did, as if every move she made was for his personal enjoyment. The insufferable son of a bitch.

A tense silence stretched across the room, neither moving, neither giving in. At long last, Bill cleared his throat in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” he said politely, suddenly resuming the mantle of blue-suited FBI agent. “But I believe it’s my turn to cook dinner.” Not waiting for their reply, he passed between them on his way to the tiny kitchen, giving Jess the excuse she needed to step back. She turned, still dignified and cool, and picked up the mirror. She took in her new self with one last critical look.

“Very good,” she said at last, turning to Dan. “You did excellent work. The only real trouble should be keeping the roots up.”

He nodded briskly, clearly relieved to be back on the subject at hand. “Yes, your hair was very light. Touch up at least every two, three weeks, definitely. Can you dye?”

She nodded.

“Good, good. Do it yourself then for the first six months or so. Mitch will agree it’s the best for security. Don’t want everyone to know right away you’re not a natural brunette. Questions?”

“Not at all,” she replied levelly. The brunette hair did make her look different, especially with the shorter, softer cut. The investment in time was well worth the gain in security. God knows Les was so caught up with blondes, he’d never imagine one voluntarily turning brunette.

Her reply seemed enough for Dan, because he was already closing his case. Mitch invited him to stay for the late dinner, but the man didn’t seem interested. In a blink of the eye, he was out the door again, apparently with a long drive to his next appointment.

With him gone, there was only Bill to referee the silence at dinner. Mitch seemed to have relaxed to his normal self, but Jess refused to be drawn in. She was angry with the man. Angry because he didn’t give her the distance most men gave her. And angrier still that no matter what she said or did to retaliate, he never seemed to mind. Most other men who tried to intrude were easily repelled, their fragile male egos squashed at her first coolly uttered comment. But this man seemed completely insufferable.

And the more she thought about it, the more it angered her.

After dinner, she once more did the dishes. She hadn’t had to cook yet, so it was the least she could do. Bill excused himself immediately to catch some sleep before his 2:00 a.m. shift began. It was already nearly ten, the makeover having consumed most of the evening.

“Tomorrow will be a busy day,” Mitch said from the table. He’d pushed back on the bench, stretching his long legs out before him. He seemed to fill the entire dining area, the soft plaid of his blue shirt shifting as he rolled a tired shoulder.

“What time do you want to begin?” she asked from the kitchen, her tone neutral.

He frowned as he contemplated this. “Probably 8:00 a.m.,” he said finally. “That way you can get in another jog if you’d like.”

Considering how tight her leg muscles were already beginning to feel, she highly doubted that. “Eight will be fine,” she said. “And what will we be working on?”

“Tomorrow’s the big day. We’ll start with poise and walking. Then work on resting posture, hand motions, facial expressions. Everything that makes you, you.”

She nodded from the kitchen, and the motion suddenly made him smile. Watching her now, he wondered if she even realized the extent of what he was talking about. She was a carefully controlled person, and tomorrow she would have to give that up. It was too distinguishing. Like now, for instance. No random splashing or crashing when she did the dishes. Instead, she took each plate, one by one, and wiped it clockwise three to four times. If there was one trouble spot, it received an independent scrub. Then the plate was run delicately under the water, first the front, then the back. Finally, she laid it carefully upside down on the towel to dry. Every motion was smooth and precise, like watching a well-oiled clock.

He could remember his own sister, Liz, doing the dishes. She liked to sing while she did them, and every now and then throw in little dancing steps, as well. She’d whirl plates, dash them under the water, stick them in the drying rack, then decide suddenly they weren’t so clean after all and jerk them back out—until the entire sink area—and generally part of her, as well—was covered in soapy water. But she had fun doing it. Somehow he couldn’t picture Jess ever describing anything as fun.

Strange, he thought suddenly. The woman before him was twenty-four, actually a few years younger than Liz. But watching her, the control of her expressions, the poise of her movements, she didn’t seem twenty-four at all. In terms of manners and sophistication, she could pass for twice her years.

What aged a woman so quickly? He had a feeling she would never tell him. She didn’t even like him. Then again, he baited her enough, he acknowledged to himself. He preferred her quietly simmering to coldly composed. At least simmering, she seemed close to human. And sooner or later he just might provoke her enough to actually give something away.

She finished the last dish now, setting it next to the other dishes to dry. She replaced the towel then turned, startling slightly at his intent gaze.

“I look that different, don’t I?” she said, halting in the middle of the kitchen as her head came up.

He nodded, his gaze raking her up and down. She did look different. The shorter haircut accentuated the clean lines of her face, and her soft brown eyes looked huge. Combined with her dark hair and pale skin, she looked somehow fresher, and well, more vulnerable.

“Do you miss being the supermodel?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head.

“Schoolteachers don’t get to fly to Paris,” he said. “And I don’t suppose you’ll get to wear designer gowns again, or stare people down with frosty blue eyes. Now you’ll just live in suburbia with the rest of the masses. One more little fish in a big pond.”

“Little fishes in big ponds attract less notice from sharks,” she replied softly. “That’s all I want.”

He narrowed his eyes suddenly, looking at her with his keen gaze. “Why did you live with such a man? The more I get to know you, the more I can’t see you putting up with a man like Les.”

“It’s getting late,” she said, turning her face slightly away. “I should be going to bed.”

“Coward’s way out, huh?” he prodded. “All these months, and you’re still avoiding everyone’s questions.”

Her head came back around, her eyes meeting his squarely now.

“It’s no one’s business,” she told him evenly. “No one’s business but mine. It’s not even your business, though I’m sure you hate to admit that.”

He shrugged, acknowledging her point. “It’s not my business,” he admitted. “But I am curious. After all, I’m risking my neck to save yours. Maybe I just want to know how it all got started.”

“I was born blond,” she told him flippantly. “That’s how it started.”

He smiled at her, a sudden slow smile that disarmed her completely, which was probably exactly what it was meant to do. “Well, we fixed that now, didn’t we?” he drawled.

She didn’t trust herself to answer. When he looked at her like that, with that easy grin and those bright eyes, her stomach did things it wasn’t supposed to do. Didn’t he realize he was supposed to be menacing and cold? Or egotistical and stupid? Not this strange combination of ease and strength she couldn’t quite figure out nor trust. Her hands came up to her hair. He was right—she was no longer blond. Now she had dark, curly hair and big brown eyes.

If you looked different long enough, did you become different, too? Would she go to sleep one night and dream Jess McMoran dreams, the nightmares of Jessica Gavornée long gone? Would there be a time when her instincts and impulses would no longer be her own, but belong to this new face and new name?

She imagined this man before her would tell her no, and she couldn’t bear to hear that right now. This man appeared to be one of those tough, honor-bound, black is black, white is white type of guys, which was easy enough for men. They were stronger, so they could set the rules. Les Capruccio had also espoused strong sentiments of loyalty and honor. Of course, those had applied to his interactions with other men and associates, and certainly were no barrier to beating the woman he considered his property.

It was easy for this man here to look at her and want to know the truth, because how would the truth ever hurt him? He was strong and powerful and could probably knock a woman out with one negligent, drunken fist.

Of course, the lies could hurt him well enough, a small voice intruded. He told her she had to give up all claim to the past. That she had to trust him, because he was trusting her. That her mistakes could cost them all.

Like a bullet through the back, like blood on fall leaves.

She shook the thought away, her fists unconsciously bunching at her sides. She wouldn’t be taken in by those lines. This man was the supposed hotshot; he ought to be able to take care of himself. It wasn’t her responsibility; she refused for it to be her responsibility. In a matter of days she would be gone, and then her lies would be her own, and her mistakes, as well.

From the table, Mitch watched her. She seemed to have slipped away to unknown thoughts that darkened her brown eyes and clenched her hands into fists. He could see her stiffen, her face looking suddenly stark, then slowly she relaxed once more. Her expression melted back into its passive, neutral state, the control once more covering the dark sparks of her inner thoughts. He was left wanting more.

Her control wasn’t as good by the end of day, he observed to himself. Both last night and tonight, things started seeping through. It appeared Cinderella began to waver as the clock neared midnight. If he kept her up late enough, exhausted her enough, would her secrets suddenly appear as blatantly as Cinderella’s true rags? It was an intriguing thought.

“It’s been a long day,” he observed quietly, watching her intently. She merely nodded, still standing in the middle of the kitchen.

“Feeling sore from the jog yet?” he inquired, trying a new tactic.

“A little” was all she’d admit.

“There’s a hot tub on the deck in the back,” he suggested mildly. She immediately stiffened, though, her eyes growing wary.

“I believe I will be going to bed now,” she said. And this time she no longer wavered but moved out of the kitchen. He noticed she kept close to the wall as she crossed the dining area, where he sat, into the living room. Oh, the hot tub suggestion had certainly spooked her. Did she think he had lecherous intents? He remembered his earlier reaction to her little act, and smiled wryly to himself. All right, so he couldn’t blame her.

Still, he wasn’t quite ready to let her go, either. He pushed himself off the bench, rising to his full height. She hesitated in the living room, then quickly went up the stairs. Almost leisurely he followed.

His longer legs took him up the stairs faster and he caught her still in the loft. Her hands began fidgeting, and her wariness was clear now.

“Isn’t this a little early for you?” she asked sharply. “I thought you hotshot types stayed up half the night because you’re so great you don’t even need sleep.”

He arched a black brow. “You’ve been watching too many movies,” he told her calmly. “I personally enjoy sleeping very much. However, if memory serves, you were the one who got very little sleep last night.”

“How do you know that?” she demanded at once, edging closer to her door. He was playing with her—her instincts told her that. But it was late and she was tired, and suddenly she hadn’t any composure left for games. He was too tall and powerful and she wished he would have just stayed downstairs. Left her alone. She really just wanted to be left alone.

“The walls here are thin,” Mitch replied. “And you’re a restless sleeper.”

That he knew so much about her stung. That even here she had so little privacy hurt. She was tired of all the protection, tired of the blue suits and all the things she had to do because they said it was for her own good.

“My sleeping habits are my own concern,” she said tautly. “Don’t you have better things to be observing or analyzing? At this point, dying in my sleep is the least of my worries.”

He chuckled, a low easy sound that reverberated all the way to her toes. “You’re quite right about that.”

He leaned against the wall, and the more relaxed stance took some of the edge off her nerves. He noticed her posture relent slightly, and stored that observation away for future reference.

“Don’t worry,” he told her now. “You’re quite safe here. Only myself and a handful of men know of this place.”

“It only takes one,” she pointed out coolly.

He shook his head, marveling once more at her suspicious mind. “You are so determined not to trust any of us, aren’t you?” he said, though it was really a rhetorical question.

She nodded, challenging him with her brown gaze.

“We haven’t done so badly,” he pointed out reasonably, not sure why he was trying to argue with someone who had such a reputation for being stubborn. Except that all his life, Mitch had been the trustworthy one. People always looked up to him, relied on him, and he’d always come through. From the child who had brought abandoned kittens home to the adult who had held his sister while she cried out her grief at her young husband’s tragic death, he’d been the responsible one. Yet this woman seemed determined to think badly of him, and he didn’t deserve it. “We saved your life twice,” he continued now. “One of our agents even died for you. Yet you still scorn us. Pretty ungrateful, if you ask me.”

She stiffened, and he could tell he’d struck a nerve. “From my perspective,” she said frostily, “two attempts were made on my life when I had been promised that I was safe, that no one would find me. So how did those two hit men find me, Mitch? If the Witness Protection Program is so good and you guys so reliable, why were there even two attempts?”