Hiding Jessica (7 page)

“Oh, Jessica,” he called out abruptly, his deep voice carrying easily across the winter sky. She pivoted, her face already frozen into an expressionless slate.

But he simply shook his finger at her mistake of responding to her real name.

“Gotcha,” he said. She froze, then turned sharply back around. This time, she did slam the door behind her. And standing out in the cold, Mitch found himself grinning once more. Oh, he would win this battle all right. Simply because whether she liked it or not, she needed him. He was the best there was.

Whistling slightly to himself now, he went back to the house.

* * *

When Jess came down after showering, she found that Mitch had indeed made chocolate-chip pancakes. At least some had chocolate chips, while others looked plain. Having regained some of her composure while showering, she did her best to appear unconcerned while she took one of the small unadorned ones, poured herself another glass of orange juice and sat down at the table.

Not, of course, that Mitch Guiness could leave well enough alone. Already seated, he took in her meager breakfast with a shaking head.

“You’re missing the point,” he told her sternly. Then, before she could stop him, he placed a pat of butter on the pancake and drizzled syrup on it. “Now eat,” he said.

Meeting his eyes with her cool, expressionless gaze, she picked up her fork and took the first bite, chewing mechanically as she stared at him. It was sweet and warm and rich in her mouth, things she wasn’t suppose to dwell on. Life was a matter of control. If you liked things, then you would want them. That led to problems. But feeling the butter melt on her tongue, thick and creamy, it was hard to remember all that. Which was why she rarely ate anything sweet or rich. It merely reminded her of all the denial a model’s life entailed.

Then again, she wasn’t a model anymore.

She took the second bite, still meeting his eyes with her own defiantly uncaring stare. But she cut the third bite even faster than the second.

Behind her, the front door opened.

“Good morning, Miss Gavornée,” Bill called out. This time, she didn’t respond, and Mitch smiled at her approvingly. It was that simple easy smile again, and she could feel its impact all the way to the tips of her toes. Who told this man he could smile so charmingly? What in the world was there to be so charming about? Her hands were suddenly shaking, and she set down the fork to take a long drink of the orange juice, tart and fresh on her tongue.

Mitch hadn’t showered yet, but his black hair was still damp from jogging. She could see the way it faintly curled on his neck, and smell once more the compelling mix of sweat and soap. Her appetite left her completely, her stomach suddenly churning with a desperate sort of restlessness.

Summoning control from deep inside, she forced her breath out in a steady sigh. Picking up the fork, she took another bite. But this time, the pancake tasted like ashes on her tongue.

“You should really try a chocolate-chip one,” Mitch said idly, his attention caught up by the barest flicker of emotions passing across her face. Bill had just stepped into the kitchen and was pouring himself a glass of orange juice, but Mitch hardly glanced at him at all. He was much more interested in the tightly controlled woman in front of him.

“I’m fine,” Jess managed to reply, keeping her eyes slightly away from his steady gaze.

“They’re very good,” Mitch continued. “I used to make them all the time for my sister, Liz. When she was little, she would follow me around the house on Sunday mornings and beg for chocolate-chip pancakes.”

“How nice,” Jess answered emotionlessly.

But he ignored her tone, his fingers tapping mindlessly on the tabletop as he continued to watch her. “It’s a shame you don’t have brothers or sisters. I have three younger brothers and, of course, Liz, and it made all the difference growing up.”

Jess took the last bite of the pancake, washing it down with the orange juice. Her hands were trembling, and her stomach kept clenching and unclenching. She had never felt this nervous in her entire life, as if she wanted to run, but didn’t know where to run to. As if she were hungry, ravenously hungry, but no food sounded appealing. She slipped her hands under the table to hide the shaking, and it seemed to her that he saw her do it and knew exactly why.

“Where is your family now?” she found herself asking, seeking desperately for a normal, casual tone.

“Oh, scattered about I imagine,” he said with a shrug. “Garret’s a Navy SEAL, so we never know where he is. Last I heard, Jake was in Eastern Europe looking at some possible investments in manufacturing. Cagney’s now a police detective in D.C. Then Liz—” He paused, and Jess risked a glance long enough to see the sadness abruptly wash over his face. In surprise, she didn’t look away. “Liz’s husband was killed two and a half years ago,” he said quietly. “They’d known each other all their lives, and it was very hard for her. So she took a job as a nanny in Connecticut, working for some genius recluse named Richard Keaton. I was pretty suspicious in the beginning—some strange things were certainly happening. But last time I talked to her, she was positively glowing. They’ve been married a year and I’ve never seen her happier.” His little sister was lucky—she’d found love twice in one lifetime. Himself... He didn’t dwell on it. Things happened in their own good time.

He shrugged now, his face once more returning to normal, and Jess found herself nodding.

He seemed to really care about his sister. Truly and genuinely care. And suddenly the emptiness yawned in her so huge, she had to look away. Her whole life had been alone, and she would continue it alone. Alone meant safety and security, and finally after all these years, peace. By herself, she didn’t have to mask every emotion or fear. And by herself, she didn’t have to wonder when the other person’s true colors would emerge, and the violent cycle would set in once more.

Because no one had ever talked about her with the caring emotion Mitch Guiness showed for his sister. And no one ever would.

It was better that way.

She stood, picking up the plates as she fought back the unexpected tightness in her throat.

“I’ll help with that,” Mitch said, watching her closely. He could see a tightness in her features, watch her Adam’s apple work in her throat. Her eyes no longer met his, and though her facial expression hadn’t changed, he suddenly detected a different mood about her. A strange mix of sadness, anger and bitterness.

He rose, reaching for the plate of pancakes and taking it easily from her hands. She didn’t say anything, didn’t even give him a cold scathing glance. Instead, she turned away completely and walked back into the kitchen, not even sparing a glance for Bill who was leaning against the doorframe, orange juice still in hand.

Given the smallness of the kitchen, they stood nearly shoulder to shoulder in front of the sink. Jess promptly offered to do all the dishes herself; the sooner he was away from her, the better. But Mitch insisted on drying, and after a long mutinous look, she gave in with a cool shrug. After that, she worked with quick, expedient moves. The sooner the dishes were done and she was out of the kitchen, the better.

“I imagine there’s a lot to do this afternoon,” she said at last, rinsing the soap off the last plate.

Next to her, Mitch nodded. “There’s a lot of ground to be covered,” he said. “From here on out, the learning never really stops. Bill, Jamie and myself will be testing you nonstop. At any given time, we may call you by your old name or your new name. It’ll be up to you to learn to stop reacting.”

She nodded, understanding. “And what’s on this afternoon’s agenda?”

“A beautician will be here around four. He’ll cut and dye your hair, go over your new contact lenses with you and show you how to use makeup to further alter your appearance. Some of that, of course, will be review for you.”

“Hey, Jessica.” Bill’s voice came from behind her. “Could you rinse this glass for me?”

She didn’t turn around, merely glancing over at Mitch with cool eyes. He grinned back at her.

“If you’re as good a teacher as you are a pupil, you’ll do great,” he said.

For some reason, the compliment inordinately pleased her. She did her best to suppress the emotion. After all, what this man thought was irrelevant. And she ought to be a good student—her life depended upon it.

Behind her, Bill congratulated her, and she took his glass.

“I’m going back out on watch,” he told Mitch. “Jamie’s been on shift since 2:00 a.m., so I imagine he’s ready for some sleep.”

Mitch nodded curtly, his face all business as he wiped his hands on the towel. “We’ll have a small meeting at three, just to go over the schedules. See you then.”

“Can I sit in?” Jess asked as Bill walked out.

Mitch gave her a penetrating glance. “Why?”

“It’s my life,” she replied evenly. “Maybe I want to know how it’s being handled.”

His face was set and he walked toward the doorway, putting more distance between them. “We’re experts, Jess,” he said in a shuttered voice. “And we haven’t done so badly after all.”

In fact, he had no intention of letting her sit in on the meeting. He’d had enough of her distrust. Sooner or later she needed to put some faith in him, just as he and two other men were putting their faith in her. They were all in this together. If any one of them slipped, they all paid the price.

She didn’t relent, however, following him back to the sitting area. “If you were in my shoes,” she replied shrewdly, “wouldn’t you do the same?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up a pack of cards sitting on the edge of the table, sat down and began to shuffle them. “When my sister first lost her husband,” he said slowly, his eyes on the shuffling red deck, “she wouldn’t eat, or sleep, or talk. We all worried about her, you know. I used to go up to her room, and play these little games for her. Magic tricks. Liz always liked magic tricks.” He looked up, pinning Jess with his unfathomable dark eyes. “I bet you don’t believe in magic,” he said softly.

Slowly, not quite able to take her eyes off him, feeling that restlessness suddenly spark and smolder in her stomach, she nodded. In response, he fanned out the deck before her.

“Pick a card, any card. Look at it, then put it back in the deck. And no matter what, don’t tell me the card you selected.”

“I want to sit in on the meeting,” she said.

“All in good time, Jess. Now humor me. Pick a card.”

Reluctantly, she did, her features already freezing over as she drew out and then replaced the three of diamonds. He continued looking at her, his brown eyes boring into hers as he shuffled the deck over and over again with long, capable fingers. Abruptly he stopped the movement and the red cards fell silent. He clapped the deck onto the table.

“Cut the deck into three even piles,” he instructed her.

Her eyes sharp and wary, she did as she was instructed, separating the one deck into three even stacks.

He held up the last stack, showing her the bottom card.

It was the eight of spades.

She suddenly released the breath she hadn’t even been aware she was holding, feeling the scorn settle comfortably on her shoulders.

“This is not your card,” he whispered with his unreadable eyes. She felt the tension return, and watched unmoving as his lean fingers peeled the eight of spades off the bottom of the deck and set it aside. He moved to the second stack. Flipping it up, he revealed the queen of hearts.

“This is not your card,” he repeated, and once more she nodded, feeling almost impatient now. Once more he peeled off the bottom card, setting it aside with the down-turned eight of spades. The remaining cards he piled back onto the first stack. Now there was just one last section of the previously cut cards. He flipped it up.

The three of diamonds.

Her stomach clenched, but she willed her eyes to remain unreadable. It was merely a sleight of hand she told herself, a con man’s petty trick.

“This is not your card,” the man before her said, and the triumph flared through her, suddenly hot. But it was followed by something else, not quite so comfortable, as she watched him set aside the card she had selected. A slight feeling of...disappointment. Quickly she shook the feeling away.

He was shuffling the remaining cards again, his eyes once more watching hers and giving nothing away. This was no longer the easy grinning man of the kitchen. This man appeared sterner, darker and much more powerful.

“Give me any number one through ten,” he instructed softly.

He’d already set aside her selected card, the trick had already failed. But with a small shrug she went along with it.

“Eight,” she said.

He nodded, his steady brown eyes boring into hers once more.

“I will bet you anything,” he said, “that the eighth card I count out will be yours.”

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly at this, her sharp mind quickly running over the possibilities. He’d already cast aside her true choice—it was sitting on the corner with the other two discards.

“What will you bet?” she asked cleverly.

“If I select incorrectly,” he said evenly, “you can attend this afternoon’s meeting.”

“And if you’re correct?” she quizzed, not wanting to give herself away by appearing overly confident.

“You have to trust me.”

She balked at this, even though she knew she would win, and never have to pay such a forfeit. “That is a ridiculous bet,” she informed him curtly.

He arched a dark brow. “You’re so determined not to trust, Ice Angel,” he whispered softly. “It almost makes me wonder what you fear.”

Her back stiffened immediately, her eyes growing cold.

“If I lose,” she clipped out slowly, each word dripping frost, “I promise not to question your methods again.”

“Fair enough,” he concurred, his face not giving her much ground. His gaze fell to the red deck, his hands deftly counting out cards from the bottom of the deck. At the eighth card, his hand froze. Abruptly he flipped it up to face her.

And she was staring at the three of diamonds.

She could not stop the flood of outrage that seized her.