by Alicia Scott
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 f
rost, “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.
“That’s impossible,” she snapped, and promptly reached for the three cards on the corner of the table, turning them up. Her eyes scanned over them. But what had once been the eight of spades, queen of hearts and three of diamonds was now the eight of spades, queen of hearts and nine of clubs. “You tricked me,” she accused. “You cheated somehow; kept the card up your sleeve—something like that.”
He took the cards from her without replying, shuffling them easily back into the deck.
“Maybe I didn’t cheat,” he told her evenly, setting the deck down on the corner of the table. “Maybe it was magic.”
He brushed by her, feeling the anger that radiated from her like icy heat even as her face remained frozen.
“There’s no such thing,” she said tersely, her hands balling at her sides in her effort at control. He had bested her in a way she had not been bested in years, and even now her mind rebelled against accepting it. There was no such thing as magic.
He stepped down into the living room, glancing at her over his shoulder. And his eyes fell almost casually to her balled fists, then smoothed back up to meet her eyes with his own level gaze.
“Maybe,” he told her, “you should believe in magic. Maybe you should believe in me.”
He could already see the retort forming on her lips, and he didn’t feel compelled to await its arrival. He calmly walked away even as he felt her eyes throw icy daggers into his back.
Behind him, he heard a dull thud, like a fist pounding a table, and as he walked up the stairs he began to grin.
Chapter 4
For the rest of the morning, Jess did her best to ignore Mitch. This wasn’t easily accomplished. When she went outside for a walk, it was only to hear cries of “Jessica” behind her. Already duped once, she refused to take the bait the second time. However, she also forgot to turn when Bill called out Miss McMoran, earning another knowing grin from Mitch. Still, by midafternoon she was doing better. To help herself, she trained her mind to think of herself only as Jess McMoran, thirty-year-old schoolteacher. She daydreamed possible memories of college and early aspirations of becoming a teacher while she walked through the freezing January afternoon.
It was like an actress preparing for a role, she told herself. For a few days, she would immerse herself in the other person. And then she would simply be Jess McMoran. Except this role entailed a lifetime job.
Did a lie built upon a lie become a truth?
It would, she told herself fiercely, as she huddled under the thick warmth of Jamie’s borrowed jacket. By sheer force of will, she would make it.
Mitch, Bill and Jamie had their meeting at three. True to her word, she did not attend, merely walking gracefully by on her way up to her room to read. Mitch had won the bet, though she’d be wary about being taken in again.
Her blue eyes narrowed as she topped the stairs. Magic was simply a trick, a sleight of hand. She hadn’t caught it this time because she hadn’t been looking closely enough. But next time, next time she would keep her eyes sharp. She didn’t believe in magic, only mankind’s knack for deception—something Mitch Guiness had apparently mastered.
At four, a pickup truck pulled up outside. From the upstairs loft, she could look out a window and watch as Mitch strode out to meet the vehicle. It was probably just the beautician Mitch had spoken of earlier, but that didn’t quite stop her tension from building. Abruptly, she remembered a not-so-distant fall day. A car driving up, herself trying to get in. And then the cracking sound of rifle fire, the man beside her arching, falling down from the force of the armor-piercing bullet. They hastily shoved her inside the sedan and raced off, leaving her to look through the back window as three remaining agents picked up the lifeless body and bundled it into the last car.
The blood fell upon the crimson leaves and the dull black of the smoky sedan.
She shook the image away abruptly, the scenery before her registering once more the startling white of a snowy January. And Mitch was still standing there, in the wide open like a fool, she told herself vehemently. But her heart pounded in her chest and she could feel the light moisture of sweat on her palms.
Why did he stand there like that?
Suddenly the pickup door swung open. Mitch was already walking toward it, his arms wide in welcome while in her mind she could see the easy grin on his face. Such a powerful body, she thought vaguely. Dark and strong and brimming with vitality.
And absolutely mortal under the impact of a bullet.
She suddenly couldn’t take it and turned away. Looking down, she could see her hands shaking while her body trembled with nervousness and dread. What was wrong with her? She didn’t think of these things, right? It was all a business arrangement. He took his risk like she took hers, and if it didn’t turn out, so be it. It wasn’t her fault, damn it. It wasn’t.
But for some reason, the thought of that large body suddenly arching under the impact of ferocious lead was too much to take. The past five months were catching up with her, she thought dully. And, of course, people could only take so much blood on their hands.
With a deep breath, she searched for her control. Only then did she become aware of the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She looked up in time to see Mitch emerging onto the loft, tall, commanding and very much alive.
He seemed to freeze halfway across the loft, his eyes suddenly sharpening and looking at her with keen interest. Did the strain show in her face? She couldn’t be sure, but years of training enabled her not to fidget. Instead, she steadied her gaze and looked him straight in the eye, defying him to question her mood.
He arched a black brow as if he knew exactly what she was doing.
“Dan is here,” he said. “If you’ll come to the kitchen, he’s ready to start work.”
She turned away from the window completely and brushed by him without saying a word. She felt him fall into step behind her, the warmth and vitality reaching out to her once more. And deep in her stomach she felt the restlessness stir even as she fought it back bitterly.
She would not be affected by this man. She would not, she would not, she would not.
“Ready to become a brunette?” he asked, his voice low and close in her ear. “Or do blondes really have more fun?”
“Define ‘fun,’” she replied coolly, descending the last few stairs without even a backward glance. She practically sailed into the kitchen, her head held so high and gracefully, she could pass as a queen. And behind her, she could hear Mitch’s throaty laugh as he watched.
She still didn’t turn around, but her eyes turned a crystalline blue that flashed with inner fire. She focused on the smaller man in front of her.
Dressed in faded Levi’s and a brown plaid shirt, he looked more like a hunter than beautician. But when he held up his kit, she could see his eyes were serious and professional. Indeed, he was already raking her over with a critical gaze.
“Yes,” he said shortly, his brow crinkled. “You’re definitely a model. How challenging.” He reached up a brisk hand, grabbing her chin and turning her head from side to side. “What cheeks. I have to say, most snitches don’t have your bone structure.”
He released her chin and turned immediately to his kit while she looked at Mitch with startled eyes. Mitch grinned at her.
“Meet Dan. He works for the Bureau, does all the important witnesses. Consider yourself in good hands.”
“She’s having wrinkles, correct?” Dan spoke up crisply. He was perusing the widest assortment of hair dyes Jess had ever seen.
“Yes. Next week, I think.”
“Fine,
fine. I can see your point now. Hair and eyes will help, but oh, that face. Truly remarkable. Black hair?”
“Dark brown,” Jess amended.
He looked at her sharply, scrutinizing her skin once more. “Quite right. Sit. We have a lot of work to do.”
It was the last thing he said to her for the next four hours. Mostly he mused to himself, evaluating her hair and face with critical eyes. When he did have a comment or suggestion, he posed it to Mitch who sat on a nearby chair, cutting Jess out of the process completely. She didn’t question it because the interaction mirrored the modeling world and thus she was accustomed to it. A model was nothing more than a blank canvas, a passive receiver that came to life on demand. The beauticians and fashion designers were the true artists.
“What about a perm?” Mitch asked shortly. “Something soft and curly to round out her face. At least until she puts on more weight.”
Jess glanced over at him coolly, as if the words didn’t bother her at all. She’d be damned before she’d give the man any more ground.
“Yes, curls,” Dan concurred. “That will help. And shorter, too, I think. It must be a totally new look.”
And so it was, four hours later when he was done. Jess stared into the mirror at a dark-haired woman with pale, magnolia skin. Even her eyebrows and lashes had been dyed, accentuating new doe eyes of liquid brown. With a flare of rich, bold colors sweeping across her eyelids, her eyes looked huge in her face.
Huge and...soft.
Try as she might, they didn’t quite harden the way her natural eyes had. The icy edge seemed suddenly gone, tamed by richer, softer colors. She wasn’t sure she liked the change. On their own volition, her eyes swept up to find Mitch.
He was staring at her, a frown apparent on his face as his gaze raked her up and down with critical fervor. He looked uncomfortable for a moment, as if he, too, wasn’t sure of this new woman. But then he gave a short, curt nod.
