by Alicia Scott
He climaxed, and she relished it because she loved him.
He collapsed, and she cried silent tears against his shoulder because she would never stay.
“Damn you,” he swore, the words exhausted and low. She quieted him with a long, slow hand down his back. The tears still flowed, and she didn’t trust herself to speak. His weight was heavy and sure, but her body was still on fire, her hips moving helplessly of their own accord.
Suddenly he rolled off her, his gaze finding hers, dark and bleak. For the first time, he saw the tears on her cheeks and his jaw tightened. He bent down with stark eyes and captured her lips with his own.
She shuddered, low and deep, her body surging against his own in helpless desire. She didn’t have to speak; he already knew her too well. His right hand cupped her breast, rolling her nipple with his thumb while his tongue dueled with hers. She shivered again, pressing needy and shamelessly against him. His hand feathered down, parting her legs and finding her.
She gasped at the first touch, her flesh so sensitized, she didn’t know anymore if it was pleasure or pain. Her hands clutched his shoulders as he slid the first finger in, and he felt her tighten and tense around him. She was moist and hot, and his own exhausted body was already responding again. But this wasn’t about him or his needs anymore.
It was about this beautiful woman and the tears on her cheeks.
He moved his hand slowly, half soothing, half arousing. He eased her back down to sanity, then drove her back up to passion. His hand moved against her flesh, his palm rubbing against her most sensitive areas until her head fell back and beads of sweat broke out on her lip. He kissed her again—her lips, her throat, her earlobes. And as he moved her over the top, he kissed the tears from her lashes and captured her shattered cry with his lips.
He rolled her over on her back, and before she could come down from the ecstasy, he plunged into her again, his hips thrusting strong and demanding into her. She cried out his name, and he took the sound as his right, his eyes black with need.
He claimed her secrets as he claimed her body, captured her need as he captured her tears. He drove into her again and again and again, until she was dizzy from the desire and helpless from the onslaught. And then he took her again, both of them imploding from the passion, dying from the ecstasy.
There was nothing left but the sweat and the tears and the thundering beat of two exhausted hearts. He rolled her into his arms, placing her head upon his shoulder, his legs entangled with her own, his hand caressing her hair.
Together they slept.
* * *
Mitch awoke first, his eyes flashing open in a moment of disoriented panic. He could feel his heart thundering abnormally in his chest, and instinct took over. His eyes darted around the room, seeking out every shadow, every darkened corner, every sunken nook. Nothing in the room stirred, no sign of disturbance, no sound of careful, monitored breathing.
Just him, and the woman in his arms.
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. Even then, the feeling of uneasiness didn’t completely leave him. Then yesterday’s news broadcast flashed across his mind, and he remembered. Les was free and the shoot-out at the Ohio Women’s Correctional Institute had probably brought every cop and robber alive to the nearby vicinity.
Hell, and he wasn’t even sure where they were. Just some small, innocuous town far from major interstates. It was the best chance they had.
He glanced down at the woman still sleeping so softly in his arms, her hair splashed across his chest like silk, and he wished he could offer her more.
Her words yesterday had chilled him to the bone. He had never imagined the true depths of her secrets, never imagined a life so patterned with violence. Of course she was slow to trust. All the men in her life had done nothing but exploit her. Yet she’d survived it all, even duping Capruccio at his own game.
Mitch had never met a woman like her. And he admired her more than he admired anyone, even as he wanted to hold and protect her from the shadows that had grown too real.
He wondered, though, looking down at her sleeping face, if she would ever let him be there for her. It had taken her so long to open up to him, and even then, he wondered what else was behind those eyes of hers. How had she ever become Jessica Gavornée? And how had she met Les? He could imagine now that Les had blackmailed her with the truth. She’d said before how much she hated the man, and Mitch didn’t doubt it was true.
Still, she was a woman who had always lived alone, stood alone. Even upon seeing him at the prison, her first words to him had been that he could go, she was no longer his responsibility. While that might be technically true, Mitch had no intention of turning his back. No, he was in this with her, and he would fulfill his promise to her.
His hand began to absently stroke her hair, relishing the soft, silky feel. He felt her shift slightly, but she didn’t waken and he didn’t want to disturb her. His hands shifted down to his wrist and he glanced at his watch—8:00 a.m.
They’d gotten at least eight hours of sleep, enough for his body to know what it had been missing lately. In all honesty, they both could use more, but he didn’t want to linger. The state of Ohio probably looked like an anthill right about now, swarming with conservative suits, dark sedans and semiautomatic weapons. Everyone looking for two people tucked away in a bed and breakfast, hoping the couple downstairs didn’t watch the news much.
Mitch felt the tension in his shoulders and forced himself to relax. The odds didn’t look good, but those were the situations on which he thrived. He just needed to break things down, step by step, and a plan would come to him.
The interstates were most likely out. Between FBI watch posts and Les’s men at the rest stops, it would be like driving through a mine field, wondering which detonation he’d hit first. That left back roads, but going where?
That, of course, was the heart of the problem. Without knowing the source of the leak, they truly were running blind. He didn’t know who they could contact, and when it would be safe to stop. And once the date for the new trial was set, Jessica Gavornée would be in demand again or, most likely, Les would walk.
After all the bloodshed, that was unacceptable.
They had to go back.
It was the first time he’d consciously thought it, but now that it revealed itself baldly in his mind, he knew it was true. They couldn’t keep running from monsters in the closet, trying to outrace an evil they couldn’t even identify. The best defense was a good offense, and it seemed that was the last option they had.
He could find a place to stash Jess, with people he trusted, people who would keep an eye on a woman just as likely to run as to wait. Then he’d go back to the program, and do a little digging on his own, undercover. Twenty people had known about the retreat, give or take a few. That gave him a clear starting point. Perhaps in a week or two, he could figure it all out.
If they had that much time.
His sixth sense was tweaking again, the sense of dread growing. He couldn’t quite escape the notion they’d run out of places to hide, even as he couldn’t accept it. There were always options. Fate was for people with no imaginations.
Liz, he thought instantly. He would take Jess to where Liz and her new husband lived. Richard Keaton was not only a reputed genius and an established millionaire, but according to Liz he was also the next best thing to sliced bread. Between Liz and Richard, surely they could keep Jess under control. God knew Liz was hardly a pushover. Growing up with four older brothers, she’d learned how to tame Satan himself. From what he originally knew of Richard, perhaps she had.
Great, Mitch thought. Now, he just had to figure out how to get them to Connecticut. Details, details.
The woman in his arms stirred again, and Mitch looked down in time to see Jess’s eyes fluttering open. She stretched for a long, languorous moment, still half-lost in sleep. He could tell the moment she came fully awake because she went rigid against him.
“Good morning
,” he said softly.
Her eyes fluttered up, the brown depths still half-wary. He looked at them, and felt the frustration stab deep. None of it, however, showed on his face.
“How did you sleep?” he asked casually enough. His hand began to stroke her hair as if nothing was amiss. Very slowly, he felt her relax against him.
“Well,” she said at last.
“Good sex will do that,” he replied conversationally. He was rewarded with a slow blush that crept all the way up from her neck to her forehead. He would have liked to have seen where the blush started, but the quilt pulled up under her arms obstructed further view. Very gently he tucked a hand under her chin and tilted back her head. “It’s okay,” he told her with his most charming grin. “I don’t turn into the big bad wolf the morning after.”
She blushed again, disconcerted by just how well he followed her thoughts. That damn grin of his was almost too much. She felt it all the way down to her stomach, and then for no good reason at all she found herself smiling.
His own grin widened to a genuine smile. It softened his face, easing the tension around his eyes. “Hey,” he said softly, “you finally did it. You finally smiled for me.”
The smile froze for a moment, caught by self-consciousness. But then he grinned at her again, and the smile seemed to grow of its own volition. How did he do that? she wondered in half amazement. As if he knew exactly how to make her relax, exactly how to make her feel good?
And this magic trick didn’t require any sleight of hand.
His callused fingers slipped down to caress her back, and she couldn’t quite stop herself from snuggling closer. Her legs were entangled with his own—she could feel the tantalizing prickles of his hair against her own smooth skin. She could feel the powerful flex of his biceps against her cheek every time his arm moved, and hear the soft rhythm of a steady heart.
She felt warm and comfortable and good, and her breasts pressed against his side felt sexy, as well. She suddenly understood why people might like to wake up like this every morning. It certainly was a nice way to start the day.
But then her smile halted, her gaze sweeping back down until it was hidden by her lashes. She’d never known love, never thought to find it. But this morning, it was here in bed with her, and she finally understood why people might sacrifice so much, endure so much, for it. But also, she knew she would never sacrifice Mitch. Every moment she was with him put him in danger. He might think he could keep her safe, but she knew better.
She had to leave, and she would. She would run far away until she could find the little house of which she spoke to her mother. And she would buy the goat and chickens and maybe a horse or two. She could go back to school, get a teaching license and start a new life. And she imagined she might wake up each morning and remember this moment and the man she’d finally learned to love.
Her throat felt tight and she hated herself for the weakness. He continued to stroke her back with a soft caress, and she hated him for his kindness. She’d always known her choices, and it didn’t matter what name or identity she assumed: the truth remained the same.
“We should go,” she said softly.
He nodded, feeling the sudden heaviness in her shoulders. He’d lost her already to the darkness of her own thoughts, and the frustration struck again. Maybe he’d thought with her confession would come her trust, but that didn’t seem to be the case. She’d told him the truth but still guarded her thoughts. She’d slept with him, used him to find comfort, but in the daylight, she clung to her shadows.
He wanted to hate her for it but found himself cursing them both instead. Funny—all the women he’d met over the years had come to him so easily, charmed by his grin and his easy affection. He’d cared for them all without feeling any intensity, something no doubt they knew. And everyone moved on without any traumatic scenes, just the way he wanted it.
Maybe deep inside he’d always viewed love as being what his parents had: Dotti and Henry Guiness had been hit by the thunderbolt during a chance trip to Las Vegas. They’d taken one look at each other and fallen hard. Four days later they were married. Forty years and five kids later, Mitch didn’t think they regretted it at all.
So he’d waited, figuring one day he’d be struck, as well, or simply never struck at all. And he’d met and cared for his fair share of woman—simple, easy relationships. Until now, and the sudden tightness in his chest. Until he looked at this woman and felt the intensity all the way down to the deep clenching of his stomach.
The first woman who truly touched him, and he couldn’t seem to affect her at all.
For a moment he almost told her. For a moment he found his mouth opening and his throat actually finding the words. Abruptly he snapped his mouth shut. He loved this woman—he would admit it to himself. But he knew her too well. She was not above using that weakness against him. And until she trusted him, until she loved him, too, his emotions were a weakness. Nothing more, nothing less.
His hand stilled on her back as he absorbed the truth.
“Yes,” he said out loud, his voice quiet, “we should be going.”
Jess felt the withdrawal within him as surely as if it were physical. One minute he’d been grinning and teasing her, now he was the somber agent.
It was better this way.
She showered quickly, then left the bathroom for him. They didn’t speak anymore, but moved in a concise unison that didn’t require words. The new day had dawned and the race began once more.
When he emerged from his own shower, towel wrapped around his waist, he found her sitting cool and composed on the edge of a rocking chair. Immediately he was wary.
“I think we should split up,” she said without preamble.
He paused, then began to briskly dry his hair with a second towel.
“No” was all he said.
“The Witness Protection Program is no longer responsible for me,” she persisted, each word so calm and rational, he wanted to strangle her. Last night she’d cried silent tears in his arms. Today the Ice Angel ruled once more.
“I don’t think Capruccio appreciates that technicality,” Mitch replied loosely. He pulled on his jeans, leaving the top button undone as he searched through the duffel bag for a clean shirt.
Jess swallowed and tried to keep her thoughts on track. She’d never tried to carry on a conversation with a man still getting dressed, particularly this man. Her hands were trembling so hard, she had to fight the urge to sit on them. She took another deep breath, then plunged on. This was for his own good—she had to remember that.
“What do you mean?” she asked, levelly.
“I mean Capruccio is looking for both of us. And if he finds us together, or separately, I don’t think that stops his order to shoot. This isn’t a school yard game, Jess. You can’t hold up both hands and say, ‘Time out, I’m switching sides.’”
He found the shirt he was looking for and pulled it on, the motion causing a nice rippling effect down his muscles. Jess bit down on her lower lip, but it didn’t help.
“But if he finds you without me,” she said bravely, “surely he’ll have no reason to harm you. It’s me he wants.”
“Exactly,” Mitch concurred. “Therefore he’ll torture me until he learns where you are. And even if I don’t honestly know, he has no reason to believe that.”
This time the distress was evident on her face. She hadn’t considered all this. Mitch was guilty by association, his fate irreparably tied to hers. No matter what she did, he would still pay the price.
She looked away, no longer able to bear the sight of the large, vital man in front of her. She could still remember the feel of him, plunging inside her. She could taste his kiss, see his grin, remember his touch.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever hated herself more.
“Don’t,” Mitch said. The more he learned about her control, the more he understood the careful shimmerings in her eyes. “I’m not some fool dragged along for the ride, Jess,” he told her wi
th low and forceful words. “I’m a specialist in this type of situation. It’s my job to keep people like you safe from men like Capruccio, and frankly, I’m the best there is. I’m going to get us both out of this yet. Believe in me.”
But he could tell in her eyes that she didn’t. She looked at him and she saw the blood of so many other men. He didn’t know whether to understand or to shake her silly. Damn it, he wasn’t other men.
“Tell me your name,” he said abruptly. Her gaze swiveled up, startled.
“What do you mean?”
“What’s your real name,” he continued impatiently. “I know it’s not Jessica Govern. She didn’t even exist until you were sixteen. So tell me, who are you really?”
She hesitated only slightly, the name rusty and foreign on her lips. “Mary Morgan.”
“Mary Morgan,” he repeated. It sounded like a good, midwestern name. A wholesome match for a former blond-haired, blue-eyed girl. “So how did you become Jessica Govern?”
Once again she paused, but then she shrugged. He already knew so much about her, why not all the truth? No one else knew—not even Les Capruccio had managed to fill in all the details. “I used to ride my bike to a small town,” she said. “There was this old church there, and it kept records in the basement. It took me six months, but then I found the birth certificate for Jessica Govern, born the same year as myself. She’d been a stillbirth, attended to by the local midwife. From what I’d read on getting new identities, it would work, so I took it. And then I ran away to New York. I’d just turned sixteen and didn’t have many records anyway—no driver’s license, voter’s registration, et cetera. In New York, I lived in a teenage shelter as Jessica Govern and put my modeling career together. All things considered, I was very lucky.”
Mitch nodded. She was more than lucky, given all the things that could happen to teen runaways. Then again, looking at the cool, composed woman before him, he wasn’t at all surprised. He was beginning to think there was very little the Ice Angel couldn’t do. Except, of course, trust.
