Hiding Jessica (19 page)

“Not all things are impossible,” he told her.

She didn’t bother with a reply, though one hand crept out to rest on the edge of the table. It certainly felt solid.

Her eyes narrowed and she looked at him more intently.

“Three coins in this hand,” he told her, and showed her his left hand again with indeed three coins. “One coin in this hand,” he held it up, “which will act as bait—silver attracting silver through the wood. Three here. One here.”

She nodded, and his right hand with its one coin disappeared under the table. His left hand knocked on the wood; she felt the faint vibration of the impact. Then the metal clink sounded again. His hand came out with two coins.

He grinned. “Not bad, is it?”

This time she could only nod.

“Two in this hand,” he said, holding up his left hand. “Two in this hand. Once more, the silver will act as bait, drawing one more coin through the table.”

She watched carefully this time. His right fist closed over the two coins, disappearing under the table. Two coins were under the table; she’d seen them go there. She scrutinized his left hand.

It knocked on the table, and sure enough, a metal clink. But she wasn’t so hasty this time. Instead, she watched him draw out his right fist. Surely the trade-off was really occurring here, the left hand somehow sneaking a coin to the right hand. But his left hand never moved, remaining passive on the tabletop.

His right hand opened. Three gleaming coins winked at her. Only then did he turn over his left hand, exposing one lonely silver dollar.

She frowned, clearly perplexed.

“It’s not possible,” she said flatly.

“Observe,” he told her quietly, his brown eyes once more serious. He leaned slightly forward, and she felt the intensity crackle in the air around him. Her stomach unexpectedly tightened, and for no good reason, her gaze fell to his lips.

“One last coin,” he whispered. “I’m going to pass it through the table, as well, solid silver through solid wood. Watch closely, Jess. Maybe you’ll see a bit of magic.”

He held out the one going, silver and gleaming. His right fist closed around the other three. As she watched, his left fist closed around the last coin and rested on the table. His right fist slipped under the table.

“The last coin is a little harder,” he said. “You’ll have to bear with me.” Once more his face tightened with concentration. Then, rap, rap, clink. He suddenly smiled, but it didn’t dim the intensity of his gaze.

His right hand came out, and revealed four silver dollars.

“That’s impossible,” she blurted out, but the frown was etched between her eyes. She’d watched carefully, very carefully. Of course, there had to be some explanation. Without asking, she reached out and took the coins from his warm and callused hand. The silver dollars felt solid and heavy in her hands. Frowning again, she wiped one hand over the top of the table, then beneath it, as well, for good measure. It all felt obscenely solid to her.

A strange, exotic sensation gripped her: amazement. She pushed it away.

“Maybe it’s magic,” Mitch said softly, his brown eyes searching hers.

She shook her head.

“Why not?” he prompted, leaning over once again. “You watched it with your own two eyes. No sleight of hand. I saw you looking for it. The coins are real, the table is real. Why can’t it be magic, Jess?”

“Because there’s no such thing,” she replied curtly, sitting up rigidly. Her eyes narrowed. “You told me you would show me how it’s done.”

He paused for a minute, then slowly nodded. Was it her imagination, or was there a flash of disappointment in his eyes?

“I’m going to do it slower this time,” he said quietly, settling back into the chair. “If you watch closely, you’ll see how it’s done. Stand up, though, so you can look down on the process.”

She did, bending closer as he once more showed her four coins in one hand, no coins in the other. His right hand once more went under the table. This time, however, just as he was closing his fist around the four coins, she saw one suddenly shoot back to fall off the edge of the table onto his lap. It happened in a fraction of an instant, and would not have been visible from her previous sitting position. His left fist was now closed around three coins, and he rapped it on the table, the other coin safely gripped in his right hand.

“And that’s how it’s done,” he said, looking up into her watchful gaze. “So you were right, Jess. It never was magic, just a sleight of hand. Do you feel vindicated now?”

She shifted, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and not wanting him to know. The trick was just a trick, as she’d known all along. Yet, somehow, having seen it actually done, it took something away. She felt all at once...disappointed.

The silver dollars were just silver dollars, the wood just wood and Mitch just a man with crafty hands.

“Shall I do the trick again?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said.

“Why not, Jess?”

“I already know how it’s done.”

He nodded, and she understood that she was being led along some path. He’d set this all up, and as he’d said, nothing was free.

“So you’re going to ask me a question now?” she said, stiffening her back once more.

But Mitch shook his head. “No. Do you like the trick, Jess? Do you like knowing how it was done?”

All at once she had to look away, the words suddenly homing in with stunning clarity. No, she didn’t like knowing. To actually see the switch of the silver dollar, it had killed everything somehow. Slowly, unconsciously, she found herself shaking her head.

“No,” she said softly.

Mitch nodded, leaning forward until his arms rested on the flimsy weight of the cheap table. He caught and held her gaze with his own. “It’s the magic, Jess,” he told her seriously. “It’s the mystery of belief. Even though you knew silver shouldn’t be able to go through wood, even though you knew I shouldn’t be able to make silver go through wood, a part of you wanted to believe. A part of you liked the believing.”

She wanted to tell him no. She wanted to point out with cool logic and clean rationality that intelligence and knowledge were better than illusions. But somehow she couldn’t look at him and say the words. Because in that one moment, when he’d held up the silver dollar that had passed through the table, she had felt amazement.

She’d wanted to believe.

“Are we done now?” she said, trying to look away while a million thoughts began to claw and crowd in her mind. But Mitch refused to relent.

“You keep pushing me away. You keep telling me only fragments of the truth, when I’ve never done anything to deserve your lies. Why do you do that, Jess? Why do you push me away when you need to believe in me and I need to believe in you? There are men out there trying to kill us, and at this moment I don’t think I can trust you, and I know you’re determined not to trust me. So where does that leave us, Jess? Do we fight each other, or them? Because we can’t do both. And I saw your eyes when I held up that first coin, Jess. I know at least a little part of you still wants to believe, still wants to trust.”

“There’s a big difference between a magic trick and escaping hit men,” she said, but her voice lacked spirit.

He looked at her levelly, his voice strong and unrelenting when he finally spoke. “Did you tell anyone where the retreat was, Jess? Did you violate the rules of the Witness Protection Program?”

She suddenly smiled, a wry, bitter smile. “Is that what this was all about?” Her new brown gaze swept up to meet his. “You could have just asked. No, Mitch, I didn’t tell anyone about the retreat.”

“Who were you going to see last night?” he pressed, the intensity back in full force. “Why were you running away?”

She shook her head, not giving in. “No one,” she said stiffly.

The next thing she knew, Mitch had risen so fast, the chair fell back with a crash onto the floor. He grabbed her arm, his grip firm while his eyes grew hard.

“You’re lying.”

She stiffened her spine, but under the intensity of his gaze, she faltered. Her control suddenly didn’t seem too strong, and instead her mind was seeing his hand holding up that silver dollar. Damn him, she had wanted to believe.

Damn him to hell.

“Talk to me,” he commanded, and she could hear the urgency in his voice. “I can help you, Jess. You know I can. And I want to.” His voice abruptly softened, and on their own volition his eyes came down to rest on the lush promise of her lips. His hand suddenly moved up to cup her cheek, and with infinite carefulness his thumb traced her lips, feeling each small tremble. “Talk to me, Jess. Believe in me.”

Her shoulders came slightly forward, the strain almost agonizing. For just one moment, the words hovered on her lips. After eight long years of silence, she just wanted to blurt it all out. Maybe he was right, and maybe he could make it better. And maybe she could lean into the warm circle of his arms and rest her head against his shoulder.

She could feel the callused strength of his thumb, rough and capable and tender. She liked how he kissed her, and marveled at how he turned away when God knows she provoked him beyond all reason. But he hadn’t hit her, not even when lesser men would have found an excuse. And last night, when all hell had broken loose, he’d been the one to get them out. He’d taken care of everything.

Her mouth opened, she felt the words squeeze her throat. But then abruptly her mother flashed before her eyes. A pale, fragile woman lowering the smoking gun as Harry fell down, down, down onto the gold-patterned carpet. And Jess could see the look of acceptance on her mother’s bruised face as her husband sank down onto the carpet.

And Jess had looked up and met her mother’s eyes, and in that moment everything passed between them. The relief, the shock, the guilt and most of all, the unrelenting pain. Because somewhere deep inside of them both, even after all the drunken rages and explosive blows, they’d still loved him. Even as they’d hated him, they’d loved him.

And now the violence was at long last over. All that remained was the guilt.

Jess looked away.

“I can’t,” she said, and for the first time Mitch heard the anguish in her voice. It filled him with frustration as he looked at her with waiting eyes. He just wanted her to reach out to him, he just wanted her to finally let him in. And though at least it pained her, she still held him at bay. He couldn’t take it.

As if it might make a difference, his head suddenly swooped down to claim her lips with his own. There was no gentleness to this kiss, but a wealth of frustrated demand. She surrendered to it easily, letting his lips plunder her own with unspoken need while the unexpected burn of tears clogged her throat.

And the gun smoked, and she screamed, and looked at her mother as they both realized it had been done. The blood seeped into the cheap, golden carpet, and she cried his name. But her father never moved again, and a bruised battered part of her felt the relief. Because, as her gaze lifted to meet her mother’s once more, both knew what he had been about to do. And though they never ever spoke it out loud, they knew.

Her throat thickened, the first unshed tear threatening the corner of her eyes. The desperation overwhelmed her, and she pressed herself against Mitch, willing him to drown out the memories, to make her feel anything other than the horrible coldness so deep down inside. She wound her arms around his neck, pressing herself along the entire burning length of his hard, muscled body. He responded by deepening the kiss, burying his large hands in her carefully coifed braid until loose strands and hairpins spilled down in a tumbling heap.

It wasn’t enough, would never be enough. She pressed closer, reveling in the strength and the heat. He was too warm and capable and hard, and even now he dizzied her senses.

And he’d been right all along. She did want to believe. She wanted so badly to believe that this one man would finally be the one she could turn to, even as she knew deep inside she could never turn to anyone.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I won’t hit you ever again, I promise. I promise....”

“No!” she cried suddenly, tearing herself away as the memory rocketed through her tormented mind. Unconsciously her hands went to her forehead, pressing against her temples as she sought sanity.

“Just leave me alone,” she whispered brokenly, unable to meet his eyes. Because surely it all showed in her eyes, and the minute he looked at her with concern, it would all tumble out in a giant, muddled heap. She couldn’t handle his tenderness. She had no defenses for such caring.

Mitch shook his head, swearing softly under his breath. His blood was pounding full speed, though he knew it had been stupid to kiss her and knew she would pull away sooner or later. She always did.

Face it. The woman didn’t believe in magic, and she certainly didn’t believe in him. The frustration darkened his eyes and furrowed his brow.

“You’ll be the death of us yet,” he finally said darkly, one hand running through his hair.

She gave him her back, one hand pressed against her mouth, and she struggled for control. After the heat of his arms, the room seemed so cold. And suddenly, despite all her best intentions, she wanted nothing more than to turn back around and throw herself into his embrace.

Let his arms enfold her. Let his lips descend and chase away the darkness with the most tantalizing sensations she’d ever felt.
Let her believe in him.

She felt a moment of raw bitterness. As if he would have anything more to do with her, a woman so cold, the whole world called her the Ice Angel.

She straightened her shoulders, and from somewhere deep inside, she drew up all the strength and courage that had gotten her this far.

“I swear, Mitch,” she said evenly, her back still turned, “I swear to you that I didn’t...haven’t done anything to let Les know where we are. I swear.”

Mitch stared at the vulnerable curve of her back for a long time. So here they were again. She was still running hot and cold, kissing him passionately, then shutting him out completely. Yet he was supposed to believe her. He shook his head. How the hell had he gotten into this mess? If he lived through this experience, he was going to demand a raise.