Free Hiding Jessica by Alicia Scott Page A

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