peeling off her wet clothes and changing into dry black pants and a soft gray knit top. Vitt knew a lot, but he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know who she really was, or who her father was, and he wasn’t going to find out.
Jillian stared hard at her reflection in the mirror as she dragged a comb through her still-damp hair.
She’d been a redhead until she was twelve and had loved her hair. It’d reached the small of her back and the soft, loose curls had always drawn attention. Her father used to loop the curls around his finger and call her Rapunzel. Her sixth-grade art teacher had said she would have inspired the great Renaissance artists. And her mother cried when the government insisted on cutting her hair off and then dyeing the shorn locks a mousy brown.
She’d cried, too, but in secret. Because losing her hair hurt, but losing herself was worse. And they hadn’t just cut her hair off, they’d taken everything else, too.
Her name.
Her home.
Her sense of self.
No longer was she Alessia Giordano, but an invented name. She was a no one and would remain a no one for the rest of her life.
A hand rapped on the outside of the bedroom door. “Have you changed?”
It was Vittorio’s deep smooth voice and it sent a shudder of alarm through her. She squeezed the comb hard as she glanced at the closed door. “Yes,” she said, forcing herself to speak.
“We take off in two minutes.”
So this was all really happening. There would be no government agent breaking down the door to rescue her. There would be no last-minute reprieve.
Jill’s hand shook as she set the comb down. “I’m on my way,” she answered, and then lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders and stiffened her backbone.
She would do this. She’d been through worse. She could play Vitt’s game. As long as Joe was happy and healthy, there was nothing Vitt could throw at her that she couldn’t handle.
Leaving the serenity of her bedroom, she entered the luxurious living area. Vitt was already there, standing near a cluster of chairs on the far side of the room.
Vitt looked polished and elegant, dressed in a dark suit and white dress shirt, appearing as if he’d had an hour to shower, shave and dress instead of just minutes. How he did it was beyond her. Perhaps just having a strong, beautiful face made everything easy. She didn’t know. She’d never found life easy.
“You look comfortable,” he said, taking note of her simple black trousers and plain gray knit top.
She flushed, aware that he was really commenting on her dowdiness, and self-consciously she tugged the hem of her cotton top lower.
“Mom-wear,” she answered huskily, defensively, hating that she suddenly felt ashamed of her appearance, fully conscious that her clothes were old and cheaply made. He’d hit on a sore spot, too, because she was secretly, quietly passionate about fashion. She loved that beautiful well-tailored clothes could make you feel beautiful, too.
“Which is very practical of you,” he said soothingly—which was actually far from soothing. “Now please, join me here,” he added, gesturing to the tall honey suede chair next to his.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her gaze locking with his. His dark eyes stared back at her and after a moment the corners of his mouth lifted. It wasn’t a smile. Instead it was a challenge. He’d thrown down the gauntlet earlier and she’d accepted.
“I’d love to,” she answered, forcing a smile, and gracefully sliding into the chair covered in the softest, most supple leather she’d ever touched. But then Italy was the design capital of the world; why shouldn’t everything Vittorio owned be exquisite?
She felt his inspection as she buckled her seat belt and crossed one leg over the other. She was trying hard to act nonchalant but on the inside her heart hammered like mad and her head suddenly felt woozy. Tall, broad-shouldered and devastatingly attractive, Vittorio seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room, leaving her gasping for air.
He was too strong.
Too physical.
Too imposing.
The fact that he was also one of the most powerful, influential men in the world hardly seemed fair considering all his other gifts.
Her fingers curled into her palms, nails digging into her skin. This was insane. And this charade would surely push her over the edge.
“I’ve ordered champagne,” he said, taking the seat on the left of hers. “We’ll have a glass now, and then another to celebrate once we level off.”
How cold he was. How cruel. But why shouldn’t he celebrate? He’d succeeded in cornering her, trapping her and claiming his son. She peeled her lips back from her teeth in an attempt to smile but the effort actually hurt. Her heart felt like it was breaking. “Haven’t had champagne since Bellagio. I suppose we’ve now come full circle.”
“But back then you were a stunning, voluptuous brunette with straight chestnut hair and Elizabeth Taylor’s violet-blue eyes. Now you’re the quintessential California beach girl. Blonde, lean, tan. An impressive transformation. Quite the master at disguise.”
“I’m glad my resourcefulness impressed you,” she answered with a tight smile before turning her head to stare out the plane window.
She hadn’t wanted to be so resourceful. She’d been a dreamy little girl, sheltered, pampered, protected. Her parents had been wealthy middle-class Americans. She’d attended an exclusive Catholic girls’ school. Her Detroit suburb had been lined with old trees and sprawling mansions.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for the revelation that her father wasn’t merely a member of an underground organization, but a traitor within the organization. He was despised by all and when he testified against his organization, he put his entire family in danger.
Overnight twelve-year-old Jillian had been torn from her school, her friends, her community.
Jillian had struggled in their new life, with the new identities. The moves were hard. The isolation at times unbearable.
But over the years she’d settled into being these other people, playing the necessary part.
Her younger sister Katie wasn’t as skillful. Nor was Katie as disciplined, or focused. Two and a half years ago—just eight months before Jillian met Vitt in Turkey—Katie had fallen in love with a handsome stranger, a grad student at Illinois University, and feeling safe, had revealed who she really was. She ended up paying for that misplaced trust with her life.
Jillian wouldn’t make the same mistake. Jillian had learned that there could be no trusting handsome strangers, least of all men with connections to the mob.
Jillian’s throat ached, remembering. She’d been devastated by Katie’s death. The phone call from her mother giving her the news had been the most horrific phone call of her life. Even now, Jillian still felt shattered.
Jillian had been the big sister. It had been her job to protect Katie.
She
