Elite Ops: Black Jack Part 3

Jordan sat back in his chair and finished his beer before speaking. His expression was thoughtful, suspicious.

"If she hadn't, the t.i.tle would have been lost to her son. If Desmond Harrington married and had other children, Jared would have no chance of inheriting it." He looked at Travis.

"Speaking of Angelica, it seems she tried to have Lilly sent to a psychiatric clinic in France to cure her of obstinacy."

Travis grimaced at the information. "It's a very nasty but common occurrence in some of the t.i.tled families," he responded. "It's kept quiet, considered a shameful secret, but highly relied upon to control the actions and decisions of the younger generations."

Jordan was staring at him as though he were crazed.

Travis sat down heavily on the bottom of the bed and stared back at his commander in resignation. "Did you read my wife's file?"

Jordan frowned. "There was nothing there about psychiatric problems or hospitalization."

"There wouldn't be," Travis agreed. "It's kept quiet, as I said. Very quiet. Even I was unaware of Patricia's stay' in France until after her death. It was then her father informed me of her psychiatric problems. The fear of going back ensured that Patricia kept any activities her father or I would disagree with carefully hidden."

Not that Travis would have allowed her to be hospitalized again.

"h.e.l.l." Jordan shook his head in amazement. "Will Lilly be at risk?"

Travis's lips thinned. "It's possible. If Lilly a.s.sociates with Travis Caine, Lady Harrington might try. However, when she discovers her daughter's past as a paid escort, one day she may simply disappear, and then we'll be looking at a mess."

Jordan's expression hardened. "A mistake Lady Harrington doesn't want to make."

Travis's smile was mocking. "Lady Harrington doesn't make mistakes. She's always right.

Always perfect. And she'll be a pain in our collective a.s.ses."

Chapter 2.

Two months later

Hagerstown, Maryland he was there again .

Lady Victoria Lillian Harrington glanced out of the corner of her eye as she pretended to survey the dresses in the shop window while she and her mother strolled down the crowded sidewalk of historic Hagerstown, Maryland.

She could see him, there in her periphery, standing dangerous and tall, his gaze narrowed on her, watching her with almost complete absorption.

She should be terrified. She should be fighting against the dark shadows, the terrors that rose inside her at night and the visions that haunted her even when she was awake. He brought to mind the one vision she couldn't get away from even when she slept. The figure standing by her bed, watching her with such intensity, holding her with gentleness and compa.s.sion as agony screamed through her brain.

It was a vision her mother had sworn time and time again couldn't have been real. It was one she knew had to be real. It was too intense, the echo of that pain too agonizing.

She didn't fight her mother over it, though. Lady Angelica Harrington was too determined, too certain of herself and her own rules to admit she could be wrong.

Lilly rarely argued with her mother.

No, Lady Victoria Lillian Harrington rarely argued with her mother. But Lilly was finding it harder and harder to keep from doing just that.

"Darling, you're too quiet again." Her mother reached out, her fingers trembling as they still did whenever she touched her daughter, as though she couldn't quite believe she was there.

"Sorry, Mother, I was thinking about that dress." Glancing back to where she had glimpsed the aloof figure moments before, she felt disappointment tear through her.

He was gone. Dark blond hair, or was it light brown? Those eyes, what color were they?

she wondered as she turned back to the window of the shop. Brown. They had to be brown. A raptor brown. Mixed with green. Intent and brooding. Eyes that could fire a woman's arousal and her imagination. Not to mention her confusion why she would know that.

"We could go in and try it on," her mother urged her, the soft lilt of her English accent drawing gazes from the couple that pa.s.sed by them. "I'm certain it would look positively gorgeous on you."

Would it?

She looked beyond the dresses to the other attire the store offered. Jeans, close-fitting, and s.h.i.+rts that would have her mother gasping in shock, she was certain. Not because they were revealing, but because they were common. Her mother strictly detested whatever she believed was common.

"Victoria, we could look at the dresses."

Victoria.

She frowned at the image that greeted her in the gla.s.s.

She didn't see Victoria there. She saw an unfamiliar image, a woman she was comfortable with, yet those weren't the features-the face, the eyes, or the hair-of the woman she'd been before. Lady Victoria Lillian Harrington of the London Harringtons. She was related to royalty, though admittedly, the kins.h.i.+p was a distant one at best. Still, she couldn't quite acclimate herself to who she knew she was, the person she knew she was supposed to be.

"Victoria." Her mother's voice echoed with exasperation now.

"I don't think I need another dress, Mother," she stated absently as she moved for the door of the shop. "I see something else I might like, though."

Where the h.e.l.l was her British accent? She remembered having one. She remembered once being proud of that accent. It didn't exist now, though. Her voice was smooth and cultured, but it lacked any accent, any inflection, that could have identified her as a member of any particular country or indicated her social status.

"Victoria, you're acting rather odd." There was a note of fear in her mother's voice as she entered the shop and moved beyond the dresses.

Was she acting odd? She was sure as h.e.l.l feeling d.a.m.ned odd, she thought, before a brief moment of shock hit her. More and more often she found herself cursing. There were moments it was all she could do to hold back the earthy vulgarity when she was talking.

"I'm fine, Mother," she a.s.sured her again as they moved through the small store.

She was going to obey the dictates of what she wanted rather than what her mother would consider acceptable. It was a dangerous urge to follow. At least, six years ago it would have been.

And there they were. Snug, low-slung jeans. There were low boots made of soft, supple leather on a stand beside them. Boots that looked s.e.xy and stylish while being practical and easy to run in. Which made her wonder. What would she be running from?

"Victoria, we've discussed this denim fetish you seem to have acquired," her mother stated worriedly as she moved closer and fingered the denim jeans. Tension seemed to thicken the atmosphere. "Really, Victoria. The dresses are much nicer."

Lilly had to clench her teeth in irritation.

Lilly, she thought. Her name shouldn't be Victoria, she had always disliked being called Victoria. She was Lilly. But she couldn't recall a single time that her parents had called her Lilly.

She was Lilly. Lilly . . . something. She tilted her head and stared at the material as she rubbed the pocket between her thumb and forefinger. Lilly. Not Lady Victoria Lillian Harrington. Not even Lilly Harrington. But who?

"Can I help you?" the saleslady asked just behind her.

"The jeans," she told the red-head as she moved to where they hung. "I'd like to try these, please, as well as the boots." She moved to the boots and chose the correct size before stepping to a particular rack of blouses.

"Oh my G.o.d, you wouldn't dare! Victoria, Desmond would have a stroke if he caught you dressed in such clothing." Her mother was outraged, as she stared at the flat-heeled, sinfully black leather over-the-knee boots and snug jeans.

No, it wasn't Desmond who had a problem with the clothes. It was her mother. Angelica Harrington demanded a certain image be presented at all times. Jeans did not fit that image, nor were they allowed in her mother's presence.

Ignoring her, Lilly walked over to the nearby s.h.i.+rt, reached out and ran her fingers over the soft, expensive olive-green Egyptian cotton.

"Desmond will not appreciate this," her mother warned, her voice tight.

Desmond was her stepfather now. In the six years she couldn't remember, she had managed to lose her father, and her mother had married his younger half-brother.

"This blouse, please." The dull olive-green cotton would fit tightly, conform to her body and shape her b.r.e.a.s.t.s enticingly. She wasn't certain why she was suddenly drawn to the color, though.

She turned to the polite saleslady trailing them. The other woman smiled gently. Long red-gold hair fell to her shoulders and an understanding smile crossed her face.

In the meantime Angelica fussed in the background about the jeans and the drab color of the blouse.

"Victoria, really. The dresses are much nicer." Angelica continued to object as her daughter moved toward the dressing room.

She glanced back at the door. There was a spot just between her shoulder blades that refused to stop itching. She could feel the eyes on her. His eyes. Somehow, he was still watching her, still waiting for her. Would he be as surprised by the jeans as her mother seemed to be?

As Lilly entered the dressing room she breathed a sigh of relief and leaned wearily against the wall, closing her eyes and taking a hard, deep breath.

She opened her eyes and stared back at the woman in the mirror.

She wasn't Victoria any longer.

Who the h.e.l.l was she, really? And why wasn't she comfortable with the knowledge of her own ident.i.ty, her own looks?

The soft cotton material of the short gray dress skimmed over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips, ending at a barely decent length just below her thighs. The soft gray material didn't seem appropriate somehow. Just as the green eyes staring back at her didn't seem right.

She had once had hazel eyes. She had always had hazel eyes.

Her hair was a dark red now. It had once been a rich deep brown. Her doctors were amazed at the fact that somehow her eye and hair color had been permanently changed.

She was different. Her looks were different. Something inside her was different. There was something that didn't seem quite right about the life she was living now, and the woman she remembered being.

"Darling, are you all right?" Angelica's voice came through the thin walls of the dressing room. Lilly could hear the concern, the confusion in her mother's voice. But she also heard the forced patience and edge of irritation.

"I'm fine, Mother. I'll just be a moment," Lilly told her.

"Desmond is going to be utterly upset if you return to the house in jeans." There was a note of amused affection in her mother's voice when she spoke of her husband that had Lilly almost cringing in distaste. There was a warning there as well. "He may even fuss at you, dear."

Lilly stared at the denim, the boots, and the blouse. She stared back at herself in the mirror, then turned away. She loved it. She could move in this clothing. She could run, she could fight . . . who?

Dark flashes surged through her mind, electric images of gunfire, blood and death flashed like vibrant lies amid a midnight landscape.

Hurriedly stripping the new clothes from her body, Lilly pulled the dress back on, slid her feet into the heels that she knew she could never run in, then gathered up the articles she had tried on.

Stepping from the dressing room, she gave her mother a careful, cool smile in response to the frown on Angelica's face. She knew better than to upset her mother. At least, she had known better six years ago. There was a part of her now that balked at giving into another's dictates or the threat of the consequences.

"I'll take these." She handed the clothing to the saleslady, while trying to ignore the irritation in her mother's eyes. Perhaps it was best that she remain the daughter Angelica thought she was, but another part of her demanded that she be something else, something more, and that she be prepared.

She had to maintain the illusion, she thought. Survival depended upon blending into this life she was living now. Even the smartest prey understood the value of playing dumb. And a killer well understood the hunt.

Lilly almost came to an abrupt halt at the thought. Shock was a bitter taste in her mouth as she fought not to sink into the shadows and the memories that were just out of reach.

She wasn't a killer! She was a social b.u.t.terfly; a scheming little debutante, her father had once accused affectionately. She knew well how to blend into this life, she had learned at an early age. She wasn't a killer. But the blood in her dreams indicated otherwise.

She resisted the urge to stare at her hands, a part of her desperate to ensure no blood stained them.

Who the h.e.l.l was she and why did the memories of the past six years seem so elusive while the nightmares seemed more real?

She was indeed Victoria Harrington. DNA had proven it. Her blood was a perfect match for the DNA that had been taken from the Harrington children a decade ago to ensure they could always be identified, no matter the circ.u.mstances.

She knew who she was, yet she felt like an imposter. Whatever had happened in the past six years she had lost had changed her in ways she couldn't explain. It had ensured she no longer fit in with her family, her friends, where once before she had blended into this life seamlessly.

She had memories of her life up until the night before the car crash that had killed her father and left her struggling for life six years ago. The memories of the past six years eluded her, though.

And why was she searching for a face in the crowd, antic.i.p.ation surging through her at the thought of one brief glimpse of a man she didn't know? A man who felt more familiar to her than her own face. The man she had caught watching her earlier.

"You're acting very strange, Victoria." Angelica sighed as they left the shop and moved back to the tree-shaded sidewalk and the shops that Angelica insisted on visiting.

Lilly could hear the edge of anger in her mother's tone and she knew she should be wary of it. Angelica Harrington had a hard, sharp edge when angry. One that cut with brutal strength.

And she had no problem slicing into one of her children if she felt the need.

"I'm well, Mother." She watched the crowd intently, careful to keep her mother's body s.h.i.+elded as they continued the impromptu shopping spree they had decided on that morning.

She couldn't understand why she was doing that. Why did she suddenly know how to protect her mother, and what was she trying to protect her from?

"I didn't ask if you were well," her mother said, exasperated. "I said you're acting strange."

"So, I look strange and I feel strange, as well." Lilly snorted. "And could you please just call me Lilly?"

They both stopped.

Lilly tried to look everywhere but at her mother, before she was finally forced to meet Angelica's dark brown gaze. The anger was still there, but also a hint of fearful confusion.

Lilly well understood. Perhaps Angelica truly had lost her daughter.