She should wear severe black, she thought, but she shoved that thought aside as well. Black? When had she ever?

At least she had her stock-in-trade-the reason she was in this country. Her wardrobe had been brought more to show suppliers what she wanted than to wear herself. Tonight she chose a simple skirt, cut on the bias so it swirled softly to her knees. The skirt combined three tones of aquamarine, blended in soft waves. The colours were almost identical but not quite, and when spun together they were somehow magical. She teamed the skirt with an embroidered, white-on-white blouse with a mandarin collar and tiny sleeves. It hid her bruises perfectly.

That was that. No make-up. Like black, make-up was also something she didn’t do. Not since long before Dominic.

She brushed her close-cropped chestnut curls until they shone, then gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

These were great clothes, she conceded, but it was a pity about the model. This model had far too many freckles. This model had eyes that were too big and permanently shadowed with grief.

The model needed a good…life?

‘You’ve had your life,’ she told her reflection. ‘Move on. They’re waiting for you to go to dinner.’

But still she gazed in the mirror, and something akin to panic was threatening to overwhelm her.

This was a suite of rooms. ‘It’s one of several guest suites we have, dear,’ Louise had told her. It consisted of a vast bedroom, a fantastic bathroom and a furnished sitting room where the fire had crackled in the hearth the whole time she’d been here, its heat augmenting the spring sunshine that glimmered through the south-facing windows. The windows looked down over lawns that stretched away to parks and woodland beyond.

The whole place was breathtakingly beautiful, yet until now Jess had simply accepted it as it was. It was as if her mind had shut down. For the last few days she’d simply submitted to these people’s care.