“Fair enough,” she agreed.

“Just so you know, I have the same rule for everyone, male or female.”

“Thank you. And perhaps you could forget everything I said a moment ago?”

“I’m not very good at forgetting.” He grinned. “But I won’t tell anyone.”

“And I’ll pray they’re all as ignorant as you were.”

Which of course they weren’t. The minute she stepped out of the jeep and into the crowd of men waiting to board the troopship to Italy, she felt eyes on her. She heard whispers. One GI elbowed his friend in the ribs and said loudly, “A model and not a virgin. This ship just got a lot more fun.”

Fear. There it was again. She’d thought bullets were the only things to be scared of in a war zone. But her reputation was proving to be the one obstacle she couldn’t surmount. She couldn’t help the hand that strayed to her face. The face she’d never truly understood. Of course she knew, when she looked in the mirror, that her features were good. That she’d been gifted with blonde hair, deep brown eyes, well-honed cheekbones, full lips, skin that never spotted, and a figure that didn’t look out of place in a bathing suit on a beach. But, being a model meant that she’d also seen many other girls similarly gifted, all pretty, but somehow lacking a quality that only a few had. A quality difficult to understand or explain; it was more a feeling than a solid fact. A face that was entrancing, one you could stare at all day and never grow tired of, one that attracted a crowd at a party, or a chorus of catcalls on the way to a field hospital in Italy. Even over here, she was still window dressing, of the kind they’d obviously all like to handle. It was time, again, to fight.

“Excuse me,” she said to Dan. “I need to borrow your jeep.”

Before he could reply, she climbed onto the hood, stood up and whistled for quiet.

“Yes, I’m Jessica May.” Jess’s voice rang through the air, clear, unwavering, not betraying the fact that her stomach had dropped to the floor and she wondered what they’d all do right now if she fainted. “Yes, I was a model. Yes, I lived with a man I wasn’t married to. Like a very wise man recently said to me, none of it matters to the Germans. Over here, I’m a photojournalist. I intend to take pictures and write words that will be published in Vogue; words and pictures that will tell your mothers and sisters and girlfriends and wives back in America your stories.”

She jumped down from the jeep and picked up her bags, pretending that she was simply on a stage at a fashion showing, albeit the subject of more intense eyeballing than ever before.

A voice broke through the silence. “I think you can probably all close your mouths and board ship.” Dan’s words were a command, and they were instantly obeyed.