“But I can’t be a war correspondent in the bar of the Savoy. There’s no war here. I’ve had one piece published. If I’m quarantined now, I might never have another piece published again.”

“Then go pack your bags. And good luck.”

Jess slipped away, heart hammering both at the thought of her own daring, and at what Warren really would do to her when he found out.

* * *

Jennings was waiting for Jess when she stepped off the ship, his face obviously hastily scrubbed clean for the assignment, faint dirt streaks showing where his fingers had swiped over his brow and chin.

“Captain May,” he stuttered.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure of being provided with an escort?” Jess asked.

“Anne told Major Hallworth you were coming again and he said he has to provide escorts for all the male correspondents who come over so he didn’t see why you should have to hitch through Italy. Last month, I even had to carry one fellow’s camera lenses around for a week.”

Jess snorted. How could the army honestly think a woman who didn’t get ground transport or ask for assistance was more trouble than a man? A curious rustle of noise made her realize there was quite a line of GIs assembled at port, and that the Naples PRO who’d been so irate with her several months ago was smiling at her in a way that was certainly not friendly.

“Look what I have,” he said, stepping forward to show her a crumpled picture he’d taken from his pocket. It was of Jess. Louise Dahl-Wolfe had shot it for Harper’s Bazaar in 1940 in the early days of Jess’s modeling career. In it, Jess was sitting on the floor reading a book, back to the camera, naked except for her knickers, but all you could see of her in the photograph was her bare back and the very top of her hipbones. She’d been waiting for her next outfit when Louise decided Jess didn’t need an outfit; the shoot was meant to show off the diamond clip in Jess’s hair, rather than a dress. For the first time, Jess wondered how many people actually noticed the hairclip.

“I’ve got one too,” another man joined in the fun, pulling a different picture out of his pocket, this time of Jess in a swimsuit.

“One of the public relations guys in London was real helpful in finding these for us,” the Naples PRO said. “Now, here you are in the flesh.”

He made sure to linger over the word flesh, and Jess just stopped herself from shuddering. Warren Stone, Jess knew, was the one who’d made sure the men had so many pictures of her.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. “I have a telegram here for you.” The PRO handed her a piece of paper.

Her orders had been countermanded. She was to return immediately to London. It’ll be more fun to watch you leave in disgrace later, just when you think you’ve settled in, Warren had said to her. And she wondered if Warren had let her go, had wanted to make sure that, before he ordered her to come back and sit in a bar and watch the war from a distance, she would see that every man in the U.S. Army had a picture of Jess to paw over.