Kiss Me If You Dare (3 page)

The rent-a-car attendant stood outside, writing on a clipboard as he waited for us to get out of the vehicle.

I blinked back tears and cleared my throat. A muscle in the side of my face twitched. Then my chin launched into a stubborn quiver. Right under Denton’s probing gaze, I felt my whole face collapse into a wrinkled ball. My gasping sobs filled the car. Tears landed in puddles on my jeans.

How had my life come to this? Thirty-three years old and I was begging for my bread. Me, the woman who’d broken free of that pit I’d called home in Walled Lake. It hadn’t been easy, but I’d done it through my own hard work. And later, after sinking into the mire those three years behind bars, I’d grabbed myself by the bootstraps, given them a mighty yank, and gotten back on my feet. Then I’d saved and slaved and bought my first home to renovate. And today I had stocks in my name. Bonds about to mature. Certificates of Deposit ready to be cashed.

I sniffled and raised my head. I wasn’t desperate and destitute. I was just temporarily barred from accessing my funds. This layman’s witness protection program might be humbling, but I could survive it. It wasn’t what I’d expected, but Brad meant the best when he’d set me up with Denton.

Brad. The name gave my already-raw heart another twist. He’d rescued me from the clutches of a scam artist in Rawlings and saved me from death at the hands of slimeball drug dealers in Port Silvan. He’d been eight hours away from making me his official bride-to-be when— The sound of a gunshot cracked through my mind. A stab of pain gripped my arm. The momentary burst of memory launched a migraine across my forehead.

Candice LeJeune’s face swirled red before my eyes. She’d ruined everything. My life had been coming together for the first time. Then she’d lured me into her illegal activities. All the thanks I’d gotten was a bullet in the arm. I rubbed my bandage, trying to wrangle up the details of that crazy morning. In the end, all that mattered was I’d done what Brad had told me to do: get to Del Gloria and Denton Braddock.

Now, sitting under the disapproving glare of Sir Grump-a-lot, I wish I’d argued with Brad a little more. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand.

“Feel better?” Denton asked. He said it without condemnation. The softened response came as a surprise, and I let my guard down. “Yeah. I guess I needed that.”

“It was overdue.” He unfolded a tissue from his pocket and passed it to me.

“Thanks.” I dried my tears. I’d held myself together pretty good over the past several days, despite the events in Michigan. Today, it felt good to have a moment of relief.

We exited the rental car, Denton signed the clipboard, and we headed toward the parking lot.

“Thank you,” the attendant said with a cheery wave, as if the extra ten minutes I’d needed to pull myself together were no big deal.

Denton jangled a set of keys. “I’ll have you drop me at the college. Then you can take my car to do your shopping and go back to the house to get ready. Your appointment is at two o’clock at Walters Hall.”

Walters. The same as Brad’s last name. It seemed I couldn’t avoid reminders of him today.

Denton pressed the security button on his key chain. A bleep sounded to the left. He walked to the passenger side door of a sleek, black Jaguar and threw me the keys.

I stared at the vehicle. “Your real car is a Jag?”

“Surprised?” he asked, getting in.

I settled myself in the soft leather behind the steering wheel. It smelled as good as Brad’s hunky SUV, which was probably sitting in a Minnesota body shop.

I glanced at the distinguished-looking man beside me. “Today nothing surprises me. Yesterday, I would have been shocked.”

“Oh, you mean because of your mistaken first impressions?” I listened to the purr of the engine before putting the car in reverse. “Exactly. What was that all about anyway?”

“It was necessary in order to ascertain your level of spiritual growth. At Del Gloria College, we want to know if a prospective student takes the world at face value, or if they look deeper, past the exterior, to discover a person’s core. Now that I’ve observed your behavior, I can assign you to the appropriate classes.”

I pulled to the end of the row. My arm only hurt a little. “Excuse me? You had to act like a dweeb so you could tell where I’m at spiritually? You could have just asked.”

“Words mean nothing. Only actions.”

I’d been tolerant of his whole geek show all the way to California. Of course I’d passed his simple test.

He pointed. “Get back on the main road and take it to the other end of town.”

I pressed on the gas. A tumbleweed, blown loose from the open field, cut across the road in front of me. “So you’re not the Nutty Professor, you’re really some richer-than-thou instructor at a Christian college. And I should have been open-minded enough to guess the truth.” I gave a disgruntled humph. “If it’s all about actions, then I fail to see how I’m supposed to feel good about living under your roof the next few months.”

“That’s too optimistic,” he said. “You’ll be here longer than a few months. Much longer.”

The flat expanse turned into a residential zone as we crossed town. Then the route became tunnel-like as we passed beneath a canopy of trees. Birds fluttered from branch to branch seeking cover from the hot sun.

“You know,” I said to Denton, “Brad is going to tie up the loose ends of that whole drug-deal thing and then contact me to come home. I’ll be here six months at the most.”

He sighed deep and heavy, as if the entire matter were beyond my understanding and he didn’t have time to explain. “It’s a complex situation. You’ll have to be patient.”

I heaved a sigh of my own. Seven days since my world fell apart. It had only been seven days. I tapped my foot on the gas pedal, surging past the foreign landscape. I did some math as I pulled onto College Boulevard. The median burst with the stunning pink blooms of some exotic bush, the perfect color for bridesmaids’ dresses. I pictured the delicate shade on Brad’s sister Samantha and wrinkled my nose. She’d look like a swirl of cotton candy.

I swung my mind back around to my calculations. About a hundred eighty more days before I could be with Brad again. Then I’d be back in Port Silvan and I’d finish the renovations on my log cabin in the woods. And somehow Brad and I would find a way to be together. Only a hundred eighty more days.

I already suffered being away this long. My lungs couldn’t seem to fill with air. My stomach churned more than usual, leaving an acid trail in my throat. And an ache hovered at the front of my neck, as if I might launch into another round of tears at any moment. Somehow being near Brad put my body, mind, and spirit in proper alignment. As long as I was with him, I was feeling no pain. “Turn right,” Denton said.

The Jag responded to my one-armed commands as I angled around a corner toward a low glass building at the end of a circle drive. I pulled up to the curb.

“Here.” Denton opened his wallet and counted out a thousand in crisp hundreds. He held the stack toward me.

I gasped and put up a palm to stop him. “Oh my. That’s overkill. One of those should be enough.”

“Get what you need today so you don’t have to think about it anymore. You’ll be glad you did.”

I studied his face for hidden meaning. He seemed sincere, but something screamed “Warning, warning!” Really, what kind of person carried a thousand dollars’ cash in his wallet on a daily basis?

He nudged the bills into my hand.

The kind of guy that owned a Jaguar, I supposed.

“Thank you.” My voice was barely a whisper.

“You’re welcome. I’ll meet you after your interview, there,” he pointed across campus to a domed building that could pass for a state capitol, “at Walters Hall.” He got out of the car. “Oh,” he added, “driving without a license is illegal in all fifty states. So don’t get pulled over until we can get your new identity set up.”

The door slammed shut with the discreet hush of a luxury vehicle.

I stayed for a moment and watched my guardian ogre enter the building, disappearing behind silver glass that reflected a black Jaguar parked at the curb out front.

My fingers rubbed at the stack of hundred-dollar bills. A thousand bucks, a luxury car for the day—life wasn’t so bad. The woman in the reflection smiled at me, waving the money in her hand.

I put the car in gear and drove toward town, caught up in the thrill of the hunt.

4

A sign pointed the way to Business District. I turned up a hillside blooming with early summer splendor. At the top of the rise, the road ran straight. A gap between the farthest buildings showcased the blue Pacific. I drove down the three-block stretch and checked out the shop selection. From the timeworn building fronts, I got the overall impression that Del Gloria was a hardworking town, one without the time, money, or inclination to cater to snooty tourists. I patted the wad of money in my jeans pocket. That attitude would bode well for my hardly earned dollars.

I spotted what I was looking for and slammed on the brakes. I eased the Jag into a slanted parking space in front of the Del Gloria Thrift-Mart. For a moment, I felt at home in this strange land. Even on California’s rocky coast, folks had a yen for secondhand clothing.

The door
ding
ed as I entered. To one side, a circular rack of women’s tops were marked 75 percent off. I headed toward it like a paint splotch to a new pair of jeans.

After thirty minutes of scrutinizing stains, checking sizes, and tracking down a variety of work-wear, I proceeded to the register.

The cashier rang up my items.

I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and waited for change. She counted it into my hand with barely a glance at my face. It was nice to be in a college town. The steady influx of strangers gave me the anonymity necessary to pull off this crazy safe-house scheme.

A moment later, I was on the sidewalk headed for the department store. Inside, I picked out my interpretation of interview clothes: a deep blue jacket over a white blouse topping a pinstriped knee-length skirt and navy Mary Janes with a spunky heel. Completely conservative. And
so
not me. But neither was impressing people with my clothing. I brought the ensemble up front, loaded up the counter with socks, undies, and a few modest bras, and pulled out my bills to pay.

The clerk tallied and bagged my items, then I scooted out the door.

One block down was the drugstore, where I splurged on an assortment of cosmetics, personal care items, and fresh bandages. I even bought a hair dryer and curling iron.

The black Jag was waiting for me, crowded between standard issue Toyotas and Hondas. I got behind the wheel and headed for Cliffhouse.

An hour later, I was showered, dressed, and driving to Walters Hall for my interview.

My chest constricted with nervous tension and my knees shook. With only a few hours’ notice to prepare,

I couldn’t think of a thing I had to offer DGC. What college would even want me? Besides marrying Brad and settling down and possibly continuing to renovate homes on the side, I had no spectacular future plans.

At the thought of Brad, the ache near my shoulder flared up. I rested my arm in my lap. I’d done too much already today. The doctor had told me to take it easy. Shopping wasn’t exactly a contact sport, but my body would need a few days to recover from the exertion. I gritted my teeth, determined to make it through the interview before giving in to the pain.

I eased the Jag past a group of students on the sidewalk. They waved as I drove by.

I found a parking space close to the door and got out.

A woman stopped at the front bumper. She held a stack of books in one hand. The other was on her hip. Short, kinked brown hair, a few shades darker than her skin, lifted at random in the breeze.

“I thought you were the doc,” she said, annoyance in her voice.

“Oh.” I looked at the Jag and a lightbulb came on. “No, he lent me his car for the morning.” I smoothed my skirt and auto-locked the doors.

She gave me a probing once-over. “Who are you, a recruiter from the naval base?”

Her attitude got to me. I pulled rank. “No. I’m the professor’s niece from Galveston.” I thrust my good hand toward her. “Alisha Braddock. Nice to meet you. And your name is?”

I detected a flush creeping up her cheeks. She switched her stack of books to the opposite hand and shook mine in a quick salute. “Portia Romero. Nice to meet you.”

I gave a final thrust. “I’ll make sure to let Uncle Denton know you’re looking for him. Bye.” I flung a smirk over my shoulder and headed to my interview.

The nerve of some people. I steamed about Portia Romero’s hoity-toity attitude all the way to the front entrance of Walters Hall. I stopped at the stone steps, took a deep breath, and tried to clear my mind.

My big second chance at college. A re-do. A turning back of the clock. All I had to do was make the best of the next six months. Maybe the credits would transfer to a college back in Michigan and I could finish school there. As soon as Brad called me home.

Inside, I scanned the directory. Dean of Admissions, Suite 401. I swallowed hard at the other words that popped off the marquis: Dean of Bible Studies, Philosophy, Theology . . . not exactly my cup of tea.

I took the elevator. My heart rate increased with the altitude. The doors opened. Stark black marble and a potted plant gave a sober welcome.

Inside, the acrid scent of just-installed industrial carpet matched its blackberry-pie hue. A tawny counter, the color of flaky crust, separated visitors from staff. I folded my hands on the textured surface and forced them to be still. Near a bank of windows overlooking the campus, an attractive redhead sat behind a desk.

“Hi,” I said, getting the woman’s attention. “I’m Ti—” I caught my blunder and swallowed. “I’m Alisha Braddock. I’m here for an interview with the dean.”

A smile lit her face. She toyed with something on the arm of her chair and the whole thing backed out from the desk and wheeled over to the counter. She reached up a hand in greeting. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Professor Braddock is a favorite around here. He’s told us so many wonderful things about his niece from Galveston.”