Kiss Me If You Dare (2 page)

The next morning, lying in a big four-poster with the morning light filtering through silk curtains, I absorbed more of my new home. The room was fit for a princess. The whole house fit for a queen. Not one area seemed in need of repair. I could almost feel my muscles going limp from lack of hard labor.

The ceiling soared well past the acorn-shaped tips of the bedposts. A single imperfection in the drywall, a tiny lump of paint almost directly above me, gave my eyes a focal point as my mind drifted Brad-ward. I strained to remember the expression on his face as I drove off in his SUV, headed to Del Gloria. He must have waved. Said “I love you.” Maybe even had tears in his eyes. But all my mind could produce was white static, like snow on an off-the-air station.

What could I remember? The way his eyes sparkled like stars in a sky of midnight blue just before he kissed me on the porch and promised to pick me up a few hours later to shop for an engagement ring.

I shifted under the covers and held my left hand above my head, examining the third finger over, wondering which set I would have chosen if my world hadn’t crumbled that day. White or yellow gold? A solitary diamond or a dazzling cluster? Simple or flashy? I smiled at the thought. Simple, of course. Brad loved a woman with dishpan hands, not some ivory-skinned debutante.

I lay there a few minutes more, wishing I could pick up the phone and give him a call. Then I swung my legs over the side of the mattress. A groan accompanied my efforts. The three-day trip to Del Gloria had been excruciating with my bum arm. I rubbed at the ache near my shoulder. The bullet had torn through the flesh, but missed the bone.

A drug deal gone sour and I’d been caught in the middle. Brad had been there too . . . but the details were hazy. The blast of a weapon, pain knifing through my body, the steady glare of the sun as I drove west in a race for my life.

The next thing I knew I’d rammed into the back end of a mom-and-three-kids minivan somewhere this side of Minneapolis. My arm was bleeding, but other than that, no one had been hurt. I was brought in for medical attention, lucid enough to evade questions by claiming I couldn’t remember anything—including my name. Weirdly, it was mostly true at the time. I’d handed them the slip of paper in my pocket, the one that said DENTON BRADDOCK in Brad Walters’ handwriting. They dialed the phone number. Denton must have known all the right things to say because they left me alone after that.

“It appears you’re suffering from trauma-induced memory loss,” the physician told me later as he treated my injury. “Dr. Braddock is flying in from California. We’ll release you into his custody.” He made it sound like he knew Dr. Braddock personally, as if he was confidently turning me over to the care of some renowned practitioner. How could I have known he meant Dr. Frankenstein?

Now here I was. An inmate of the coastal sanatorium. I walked to a window. At least this time my prison had a view. The lawn in front of the house sloped down to meet a two-lane road flanked by guardrail. Beyond, the land dropped away into a wispy blue ocean that disappeared into the morning fog. I lifted the sash a few inches. Through the screen came the crash of water against rocks. I’d expected the sound to be soothing. But the ebb and swell along the cliffs seemed vicious. Ferocious. Unsettling. I pushed the pane back into place. The roar died, swapped for a muffled
whoosh
.

A morning routine was out of the question. I had no soap, shampoo, or makeup. Not even a change of clothes since my own had been too bloodstained to salvage. The professor said all I had to do was ask and he’d get me everything I needed. But how foolish was that? I was thirty-three years old. I’d provided for my own needs practically my whole life. I had no intention of begging him for money or anything else.

In the adjoining bathroom, I splashed water on my face one-handed, thinking that at the very least, soap should have been provided for guests. Denton hadn’t remembered all the basics when he’d speed-shopped for my wardrobe, though his thoughtfulness let me check out of the hospital fully clothed instead of with my skivvies peeking through the gap in the back of my gown. And at least he’d remembered a toothbrush and toothpaste. Still, I wished I’d grabbed a bar of soap and a minishampoo before checking out of the Lumpy Mattress Motel yesterday.

I toweled off, pausing as I got a glimpse of myself. The woman in the mirror looked strained, with dark smudges beneath her eyes. I touched a finger to the skin. Time was catching up to me. Subtle crow’s feet splayed my temple area, a testimony to periodic heartbreak. A deeper gash across my forehead labeled me a worrywart. A crop of gray highlights tufted from the center part of my below-the-shoulder auburn hair, the effects of chronic anxiety.

I forced a smile. My bottom lids arched up. Brad told me it made me look exotic. But squinty-eyed was a more apt description.

Letting my smile fade, I ran a finger across the frown lines framing my mouth. I looked haunted, like the ghost of Tish Amble. Something more than disappointment had changed the appearance of my face.

Sure, I got frustrated with life when a visit from the Yooper Godfather put my marriage proposal on hold—
Yooper
being the name you call somebody from the U.P., as in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. But there was something else, something beyond dejection in my eyes. Something I couldn’t finger . . .

A heavy knock sounded at the door.

“Alisha. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

It was Denton, barking orders in a voice so unlike the soft-spoken one he’d used at the hospital to schmooze the staff.

I looked in the mirror one last time, helpless to do anything about my appearance.

I shrugged at myself in apology. “Coming,” I called.

With one arm working and the other too tender to be of much use, I slithered into my Levis, and topped them with a five-dollar tee in blaze orange. The jeans fell a tad on the short side. I managed to roll up the bottoms a few turns, making them into pedal pushers, my cure for everything that landed at or above my ankles. I checked my trim silhouette in the mirror and raked fingers through my hair, having no choice but to leave it down. There was no getting around the fact that ponytail holders required two operating arms. I gave the overall look a thumbs-up, grateful I didn’t know a soul west of the Mississippi.

The hall was empty. I made my way past closed doors painted white and trimmed with gold leaf, then down the sweeping staircase to the kitchen, where Ms. Fussy–britches busily buffed the stovetop with a white cloth.

“Good morning,” she said with her lilting Irish accent. “Morning,” I returned in my strictly Midwestern one. “I’m just going to grab a quick bowl of cereal.” I paused, nervous my words may have offended her. “If that’s okay,” I added.

“Cereal is next to the icebox. And you already know where the bowls are.” Her cloth never missed a motion. I got busy with my breakfast, unable to shake the feeling that evil hate-beams radiated from the direction of the oven. Through the crunching of all-natural granola, I could hear Ms. Rigg’s cloth making meaningful swoops across the surface, first quiet, then faster and louder as the cotton caught the ring around a burner and banged at it over and over, as if determined to make the metal pay for my sins.

I forced down the last swallow. Without a word, I rinsed my bowl and squirted it with dish soap.

“Leave that for me,” the drill sergeant commanded. Her cloth screeched to a halt.

My hands froze in place.

“I’m the only one who’ll be doing the dishes around this house.” Alexa Rigg’s face torqued into an angry scowl. “Can’t say what you hope to gain at Cliffhouse. But whatever it is, you’ll not be gaining it at my expense.”

At the threat in her voice, I backed away from the sink, scrounged up a paper towel to dry my hands, and hightailed it out of enemy territory, abandoning the thought of a cup of coffee.

I found Denton in the dining room, swigging down his last drop of caffeine. He stood as I entered. His white hair was combed neatly to one side. He must have popped in contacts. And his shirt, tie, and slacks actually matched.

“What’s going on?” I asked, unnerved by his transformation from Mr. Dweeb to Mr. Ooh La La.

He looked at his wristwatch. “Time to go.”

I ran to keep up with him as he swooped to the portico and started the rental car.

I slid into the passenger seat, nursing a tender bicep under day-old bandages. He turned the car around and headed down the driveway. At the bottom of the hill, he stopped for traffic.

“Do you smell that?” Denton wrinkled up his nose and took a few whiffs. “Is that you?”

“Pardon me?” I didn’t like the new, debonair Denton. At least Dweeby Denton had manners.

“I’m sorry, but it smells like body odor in here.”

Blood rushed to my face. I hadn’t taken a shower since yesterday before dawn and hadn’t had a change of clothes in three days. On top of it, my overworked bandage carried a salty aroma this morning. But come on, I couldn’t reek that bad. I subtly aimed my nose toward my armpit.
Oof.

I cleared my throat. “It’s not as if I have a change of clothes or the stuff to take a shower, you know. I don’t have two nickels to rub together yet.”

“And when do you plan to have those two nickels? A week from now when I couldn’t even ride in the same car with you?”

He pulled onto the main road.

My jaw dropped. “How rude. Stop the car. I’m getting out.”

He kept driving.

We neared a three-way stop. Straight ahead, the road followed the cliff’s edge along the coast. The fork to the right led up a hill toward civilization. One phone call from the McDonald’s we’d passed on the way in last night and I could escape this isolated promontory. I grabbed my emergency escape handle.

His voice softened. “That was not meant as an affront. I feel that if a person needs help, she should ask for it. You probably don’t even realize you are behaving like Ms. Rigg.”

I stiffened, surprised at his observation. Ms. Rigg was the last person I wanted to pattern my life after. I blew out a breath. “Where are we going, anyway?” When the professor had knocked on my door this morning, I’d assumed he’d be taking me to the restoration project Brad had mentioned. Now, I eyed Denton’s dress clothes, wondering why I hadn’t questioned him earlier.

“I am going to teach. You are going to meet with the Dean of Admissions at Del Gloria College. Summer classes have already started, but I’ve arranged a late enrollment.”

My mouth gaped. “Me enroll in college? Are you crazy?” My last attempt at a bachelor’s degree ended when I’d been thrown in the slammer. With the recent drama in my life, I wasn’t sure I was ready to take another stab at it.

“Tish—isn’t that what Brad called you?” Denton asked.

I bristled to hear him use my nickname. He hadn’t earned that right. I nodded my acknowledgment.

“Then, Tish, let me put things in simple terms. You don’t have a choice.” He punctuated each word.

Waves of rebellion swept through me at his attempted coup. Apparently, with my current situation, Denton figured he owned me.

My teeth clamped in defiance. With no options coming to mind, I’d have to make the best of things until I could get out of Dodge. Anyway, what could it hurt to take a few classes? Hadn’t I always wanted to finish college?

I gave a sigh of reluctance. “Fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “I’ll go.”

3

Denton nodded his approval. “Wise choice.”

The car accelerated.

I glared his way. “You said I didn’t have a choice.”

“Then see what a good decision you made? Now you don’t have to be angry with me for making you do something you didn’t want to do.”

My jaw wiggled back and forth. With a course of action set, I thought ahead to my admissions meeting. “I take it I should clean up a little before my interview.”

“Another good decision.”

I flicked a wrist toward my stale clothing. “I don’t have anything to wear. And I’m going to need a shower.”

He looked over at me as if waiting for something, then went back to driving.

I studied his profile as we drove past homes converted into law firms and dentist offices. Without his chunky glasses, Denton was actually quite handsome. He’d trimmed his moustache to a slim white line. A few errant curls above his ears added a dash of mystery. His shoulders were pulled back in proud posture, completely opposite the slouchy sag he’d carried on the drive from Minnesota. If the guy hadn’t been in his sixties, I’d have sworn I was attracted to him.

“I suggest you take a shower and change your clothes if that’s what you need to do,” he finally answered, taking a left past the McDonald’s at the Welcome to Del Gloria sign.

The road widened into a highway, and a minute later we left the town behind and drove along a flat, open stretch. At a road marked Del Gloria International A
I-PORT
, the doc turned right.

I twiddled my thumbs. “If there’s an airport nearby, how come we drove all the way from Minnesota?”

“Two reasons. First, you had no identification. Only false documents would have allowed us to fly without giving away the whereabouts of Patricia Louise Amble.”

That made sense. “And second?” I asked.

“Second, it gave me time to analyze you and design your course of study.” He pulled into the rent-a-car lot and stopped the car. “So what have you decided?”

I fidgeted under his stare. “Decided about what?”

“About how you’re going to obtain the shower and change of clothing you mentioned.”

Oh, the humility of it all. I swallowed my pride. “I guess I was hoping you’d help me out with that for today. I have no money. No checkbook. And you cut up my debit card.”

“For your own safety.” He gave me an inquiring look. “So exactly what do you need?”

I grunted in frustration. “Money. For clothes and things.” I wasn’t about to give him a shopping list that included personal items.

“Do you remember what I told you that first night at the hotel?”

I nodded.

“Just ask and anything you need will be provided. Anything at all,” he said.