Kiss Me If You Dare
Read Kiss Me If You Dare Online
Authors: Nicole Young
Kiss Me
If You Dare
Also by Nicole Young
Patricia Amble Mystery series
Love Me If You Must
Kill Me If You Can
Kiss Me
If You Dare
A PATRICIA AMBLE MYSTERY
Nicole Young
© 2009 by Nicole Young
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Young, Nicole, 1967–
Kiss me if you dare / Nicole Young.
p. cm. — (A Patricia Amble mystery ; 3)
ISBN 978-0-8007-3159-5 (pbk.)
1. Amble, Patricia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Dwellings— Remodeling—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3625.0968K57 2009
813.6—dc22
2008044857
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
To Katey with love
on your eighteenth birthday
Table of Contents
In the sweep of the headlights, the house on the hill looked like a gaudy mansion dating from California’s gold rush era. I felt a surge of exhilaration. I could imagine the view of the mighty Pacific I’d have in the morning from windows overlooking the cliffs. And the thought of crumbling plaster around the panes got my blood pumping. Digging my teeth into this place would make the perfect distraction.
Chunks of heaving cement led to an old-fashioned carport at one side of the home. The vehicle pulled behind an older model Honda and stopped.
The driver cut the engine and touched my arm. “Despite her appearance, Ms. Rigg helps where she can. Please don’t undermine her desire.” He held my gaze for an extra beat, an Einstein look-alike with his shaggy white hair and Coke-bottle glasses. The lab-coat look with mix-n-match clothes beneath screamed “permanently out to lunch.” He got out of the vehicle and disappeared inside.
Relief swept over me with his departure. We’d been cooped up in the car together on and off for the past seventy-two hours. And while Professor Denton Braddock obviously meant well with his endless stream of words to the wise, I felt like a four-year-old trapped in Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood.
A blast of pain shot up my arm. The moist ocean air with its tinge of salt seemed to add to the agony. I rubbed at the bandage that extended from elbow to shoulder, ready for another painkiller. I grabbed at the handle with my good arm and opened the car door.
A single bulb dangled above me in the weathered porch area. Shadows shrank and grew as the stiff breeze sent the light scuttling. I shivered, though the early summer evening was balmy.
I stared at the entry to my newest renovation project and sighed. Fixing up houses and selling them for a profit had been my living for much of the past decade. But I’d intended to make the log cabin back in the deep woods of Michigan my final project. I’d been ready to settle down. Thanks to the redneck mafia, I had to live with Plan B—at least until I could return home and make my dream a reality.
Ahead, warped steps led up to a screen door and into the house. I put a foot on the bottom tread. This was the first time I’d arrived at a renovation empty-handed. No cot. No sleeping bag. No coffeemaker. No tools. No Goodwill bargains. No identification.
Just the clothes on my back. I even had to live under another name while I hid out in Del Gloria. No more Patricia Louise Amble, the name on my birth certificate. I was now Alisha Marie Braddock, the professor’s supposed niece visiting from Galveston.
“Why Galveston?” I’d asked him somewhere between Minnesota and Wyoming.
“I like how it sounds.”
“I’ve never been to Galveston,” I said.
“Then you can’t give any details about your previous life, can you?”
I hated his answer. I’d walked away from great romantic possibilities with Brad back in Rawlings in order to dig into my past. I hadn’t felt right starting a relationship when I couldn’t give an intelligent account of my ancestry. According to Denton, I was now supposed to brush off any questions that would give clues to my identity.
I scuffed across the porch and through the screen door. It slammed behind me.
Beyond an entryway, I found the kitchen, tall and narrow with cupboards stretching beyond human reach along two walls. A library ladder would have been at home in the galley layout.
Far overhead, two bulbs cast a dim light on the room. The cream-colored walls seemed in perfect condition. The finish on the dark cabinetry shone to a high gloss, without a fingerprint in sight. I ran my hand along a cool stone countertop. Though clearly a replacement, the flawless surface looked original to the home. All in all, a remarkable restoration job.
I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter. When Brad set me up with this hideout, he’d assured me that Denton was offering food and shelter in exchange for my restoration skills. I could only assume the rest of the house, minus the kitchen, needed my expert touch.
The thought of Brad delivered a new dose of pain, starting at my heart and radiating to every limb.
A door swung open at one end of the room. “Welcome, Miss Braddock,” said a woman’s voice.
Remembering my name change, I stood to attention at the brisk Irish accent.
“I’m Ms. Rigg.” She spoke the title as if Mizz was her given name as she shuffled into the light. “Do you need help with your bags or can you get them yourself?”
Ms. Rigg was a tiny woman wearing a black cotton dress over black socks and black sneakers. White legs poked out beneath her hem with each step. As she drew closer, I realized her small stature could be attributed to a curved spine. The hump on her back rose almost as high as the top of her head.
I tried not to stare. “No. I’m fine. I have no bags.”
“Then what about food? You must be hungry.”
I focused my mind on my stomach. It growled on cue. “Food would be great. Thanks.”
The words seemed to trip a switch. The woman moved with purpose to the stove and lifted the lid on an oversized pot. “Beef stew. The professor’s favorite.”
Steam billowed as she stirred. The succulent scent of juicy tomatoes and spice filled the air.
“Mmmm. Smells delicious.” I liked the thought of a built-in cook during my stay in Del Gloria.
She plopped the lid back and retrieved a stepping stool from a corner of the kitchen. She set it down near the sink, climbed up, and pulled open a cabinet. Even with the added height, she struggled to reach the bowls. At her grunt, I intervened.
“Here. Let me help with those.” Just a smidge under six feet, my height came in handy in the restoration business. Those hard-to-reach corners were easy for me. Long arms, long neck, long legs . . . I either resembled a supermodel or an ostrich.
The fingers of my good arm barely touched the smooth ceramic bowls before Ms. Rigg swatted me away.
“Don’t you be interfering in my kitchen.” Her voice rose to shrill peaks. “It’s bad enough the professor agreed to take you in. Barely through the door and you think you own the place.” Gray hair in a bun shook loose with her anger. “Well, you don’t own it yet. Relation or not, you’ll not be taking my place in this house.”
I recoiled at her words. “I’m sorry. I just meant to help. And please, don’t worry about me. I’m not really—”
The far door swung open.
“Alisha.”
Professor Braddock strode in. For a moment he seemed strong and decisive, not the awkward nerd-type I’d ridden here with.
He took me by the arm. I winced at the pressure on my bandage.
“I’m showing Alisha to her room. She can help herself to stew later.” Denton led me out of the kitchen. We stopped just outside the door.
He turned me toward him, showing no mercy to my wound. “Heed my words. You will not survive if anyone suspects you are not who I say you are.”
I shook off his grip. “Sorry.” I cradled my arm. “She got so defensive. I didn’t want her thinking I was here permanently.”
“Perhaps you are here permanently. We won’t know for some time.” His lips pursed under a bushy moustache as he started to walk. “I warned you about Ms. Rigg. I specifically asked you not to help her.”
I hurried to keep up, thinking back to his parting words in the car. “I had no idea she’d be so offended.”
He halted at the foot of a grand staircase. “Now you know. Don’t help unless she asks.”
I stared at a mole on his cheek. Denton certainly offered asylum—as in loony bin, not sanctuary. What had Brad been thinking? When I found the body in my basement two projects ago, the killer had been behind bars within six months. Could I last around here for six months?
I sighed and followed Denton up the stairs. It wasn’t as if I had a choice.
Denton jogged up the steps, speaking to me over his shoulder. “Ms. Rigg has been with my family since I was a boy. When my parents died, I continued to employ her—not only out of obligation, but also from gratitude. She served us well over the years, always treating my home and family as her own. It’s rare to find that kind of loyalty in today’s world.”
He led me down a hallway, gloomy in the fading light.
“Why was she so offended when I tried to help?” I asked. “She practically snapped my head off when I reached for that bowl.” It had been a brown bowl, deep chocolate brown, not unlike the color of Brad’s eyes.
Denton paused in front of a closed door. “She may only be the housekeeper, but Alexa Rigg fancies herself mistress of Cliffhouse. She takes her work seriously. Perhaps too seriously. Her duties have become a heavy weight on her shoulders.”
“Can’t you tell her to ease up?” I said. “I’d love to help where I could. It’s silly to have her wait on me hand and foot when I’m perfectly capable of helping myself. And I really don’t think she enjoys it.”
His hand rested on the doorknob. “Her world is one of conflict. I can’t make her choose peace when she prefers drama.”
The door swung open to reveal an airy bedroom with a row of windows along the far wall. I strode to one and peered through the blackness at a thin rose-colored glow where the water met the sky, like a view of Earth from outer space, a fringe of sunbeams defining the horizon. I drew in an awed breath. Who could embrace conflict within sight of paradise? Ms. Rigg must be living with her eyes closed.
I turned to Denton. “What about you? Don’t you prefer peace in your own home?”
Taking a step back, he smiled. “Yes. That’s why I stay out of the kitchen.” He gripped the doorknob. “Sleep well, Patricia. You’ll need it.” The door shut behind him.
I waited awhile after his footsteps died away before tiptoeing to the kitchen for a serving of Ms. Rigg’s beef stew. I erased all evidence of my meal, then took a stealth tour of the house, roaming from one amazing room to the next—avoiding those with closed doors. By the time I found my way back to my bedroom, I was convinced Cliffhouse presented the finest renovation I’d ever seen.