Kiss Me If You Dare (4 page)

“He has?” I leaned over the counter and shook her hand.

“Of course. And I can see why. You’re beautiful. Just beautiful.”

I dropped my arm, dazed. “Oh, that Uncle Denton,” I played along. “He shouldn’t have.” For the moment I was glad to be decked out in my dress duds. It felt good to be considered beautiful by a complete stranger, even if she was just trying to butter up the niece of the beloved “Doc.”

“Dean Lester will see you in just a moment. Go ahead and have a seat.” She nodded to the row of chairs by the door.

An assortment of Del Gloria College literature was scattered in tidy array on a coffee table. I picked up a course catalog to peruse while waiting. The cover showed students in caps and gowns looking off toward some rosy future. I flipped to an inside page and scanned photos surrounding a Bible verse. More smiles. More hype. I read the quote, written in flowery script. “Jesus said, ‘It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick . . . For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.’”

The words hit at some deep level, wriggling their way into my brain. I tossed the catalog back on the table, not caring for the feelings evoked by a few simple words and images. My fingers instead found the zipper on the patent leather pocketbook I’d bought to match my heels. The doc’s remaining five hundred dollars were the only items inside. No driver’s license, insurance card, cell phone, or checkbook
. Zzzt . . . zzzt . . . zzzt.
After a minute of the mind-numbing noise, I tucked the thing under my arm and resorted to clicking my heels instead. The leather made a funny squeak.

The secretary was talking to someone.

“Miss Braddock.” The words found their way through my mental wanderings.

I whipped my head up and blushed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You’re talking to me.” I put a hand to my temple.

I jumped up and followed her to a glassed-in office.

“Dean Lester, this is Alisha Braddock, here for a two o’clock interview.” The secretary wheeled out, shutting the door behind her.

“How nice to meet you, Alisha,” came a lilting southern accent. “I’m Dr. Jordan Lester. Please. Be seated.” The African-American woman indicated the overstuffed armchair opposite her desk. Her persimmon blouse and bold turquoise jewelry made the exact opposite statement of my conservative garb.

I sat, sinking into soft chenille.

Dean Lester came around to the front of the desk and perched on a corner of it. One leg of her black slacks rode up slightly to reveal ballet flats with a touch of sparkle. I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be a typical college entry interview.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Her gentle voice and sincere smile nearly put me at ease.

I cleared my throat. “Well, to begin with, I’m Professor Braddock’s niece from Galveston.” I hated the lie, but it came easier every time I told it.

“Galveston? You sound more like you’re from Minnesota.” I blinked fast. “Well, yes, I was in Minnesota before Galveston.” That first part wasn’t a lie.

I waited for another question. She just kept smiling. Crossing my legs, I smiled back. The silence dragged on.

“Well?” she prompted. “Tell me more.”

I blew out a nervous breath. I grew up an orphan, nearly married a con artist, was best friends with a murderer . . . My arm throbbed at the thought of Candice LeJeune. I rubbed at it as I devised a suitably vague answer for the dean.

“I like houses,” I said. “I like to fix them up.”

“Why?” The sparkles on her shoes glinted like a disco ball as she swung her foot.

I shrugged. “I like to fix broken stuff. I like to take things that are ugly and make them beautiful again.”

She looked at a notepad on her desk. “Then I think it’s appropriate Professor Braddock has assigned you to our Revamp Department.”

I perked up. “Wow. Sounds like it’s right up my alley.” She wagged a finger. “The program has less to do with renovating houses and more to do with building character. I hope you’re up for a year of intense introspection.” Introspection. Didn’t that mean looking inside myself? I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

Her face retained its pleasant expression. “I’m looking at the course list the professor put together. Pending transfer of your credits and taking the maximum course load, you can receive your degree in as little as one year.”

My eyes studied a speck of lint on the blackberry carpeting. In one year I could have my college degree. Too bad I wouldn’t be here that long. I thought about Brad doing his police thing and making sure the bad guys got locked up so I could go back to Michigan and be his wife. Out of nowhere, my arm sent off a shot of pain that bent me into my lap.

“Are you all right?” The dean touched my shoulder.

“Yeah.” I took a minute to breathe. “Sorry. It’s almost time for more aspirin.”

“Your uncle informed me of your injury. Would you like to finish this later?”

The pang passed and I straightened. “No. Let’s get it over with.”

She paused, then looked back at her notes. “Professor Braddock left a few notations about your childhood. Apparently your parents died when you were young?”

I hesitated, not sure what Denton’s story line was. I figured it would be best to stick as close to the truth as possible so I wouldn’t confuse myself, let alone everyone else.

“My mom died when I was eight. I think my dad is still alive. I just don’t know where he is right now.”

The dean raised her eyebrows. “You say that like you have plans to locate him.”

“I do. Someday.” I’d often wondered how my life would have been different if my father hadn’t turned in the local drug lord and gotten himself on the man’s hit list. Would he have stuck around with my mom and me? I guess I’d never know.

“How does that fit into your studies?”

I blinked, knowing I didn’t have the first clue where to look for my dad. “I’d like to finish my degree, but sometimes things get in the way.” I was an expert at letting my college career get derailed.

Dean Lester sighed and walked around her desk. She sat in the oversized executive chair. “Miss Braddock. Your uncle has agreed to support you for the duration of your study at Del Gloria College. Should you choose to leave the program, that support will be withdrawn.”

My blood surged. “Uncle D doesn’t own me. I agreed to start classes. I never promised to finish them.”

The dean stared at me in silence. Then she leaned forward. “I’ll leave that between you and your uncle. In the meantime, I feel you are an excellent candidate for the program. Highly qualified, in fact.”

The tone in her voice didn’t exactly imply that was a good thing.

The dean rose to shake my hand. “You can pick up your schedule from my assistant. Congratulations on your acceptance to Del Gloria College.”

I dropped her hand, bewildered as she shooed me out the door.

5

I made my escape, not wanting to question the dean’s logic. How she figured I was highly qualified for any college program was a mystery to me. I stepped off the elevator and turned toward the bright sunshine glistening beyond the massive stone porch of Walters Hall. I pushed through the doors, and ground to a halt at the sight of Denton Braddock standing on the steps out front, surrounded by students.

Exhausted from an afternoon of whirlwind shopping and flat-out fibbing, I was impatient for my new room and the creature comforts of Cliffhouse, namely, Ms. Rigg’s beef stew. Surely Denton didn’t plan on standing around chitchatting much longer.

His voice echoed under the portico. “Always do the right thing. That way you won’t suffer self-reproach later,” he was saying.

Great. A Mr. Rogers episode on doing the right thing. I gave a private snort. And this from the guy putting together my fake identity. I maneuvered into the fringes of the crowd.

A man in his fifties moved to the front with a question. “Sometimes it’s hard to know what to do. How can you be certain of what’s right?”

Birdsong filled the silence as the undergrads held their collective breaths for his answer. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot, more worried about how long the performance would drag on than what the prof had to say.

He raised his voice, making sure those of us in the back could hear his answer. “Ask yourself, is it within man’s law? Is it within God’s law? Always make the choice not to hurt yourself.”

My new archenemy Portia Romero wriggled her way toward the professor. “Isn’t that selfish, if I’m thinking only of me?”

Yeah, like she was some big saint and actually cared about others.

“Check your motives,” Denton answered. “If your intentions are pure, you’re on the right track. Otherwise, you may be hurting yourself by setting out to hurt someone else, the principle of reaping what you sow.”

Denton caught my eye. His mouth widened into a Cheshire cat smile. Somehow I felt like I’d just been targeted for termination.

He moved a step higher and looked over the crowd. “Alisha, come up here.” His voice reached out to me.

I rooted my feet and crossed my arms.

Everyone turned to look. Those nearby nudged me toward the front and before I knew it, I was next to Professor Braddock, two steps above the crowd.

“Students,” he turned to the faces, “I’d like to introduce my niece, Alisha Braddock. She’ll be staying with me at Cliffhouse and studying in our Revamp Program.”

The mob broke into applause, sending a rush of blood to my cheeks.

As the clapping subsided, Denton raised one arm in a goodbye gesture to the gathering, like a rock star bidding his audience farewell. The other arm firmly about my shoulder, he walked me to the Jaguar and helped me into the passenger seat.

The door slammed. I stared at the silver carpeting. Opposite me, Denton got in and started the engine.

“Why did you put me on the spot like that?” My voice came out a choked cry.

He backed the vehicle into the road, then pulled ahead. “It’s better to come right out and tell them who you are rather than making them guess. Curiosity can be dangerous. Now that I’ve explained your presence, you can safely be Alisha Braddock, the professor’s niece from Galveston.”

He turned at the intersection.

Shrinking in my seat, I massaged my temples, waiting for the pressure in my head to subside. “Do you really have a niece in Texas?”

He shot a glance my way. “Of course not. I’m an only child.”

“Oh. How many people know that?”

He shrugged. “Nobody. I’m a private man.”

“What if somebody does know? Who will they think I am then?”

“They won’t question it.” His tone assumed an end to the conversation.

We passed beneath the arching trees on the way to the main highway.

“Well,” I said, massaging my arm, “suppose they do question it? Then what?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Any sense of security I might have felt washed out with the bridge comment. I sat straight. “What if someone figures out who I am? It’s not like my face hasn’t been on the front page of the national news.” One little felony and I’d become a household name. Had it really been ten years since my release?

The ocean glimmered straight ahead as we pulled to the stop sign above the cliffs. When traffic cleared, the Jag angled left.

“If there’s trouble, I’ll take care of it,” Denton said, eyes on the road.

“You sound like a mob boss.”

“Boss’s son, perhaps. My father was Stanley Braddock.” I filtered the name through the databanks. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring any bells.”

“He was a U.S. Senator and Ambassador to Ireland.” “Now I see where the Ms. Rigg connection fits in. But how does Great Uncle Stanley take care of trouble when it comes calling?”

“My father is dead. But he had many friends.”

“Ooooh. A secret society.” My eyebrows arced.

He half smiled and shook his head. “A network of good friends willing to help out when needed.”

“I suppose you inherited the network”—I patted the Jaguar’s leather seat—“along with everything else?”

He gave me a cock-eyed grin. “Basically.”

I stared at the heaving waves. “A man of privilege. Lucky you.”

“Humph. Just as I suspected.”

I whipped my head to look at him. “What?”

“You feel sorry for yourself.”

I crossed my arms. “I do not.”

“When Brad first mentioned you, I knew you’d be the self-pity type.”

I rubbed my injury. “Brad talked to you about me?”

Denton rested his hand on the shifter between us. “Of course he did. Brad and I talked often.”

The Jag slowed for the turn up the driveway.

I blinked hard. “Did he tell you we were planning to get married?”

Silence. I turned to look. A muscle in Denton’s jaw popped in and out as if he were forcing his words back down his throat.

“What? Brad didn’t tell you?” My arm surged with pain.

Denton stared straight ahead. “He talked to me about it. I advised against it.”

“Advised against it?” My nostrils flared. “Brad loves me. He ignored your advice. We were going the next day to pick out the rings.” I looked down at my injury. “Then this happened.”

The Jaguar pitched to a stop under the portico.

Denton cut the engine. “I can only say I’m grateful for divine intervention.”

My fingernails dug into the leather seat. “This has gone far enough.” I groped for the door handle and pushed my way outside. My heel sank between patches of concrete. “I’m not staying here a moment longer. I’ve had enough of you and your superior attitude.” I pivoted toward the porch. My body turned, but my foot stayed embedded in the crack, jerking me off balance. Too late to catch myself, I plunged to the cement.

I landed on my bad arm. Stars and spirals filled my eyes. Ringing filled my ears. The glare of the sun blinded me as I sucked in shallow breaths and waited for the pain to pass.

A face blocked the light. It seemed familiar. “Brad? Is that you?”

6

“Stand up, Patricia.” Denton’s voice.

Not-so-gentle hands helped me to my feet.

Denton, not Brad. The perpetual ball in my throat squeezed tears from my eyes. “I thought you were Brad. I need Brad. I have to talk to him.” I looked around for some phone booth or magic portal that would let me communicate with my boyfriend.