Kiss Me If You Dare

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?”