Kiss Me If You Dare

the same crumpled pile on the floor.

I took a deep breath. It would probably be awhile before I could relax, even though I was certain nobody knew I was holed up in Del Gloria.

The tee kept its wrinkles even after I pulled it tight. Dressed, I brushed out my hair under the dryer, then flipped it back, checking my reflection. All I needed was a little ponytail on top and I’d look like one of those mop- haired show dogs.

I grabbed my bag and headed to my twelve o’clock.

The lecture hall was half filled with students, some sitting in chatty groups, others, like me, in a space of their own.

The instructor arrived-dowdy skirt, blouse escaping from the waistband, wrinkled jacket, oversized eyeglasses, and hair that defied any style. Her unkempt appearance said she’d sandwiched class in between a nap and a late report.

I cut the woman a good dose of slack on account of our inner similarities. Like me, she was probably more comfortable in jeans and a cotton shirt. She launched into her lecture, capturing my attention with her comparison between ways of dealing with anger. Was I a Stuffer, an Escalator, or a Director?

I grappled with my bag, feeling around for my notebook and pen. I flipped to a blank page and scribbled my notes.

Stuffer-avoid confrontation at all costs Escalator-blame someone else for problems Director- express anger to others in healthy ways The business class was supposed to help me manage employees and deal with upper-level peers. But forget them. I flipped the page and kept writing, fascinated to realize I’d been stuffing anger my entire life. The perpetual stomachaches I suffered were probably a direct result. But then wasn’t I also good at blaming others for my problems? Still, I’d confronted Portia about her slacking on the job this morning. The results had actually turned out pretty good. That had been directing my anger.

Yippee! I scrawled at the bottom of my notes. I was making progress.

I flipped the page. My hands froze in place. My heart skipped a beat.

HELLO PATRICIA AMBLE. The words were scratched across the paper in giant script.

I slammed the cover shut, trapping the words in the book, pretending I hadn’t seen them.

10

The instructor’s voice swirled like gibberish around me. Had Frank Majestic sent a hit man to take me out? Was someone watching me right now, waiting to line me up in his sights? Or had some conniving student discovered my true identity and was playing a sick joke?

Lots of people had access to my tote, starting with Jane dear, Ms. Rigg’s daughter. Then there were the members of Team B. Celia would never have snooped, but Koby or Portia? I wouldn’t put it past them.

My foot tapped uncontrollably. And there was whoever had been in the locker room with me today.

But how could anyone know who I was? Unless they put two and two together regarding Denton’s only-child status. Or…

I flipped through my notebook, looking for the page I’d used to sign my new name. If someone had come across my practice sheet and been vicious enough to read Patricia Louise Amble through my scribbles… How low could you go?

The page wasn’t there. A line of paper scraps where it had been ripped out was all that remained.

That devious, black-hearted, two-faced, backstabbing Portia. It must have been her. She’d had plenty of time to do the deed this morning before Koby and Celia arrived, knowing I wouldn’t suspect a thing until I came across her cute little HELLO PATRICIA AMBLE note.

She’d had it out for me from the beginning. The question was, what did I plan to do about it? I could be just as devious, black-hearted, two-faced, and backstabbing as her.

But did I want to be?

Around me, students shuffled to get their notes put away and head to their next class. I gave a disgusted sigh, realizing I’d stewed through the rest of the lecture.

I gathered my items into the tote and walked to Walters Hall. Birds chirped and the sun shone, but the sidewalk in front of me was the only thing on my mind. Feet passed by and I ignored an occasional hello.

A quick scan of the directory in the lobby provided directions to Professor Braddock’s office. I took the stairs, sprinting up five flights, letting the flow of adrenaline clear my thoughts.

I knocked on the door and barged in, scaring off a wide-eyed, twenty-something coed.

Denton folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “I’m sure you have a good explanation for your intrusion.” Dropping my tote, I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the fateful page.

“Look at this.” I threw the words on his desk and tapped at them with a heavy finger.

He straightened. “I see.” He studied the page silently. “Any idea who wrote it?”

“Portia Romero.” I spat the name.

He stared at the paper. “Are you certain?”

“Ninety-five percent.”

He crossed his arms. “If by chance it was someone in the other 5 percent, whom would you suspect?”

I counted on my fingers. “Ms. Rigg’s daughter, Koby Rider, and whoever was in the locker room today.”

His eyebrows lifted. “When did you see Jane?”

“She was at Cliffhouse Monday when I got back from town.”

“Hmmm.” He handed the notebook back to me. “That’s all,” he said with a little wave of his hand.

I stared at him, indignant, before stomping out the door. Brad couldn’t have been more wrong about putting me under Denton’s protection. Clearly the man would enjoy having me turn up dead.

My eyes were blurred with rage as I hit the elevator button. The bell dinged and the doors opened. I hesitated. If I stepped inside, then I’d be back to my habit of stuffing my anger. But if I went back in there and confronted him…

I swung around and burst through the office door. His back was to me.

“Uh huh,” he said.

“Hey. Sorry for the intrusion again,” I tried to keep my voice steady, “but I just have to tell you that I don’t feel safe right now. And I feel like you don’t care.”

His chair turned toward me. He held up a finger. “I don’t have to remind you that her safety is of the utmost importance,” he said into the phone. “Thank you. Goodbye.”

He hung up the receiver and stared me down. “I’m not going to dance around my office in a panic, if that’s what you expect. I made a phone call that should resolve this situation. You can go about your life without giving that note another thought.” He opened his desk drawer, took out a pen and tablet, and started writing.

“O-kay. Thanks.” I lingered, confused. “So who was that on the phone?”

“Your bodyguard.”

“Ha ha.” I wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

“Really. I hired a man to keep you under surveillance. He’s one of the best. Highly recommended.”

“Who is he? Do I get to meet him?”

“No. He’s been operating undercover since your arrival. I’ve just informed him of the note and he will let me know if there is any imminent danger, or simply take care of it should it arise.”

Wow. My own bodyguard. Oddly, I didn’t feel any safer. Where had the guy been when I was dangling on the side of that cliff? I couldn’t recall a pair of arms waiting below to catch me. He was overpaid, whoever he was.

Defused, I took the elevator to the lobby, mulling the whole way. Denton made it seem like I should drop the whole thing, simply because he said so. But it wasn’t that easy. It hadn’t been so long since I’d been jailed, framed, chased, set up, and shot at. I wasn’t about to let down my guard.

I took the bus to Cliffhouse, snuck a sandwich from the fridge, and climbed up to my room.

The alarm clock woke me at the crack of six the next morning. I slammed the snooze. My shoulder paid me back with a shot of pain. Too much time on the sledgehammer yesterday. I should have broken in my body