Kiss Me If You Dare Read Online Free Page A

in crisp hundreds. He held the stack toward me.
    I gasped and put up a palm to stop him. “Oh my. That’s overkill. One of those should be enough.”
    “Get what you need today so you don’t have to think about it anymore. You’ll be glad you did.”
    I studied his face for hidden meaning. He seemed sincere, but something screamed “Warning, warning!” Really, what kind of person carried a thousand dollars’ cash in his wallet on a daily basis?
    He nudged the bills into my hand.
    The kind of guy that owned a Jaguar, I supposed.
    “Thank you.” My voice was barely a whisper.
    “You’re welcome. I’ll meet you after your interview, there,” he pointed across campus to a domed building that could pass for a state capitol, “at Walters Hall.” He got out of the car. “Oh,” he added, “driving without a license is illegal in all fifty states. So don’t get pulled over until we can get your new identity set up.”
    The door slammed shut with the discreet hush of a luxury vehicle.
    I stayed for a moment and watched my guardian ogre enter the building, disappearing behind silver glass that reflected a black Jaguar parked at the curb out front.
    My fingers rubbed at the stack of hundred-dollar bills. A thousand bucks, a luxury car for the day—life wasn’t so bad. The woman in the reflection smiled at me, waving the money in her hand.
    I put the car in gear and drove toward town, caught up in the thrill of the hunt.

4
    A sign pointed the way to Business District. I turned up a hillside blooming with early summer splendor. At the top of the rise, the road ran straight. A gap between the farthest buildings showcased the blue Pacific. I drove down the three-block stretch and checked out the shop selection. From the timeworn building fronts, I got the overall impression that Del Gloria was a hardworking town, one without the time, money, or inclination to cater to snooty tourists. I patted the wad of money in my jeans pocket. That attitude would bode well for my hardly earned dollars.
    I spotted what I was looking for and slammed on the brakes. I eased the Jag into a slanted parking space in front of the Del Gloria Thrift-Mart. For a moment, I felt at home in this strange land. Even on California’s rocky coast, folks had a yen for secondhand clothing.
    The door ding ed as I entered. To one side, a circular rack of women’s tops were marked 75 percent off. I headed toward it like a paint splotch to a new pair of jeans.
    After thirty minutes of scrutinizing stains, checking sizes, and tracking down a variety of work-wear, I proceeded to the register.
    The cashier rang up my items.
    I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and waited for change. She counted it into my hand with barely a glance at my face. It was nice to be in a college town. The steady influx of strangers gave me the anonymity necessary to pull off this crazy safe-house scheme.
    A moment later, I was on the sidewalk headed for the department store. Inside, I picked out my interpretation of interview clothes: a deep blue jacket over a white blouse topping a pinstriped knee-length skirt and navy Mary Janes with a spunky heel. Completely conservative. And so not me. But neither was impressing people with my clothing. I brought the ensemble up front, loaded up the counter with socks, undies, and a few modest bras, and pulled out my bills to pay.
    The clerk tallied and bagged my items, then I scooted out the door.
    One block down was the drugstore, where I splurged on an assortment of cosmetics, personal care items, and fresh bandages. I even bought a hair dryer and curling iron.
    The black Jag was waiting for me, crowded between standard issue Toyotas and Hondas. I got behind the wheel and headed for Cliffhouse.
    An hour later, I was showered, dressed, and driving to Walters Hall for my interview.
    My chest constricted with nervous tension and my knees shook. With only a few hours’ notice to prepare,
    I couldn’t think of a thing I had to offer DGC. What