Free At Your Service (Silhouette Desire) by Amy Jo Cousins Page B

a butter yellow that glowed in the morning sunlight. The hardwood floors shone richly beneath scattered rag rugs and there was, wonderfully, an actual window seat built into the outside wall. A quilted cushion and several throw pillows made it an inviting place to curl up with a book and tea. Grace could picture it on a rainy day and hoped she’d be here long enough to enjoy that pleasure.
    An antique-style fan whirred softly in one corner, blowing the warm morning air pleasantly throughout the room. She’d slept beneath a single cotton sheet, which she threw back now as she rolled out of bed and onto her feet. When she reached over her head in a long stretch, her fingers brushed the slope of the ceiling and she grinned.
    Sarah had left her bags on top of a long, low dresser that sat tucked beneath the lowest eave. Next to it, she’d also left a note folded on top of a blue towel and facecloth.
    Grace—
    Hope your first night’s rest was a good one. The bathroom is down the hall on the left. Use anything you need, and feel free to take the same liberties in the kitchen. If you can find anything worth eating, that is.
    Tyler said last night to tell you not to show your face in the bar before 4 p.m., but to bring the stuff you need to complete the paperwork. I’m at work, will see you at Tyler’s later.
    Welcome,
Sarah
     
    Grace sat on the edge of the dresser with a thump. How could she have forgotten so quickly? Clearly, that hadn’t been a problem for her boss. The small matter of her registration with the federal government as an official employee of Tyler’s Bar & Grill was still hanging over her head.
    Like a guillotine, she thought morbidly.
    I’ll just have to figure out how to build that bridge when I need to cross it. But right now, what I need is a shower. A long, hot, wash the smoke out of my hair, shower. Tyler and his paperwork can wait.
    In the bathroom, she scrubbed and soaked and refused to notice the dark chestnut roots growing in at the base of her honey-blond hair. She’d paid a ridiculous amount of money to have it done at a downtown salon no one in her circle visited, on the day she’d run away. Something about the drastic change in hair color, and the new, softer cut she’d requested, had shifted the whole shape and feel of her face. She looked younger, and more vulnerable, than she had in years.
    Looking at herself in the mirror, she felt sure that no one who knew her previously would recognize her, as long as they didn’t get more than a casual look. With her current lack of funds, she’d have to wait awhile before touching up the roots, but she didn’t think anyone would notice for at least another couple of weeks.
    Thoughts of being recognized, though, had spoiled her morning as thoroughly as thoughts of the upcoming confrontation with Tyler. Pacing the kitchen in her bathrobe, she scooped some debatably dated lemon yogurt out of a carton and tried to think her way out of either of her dilemmas.
    Tyler first. If only because her problems there were more concrete. No ID, no job. But how to get around that catch-22 was the question. Could she fake a mugging on her way to work? Pretend that her wallet had been stolen and hope to ride for a week or two on that story, too busy to go to the D.M.V. to get another driver’s license?
    But what good would that do her, really? In a week, she’d just have to come up with another story, and although Tyler might bite once or even twice, surely it was too much to expect a third time.
    You know, in spy novels it’s always ridiculously easy to get a fake passport or driver’s license made, she thought, angrily recalling her favorite authors. They make it sound like all you need is five hundred bucks and a phone book and it’s goodbye Grace Haley, hello Grace Desmond.
    I bet John LeCarre has never actually been on the run in his life, or he would have realized it just isn’t that easy. At least not when you’re without underworld connections.
    As