Unauthorized Passion

UNAUTHORIZED PASSION

Jack Fury has been watching Celeste Fortune, waiting for the right moment to coincidentally meet her…and save her. But he doesn’t know the sexy Celeste is an impostor! Cassie Boudreaux has been impersonating her cousin and doesn’t bargain on a protector like Jack or a killer in pursuit. Now she’ll need Celeste’s entire feminine arsenal to outsmart one man and seduce another.

INTIMATE KNOWLEDGE

Penelope Moon can’t believe her eyes when she sees her coma-stricken fiancé, Simon Decker, on board a passing yacht. But this Simon isn’t the accountant she fell in love with. This man is tougher, stronger—sexier. Soon she’s drawn into a deadly conspiracy. But will her heart end up as collateral damage…?

Unauthorized Passion & Intimate Knowledge

Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

UNAUTHORIZED PASSION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

INTIMATE KNOWLEDGE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

UNAUTHORIZED PASSION

CHAPTER ONE

JACK FURY CONSIDERED Dumpster-diving a metaphor for life—it could be unpredictable, messy and sometimes you just couldn’t get the stink off no matter how hard you tried.

But he figured it was a necessary evil, kind of like sushi and cheap beer. You held your nose, dug in, and prayed to the real God that you wouldn’t spend the rest of the night praying to the porcelain god.

He’d worshipped at that altar more times than he cared to remember, but considering the day he’d had—no, make that year—puking his guts out would be a fitting way to end it.

He stomped his feet in the rubber boots he’d pulled on, then surveyed the area once more before taking the plunge. It was a quiet Thursday night. He could hear traffic a few blocks over on Main Street, but in the alley behind the exclusive Mirabelle Hotel in Houston’s Museum District, not a creature stirred.

Unless, of course, you counted the mosquitoes and the giant flying cockroaches for which the Bayou City was famous. There were rats around, too, Jack suspected. Big, fat, urban-dwelling rodents that didn’t skitter away at the sight of a human, but stared you right in the face and dared you, dared you, to enter their private domain.

Spraying himself down with heavy-duty insect repellent, he tossed the can back in his bag. Sweat trickled down his temples as he approached the dark blue trash bins. Even after dark, the temperature hovered around ninety and the humidity had a life of its own. There was no breeze to speak of, either. Some people considered August in Houston a little like hell on earth, but they were wrong. August in Houston was hell on earth to the third power. It was what the fiery depths of Hades only wished it could be.

This was Jack’s city and he loved it.

The aroma wafting from the Dumpsters? Not so much. If there was anything he’d learned from his nearly ten years as a Houston cop it was that rich people’s trash did, indeed, stink.

Smelled to high heaven, he thought as he bent over the first bin and began poking around with a stick. River Oaks, the Fourth Ward…didn’t matter. Garbage was garbage. He hadn’t minded the task so much when he’d still been a cop. Back then he would have happily crawled through a mountain of refuse to find evidence that would put away a killer or a clue that might help find a missing child. There’d been times when he’d been so intent on the job at hand that he hadn’t even noticed the smell.

Things were different now. Looking for receipts, letters, ticket stubs, anything that would give some rich techno geek the inside track on the hot babe he’d set his sights on was not exactly fulfilling work. It was downright distasteful, in fact. Little more than legal stalking, and as he sorted through the trash, Jack asked himself once more if he was really that desperate.

Overdrawn bank account? Check.

Final eviction notice? Check.

Furniture sold, car repossessed, stereo and TV pawned? Check, check and check.

Yep, he was that desperate.

His laptop was the only thing of value he had left, and he wasn’t about to put that in hock. Without a computer he wouldn’t be able to track the progress of the Casanova case, but then, if he didn’t come up with something soon, there wasn’t going to be any progress. As far as HPD was concerned, the case was closed. A suspect had been tried, convicted and was now serving consecutive life sentences in Huntsville for the brutal slaying of five women.

Jack had been one of the first detectives assigned to the task force tracking Casanova—a slick psycho who seduced his victims before killing them—and he’d been on the scene when the arrest had gone down. At first, he was as ecstatic as everyone else, but then certain things had started to bother him. Not all the loose ends had been tied up by the arrest, and when word got out that he was still asking questions, he’d been kicked off the force for conducting an unauthorized investigation.

Just like that. No suspension, no review board, nothing. After ten years, he was out. Even the union had refused to help him because politics was politics. The mayor had agreed to back the union’s demands in exchange for the police department’s support of his Houston First initiative, an aggressive campaign strategy to give the city a higher profile. With an Olympic site committee coming to town, a serial killer on the loose didn’t exactly fit with the image His Honor wanted to project.

Besides, the terror had finally come to an end, things were returning to normal and no one at city hall or HPD headquarters wanted a rogue cop stirring up trouble. So Jack was out.

But he wasn’t finished with Casanova. Not by a long shot. He had a score to settle with a killer, and if in the meantime his own survival depended on getting the goods on some spoiled Hollywood starlet, then so be it.

“Her name is Celeste Fortune,” his ex-partner, Max Tripp, had told him that first day when Jack had agreed to an interview. Max had left the police department five years earlier to open his own P.I. firm. He and Jack had eventually lost touch. Then out of the blue, Max had called shortly after Jack had been fired. Max swore it was a coincidence, but Jack suspected that his ex-partner was still wired into the department, which was another reason he’d taken the job. If Max had contacts on the inside, Jack wanted them.

He’d also, by that time, spent so much of his own money on the Casanova investigation that he’d pretty much run out of options. Still, as Max had described the nature of his business that day, Jack had grown more and more uneasy.

“You want me to stalk this woman,” he’d said incredulously. “Is that what I’m hearing?”

“No, of course, not.” Max slid his hand down his silk tie. “I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. We’re a legitimate business concern here.”

“Yeah, well, sounds to me like you’re walking a fine line,” Jack muttered. “So maybe you’d better spell it all out just so there’s no misunderstanding later on.”

Max nodded. “Fine. I’ve nothing to hide. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get you on board. You’re one of the best investigators I’ve ever worked with. We need a man with your talents around here, and if you play your cards right, you could be looking at a partnership down the road. Think about it, Jack. No more ground beef dinners. No more ten-year-old sedans that leave you stranded on the Southwest Freeway during rush hour.” Max’s critical gaze swept over him. “I’ll even give you an advance so you can get yourself some decent clothes and a good haircut.”

Or pay his back rent. Designer duds, or a roof over his head? Tough call.

Max removed a folder from a drawer and placed it on top of the desk. “As I told you earlier, we have a very elite and discriminating clientele. The man who comes to us is more often than not a self-made millionaire, usually in the high tech field. He’s in his thirties or forties, extremely intelligent, reasonably attractive and physically fit. He has all the accoutrements of wealth including investment portfolios, fast cars and beautiful homes in the most desirable locations. What he doesn’t have is the perfect woman.”

So who does? Jack wondered.

“But he’s seen her. He knows who she is.” Max stood and walked over to the bar to pour himself a drink. He offered one to Jack, but he declined. Scotch on an empty stomach? Asking for trouble.

Max came back to the desk and sat down. “Maybe he caught a glimpse of her getting into a cab. Or maybe their eyes met across a restaurant or their shoulders brushed on a crowded elevator. The point is, he knows she’s the one. But so do dozens of other guys because this woman is something special. She has class, beauty, grace. Men flock to her in droves. Attractive, successful, very often wealthy men, not unlike our client. So how does he set himself apart from the rest? How does he get her to single him out from the crowd? That’s where we come in.”

Max propped his feet on the desk and folded his hands behind his head. “We lay the groundwork for him. We talk to her friends, family, co-workers…anyone who can give us insight into her likes and dislikes. Her hopes and dreams. Her deepest, darkest secrets. We even look up old school chums and ex-boyfriends—all handled very discreetly, of course. We find out her favorite books, her favorite restaurant, the kind of music she listens to. Then, when we have everything we need, we design a coincidental meeting between her and the client. We arrange for them to be seated next to each other at an Astros game…or at the Wortham Center, depending on her tastes. We arm our client with the right information to arouse her interest, ignite that initial spark and then…the rest is up to him. And nature.”

“It’s dishonest,” Jack said flatly. “It may not be illegal, what you’re doing, but it sure as hell ain’t ethical.”

Max picked up his drink. “Think of it this way. If these two are meant to be together, all we’re really doing is giving fate a little nudge. But if it doesn’t work out, they go their separate ways. She never has to see him again. No harm, no foul.”

“But what if she does want to see him again? What if she falls for him?” Jack argued. “He’s selling her a bill of goods by pretending to be something he’s not.”

“Are you telling me you’ve never pretended to be interested in something just to get a woman’s attention?” Max gestured with his glass. “Say you meet her in a bar. You get to talking. She mentions a movie she just saw and loved. You saw the same movie and hated it. But this woman…she’s hot, you know? Someone you’d definitely like to hook up with. Do you admit you’re not into chick flicks and risk turning her off, or do you lie and say you like any film with Tom Hanks just to keep the conversation going?”

Jack scowled. “That’s different.”

“Yes, it is,” Max agreed. “Because this woman you meet in the bar…you’re not looking for anything more serious than a good time. No commitment. Just a casual relationship. Maybe even just a one-night stand. But our client is looking for the woman of his dreams. Someone with whom he can share his life—and his money, I might add. Given all that, some might say we’re doing the woman a favor.”

Jack still wasn’t convinced, but did he really have a choice here? Offers hadn’t exactly come pouring in since he’d gotten the boot from the police department. In the meantime, Casanova was still out there somewhere. Without funds, Jack had no way to find him and stop him before he killed again. And he would kill again. It was only a matter of time.

He ran his hand through his hair. “Tell me more about the target.”

With one finger, Max shoved the folder across the desk. “Take a look for yourself. There’s a picture of her inside.”

Reluctantly, Jack opened the folder and removed the eight-by-ten glossy. As he studied the photograph—obviously a professional headshot—something prickled along his backbone. Not nerves or even a lingering distaste over what he’d been reduced to. No, his reaction was purely visceral, a physical response to the woman’s blatant sexuality. She practically oozed sex, from her tousled blond hair to her heavy-lidded blue eyes and her full lips that were glossed and parted and looking as if they were made to—

“Jack?”

He glanced up.

Max grinned. “She’s something, isn’t she? Do you recognize her?”

“Can’t say that I do.” Jack returned his gaze to the picture. “Is there some reason I should?”

“She’s been in a few movies, done some TV spots. She’s still relatively obscure, but her last few roles have won her a fair amount of critical acclaim and she seemed on the verge of breaking out before she became embroiled in a scandal that pretty much stopped her career dead in its tracks.”

“What kind of scandal?” Jack’s curiosity was piqued in spite of himself.

“She was involved with some big shot producer by the name of Owen Fleming out in L.A. Ever heard of him?”

Jack shook his head. He didn’t pay much attention to movies unless he wanted to impress a woman. Which kind of made Max’s earlier point, he supposed.

“They managed to keep the affair under wraps for several months,” Max said. “Then he bought her this huge diamond which she flashed around L.A., and the wife got wind of it. The whole thing blew up into a nasty PR mess, and apparently Celeste decided to get out of town until things cooled off. We figure that’s why she’s back in Houston.”

“What do you mean she’s back in Houston?”

“She went to school here. From what I understand, she’s still pretty tight with her old drama professor at the university. They even lived together for a while before she took off for L.A. You may want to talk to him at some point as well as to her current roommate.” Max reached for the folder and flipped through the pages. “Olivia D’Arby. She’s an actress, too, although her parts seem to be few and far between.”

“What about the client? Who is he?” Who was the guy willing to plunk down $75,000—and that was just for starters—for a “chance” encounter with Celeste Fortune?

“I can’t tell you that. The identity of our clients remains confidential, even to our operatives.” Max took another sip of his scotch. “So…what do you say? Are you in?”

Yeah, he was in. But after a week on the job, Jack was more certain than ever that he didn’t have the stomach for this kind of work. He hated to think that he might actually be giving off the same sleazy, stalker vibe as some of the low rent P.I.s who used to hang around the police department, hoping to pick up a tip.

He had to admit, however, that it was easy money. Most people would probably be amazed by the amount of their personal information that could be accessed with little more than a phone call or a Google search.

Celeste Fortune was no exception. Since Jack had taken the assignment, he’d learned all kinds of interesting tidbits about her, but the broader picture was that of a small-town girl searching for love—and fame—in all the wrong places.

The story was as old as Tinseltown itself, and as Jack finished with the first Dumpster, he wondered again why a woman with Celeste Fortune’s looks and talent had allowed herself to become such a cliché.

And now another man wanted her. Another man was willing to pay a small fortune to have her.

But in the week since he’d started watching her, it was Jack who had unwittingly fallen under her spell.

* * *

SHE STOOD IN front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom of her suite, her gaze going from her reflection to the magazine cover that she’d propped on the nearby dresser. She sighed. Who was she trying to kid? There was no way she could measure up to that airbrushed fantasy. She must have been out of her mind to think that she could ever be anything more than a small-town girl with big dreams and a penchant for trouble.

Just look at the mess she’d made of things, and she was only twenty-eight. There was no telling how screwed up her life would be by the time she turned thirty. And it wasn’t like running away was going to resolve the situation. If anything, it would only prolong the agony.

Still, leaving had seemed like a good idea at the time. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” her mother had always advised, and taking that counsel to heart, she’d fled town in the middle of the night, and now here she was, holed up in a ritzy boutique hotel in Houston.

Going stir-crazy.

Honestly, what good did it do to be in the city of her dreams, trying to start a new life, if she couldn’t even leave her suite? Would it really hurt to take a brisk walk through Hermann Park or a leisurely stroll along Montrose Boulevard? What would be the harm in visiting a museum or two, or having lunch at one of the trendy eateries on restaurant row?

She’d had her heart set on taking in all those places until her cousin, Sissy, had firmly disabused her of the notion.

Sissy Fontenot aka Celeste Fortune.

“All the stars use look-alikes nowadays when they want to avoid the press,” her cousin had explained on the phone a few days ago. “So when my publicist suggested I get a decoy until this mess blows over, I immediately thought of you, Cassie. Remember how people always used to think we were twins when we were little?”

“Well, we are double cousins,” Cassie murmured, still flabbergasted by Celeste’s proposition. Could she, Cassie Boudreaux, really pretend to be a glamorous movie actress? Could she pull it off? Did she dare even try?

What a question. Of course she dared if it meant getting out of Manville, Louisiana, and away from the hateful glances—not to mention voodoo hexes—of the Cantrell clan. Leaving their golden boy at the altar hadn’t exactly endeared Cassie to Danny’s family.

“I haven’t seen you in years,” Celeste said carefully. “You haven’t…put on a lot of weight or anything, have you?”

Cassie sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the fifteen pounds she’d lost since her breakup with Danny. “Uh, no. I’m still the same size I was in high school.” More or less.

“Are you sure? Because I happened to see your engagement picture in the Manville Gazette, and I thought—now don’t take this the wrong way—I thought you might be starting to take a little after Grandma Boudreaux.”

Cassie tried to control her outrage. She did not take after that evil old woman in any way, shape or form. Not only had their grandmother possessed a nasty disposition, she’d weighed well over three hundred pounds at the time of her death. The family had had to choose her pallbearers accordingly.

“That picture was shot from a bad angle,” Cassie insisted. “And besides, the camera adds ten pounds.”

“I took that into consideration,” Celeste blithely informed her. “Anyway, I was surprised by how much you still resemble me. In the face, I mean. You’ll need to lighten your hair, of course, but for God’s sake, don’t get it done down there.” Cassie could picture her cousin’s shudder. “I’ll make arrangements with a salon in Houston. They’ll do your nails, too, and show you how to wear your makeup. Oh, and start working out, okay? From what I could see in that picture, you could stand to firm up a little, and it’s never too late to start counting the old calories. We’ve still got a few days. If you watch your carbs, you could drop ten pounds before we meet in Houston.”

Drop ten pounds? In a matter of days? Maybe in Dreamworld, Cassie thought acerbically. But in the real world it had taken a major life crisis to finally pry off the freshman fifteen she’d been carrying around since college. And as for exercise, she’d had to give up her daily walks after Earl Cantrell, Danny’s uncle, had tried to run her over one morning.

“Don’t expect me to go on some starvation diet just so I can fit into your size zeros,” Cassie said resentfully. “I like the way I look.”

“And I’m sure you look just fine.” For you, Celeste’s tone implied. “Look, it’ll hardly matter. After everything that’s happened, who would be surprised if I’m not looking my best? And besides, no one will get more than a glimpse of you anyway. You won’t be leaving the hotel except when you take Mr. Bogart for his walks.”

“Mr. Bogart?”

“My Chihuahua. I hate leaving him behind, but it might look strange if you were spotted without him. He goes everywhere with me. Don’t you, sweetie?”

Cassie heard what sounded like a whimper on the other end, then her cousin said anxiously, “You’ll take good care of him, won’t you? He likes to go out first thing in the morning and right before he retires in the evening. And he has to eat three meals a day or his little system gets all out of whack.”

“Don’t worry,” Cassie said with a grimace. “I’ll treat him like he was my own.” Which wasn’t saying much considering she really wasn’t a dog person. “Look, Sissy—”

“Celeste.”

“Look, Celeste, are you saying the only time I can leave the hotel is when I take the dog for a walk? I mean, we’re talking a whole month here.”

“A whole month in a luxury hotel. You’ll have your own Jacuzzi and steam shower, not to mention twenty-four-hour room service.”

“I know, but a whole month?” Now it was Cassie who shuddered.

Celeste sighed. “I guess you’re right. I guess that is too much to ask, even of family.”

Even as a child, her cousin had been an expert travel agent when it came to guilt trips, but this time Cassie wasn’t booking.

When she said nothing, Celeste gave another dramatic sigh. “Okay, tell you what. I’ll plan a few outings for you in advance. I’ll even make all the arrangements. That way, if any of the paparazzi should somehow find out where you’re staying—I mean, where I’m staying—a glimpse of you—me—now and then might help convince them that I’m flying solo these days.”

In other words, no Owen Fleming.

“Where will you be?” Cassie couldn’t help asking, although she already had her suspicions. Why would Celeste go to so much trouble, not to mention expense, to set up such an elaborate ruse if she wasn’t planning an assignation with her married lover?