Unauthorized Passion

“Don’t you worry about that. You just concentrate on convincing everyone that Celeste Fortune is in seclusion nursing a broken heart.”

Her cousin’s evasive answer did little to assuage Cassie’s qualms. If Margo Fleming got wind of a tryst between her husband and Celeste, there’d be hell to pay. It could literally cost Owen a fortune and Celeste, what was left of her career.

From everything Cassie had read of the scandal—and she’d devoured every juicy morsel she could get her hands on—Margo Fleming was a powerful woman in the film industry. She’d bankrolled Owen’s first few productions, and she could make or break a budding starlet.

Her cousin was playing with fire. But then, that was the Boudreaux way, wasn’t it?

* * *

JACK HAD JUST finished going through the last Dumpster when a noise alerted him that he was no longer alone in the alley. It was a subtle sound, kind of like a whimper. He might have chalked it up to the rodents skulking about nearby except…he’d never known a rat to snivel.

Nor had he ever seen one dragging a leash, he thought, as he watched the tiny creature ease toward him through the shadows. When the Chihuahua was close enough, Jack knelt down and put out his hand. The dog hesitated, then came prancing over.

“Are you lost?” Jack reached for the collar, then jerked back when the Chihuahua snapped at his hand.

Slowly he stood. “Okay, okay, no touching. I get it.”

A woman’s voice called from the street, “Mr. Bogart? Where the he—where are you, sweetie? Come to Mother.”

Jack glanced down at the dog. “Sounds like you’re being paged. Be a good boy and run along.”

The Chihuahua stared at him unblinkingly and began to wag his tail.

“Oh, so now we’re friends, all of a sudden?”

“Mr. Bogart? Are you down there?” The woman was in the alley now, her voice getting more frantic by the moment. Any second now she would come around the corner, spot Jack, and then would undoubtedly alert the night manager of a prowler, who in turn would probably call the police. And since there was no good explanation for Jack’s presence behind the Mirabelle at that time of night, he decided it would be best all around to avoid such a confrontation.

He tried to quietly shoo the dog away by waving his hand. When that didn’t work, he whispered fiercely, “Go! Vamoose! Am-scray!” The tail wagged even harder, and Jack could have sworn the damn dog grinned at him.

Muttering an oath, he moved out of sight behind one of the Dumpsters just as the woman came hurrying around the corner.

“Mr. Bogart! Come on, now. It’s not funny anymore. If you-know-who finds out—” The woman stopped short when she saw the dog. “Mr. Bogart?”

The dog didn’t move. His beady gaze remained fixated on Jack.

“What’s the matter with you?” The woman’s voice lowered. “What do you see behind there?”

If she came any closer, she would spy him, Jack thought. He glanced at the dog. “Get lost,” he mouthed.

Obviously not one to take a hint, the Chihuahua ran over, lifted his leg, and peed on Jack’s boot.

“…the hell!” Jack jerked his foot reflexively, and the dog, disturbed in the middle of a call from nature, began to yap at the top of his little lungs.

The woman gasped when she saw Jack.

And Jack froze. His breath rushed out of his lungs, and he felt tingles all up and down his spine. There she stood, the object of his fascination, mere inches away. So close he could reach out and touch that honey-gold skin of hers, stroke his hand down her sexy blond hair, which was now covered by a scarf. She wore dark glasses, too, even though it was night, but Jack would have known her anywhere….

For the longest moment, no one but the dog said anything.

Then Celeste Fortune came at him so fast Jack barely had time to react. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you pervert? What kind of monster kicks a defenseless little dog like that?”

Jack managed to put up an arm to ward off the first blow.

“Help! Police!” she screamed.

As she drew back to swing her purse again, Jack took that as his cue to get the hell out of there. He picked up his bag and sprinted—as best he could in rubber boots—down the alley.

Celeste Fortune’s shrieks followed him all the way to the street, and as he hurried toward his borrowed car, he heard the wail of a police siren a few blocks over.

Man, she was good.

* * *

“…POLICE AT THIS HOUR are on the scene of a brutal homicide in the Montrose area. Very little information is being released to the public, but we have learned that the victim was a young woman in her late twenties, and neighbors say she lived alone. The similarities to the five grisly murders that occurred here last summer are bound to stir a lot of bad memories for residents in this area. As the viewers will recall, John Allen Stiles, also known as the Casanova Killer, was convicted on five counts of first-degree murder and is now serving consecutive life sentences at Huntsville. But there are some who still maintain his innocence, including a former HPD detective.”

With a shiver, Cassie turned off the TV. She didn’t want to be reminded of those murders. Even in her little hometown, the brutality of the killings had sent shock waves through the community, and people who had never locked their doors before were suddenly installing dead bolts and leaving porch lights on all night.

Cassie fit the profile of the killer’s victims. She was young, single and she lived alone. But she hadn’t gotten caught up in the panic because Houston had seemed a long way off to her then. But now here she was…and another killer was apparently on the loose…

A chill raced up her spine at the sound of yet another siren. Across the room, Mr. Bogart stirred restlessly in his bed, then rolled over and went right back to sleep. Sated from gourmet treats, he seemed none the worse for their earlier adventure.

Cassie couldn’t say the same for herself. She still didn’t know what had possessed her to attack that man in the alley except—even though she was no dog person—she’d never been able to stand animals of any kind being mistreated. And when she’d seen him kick Bogey like that, her reaction had been instinctive.

“Pervert,” she muttered. But what if the guy was worse than that? What if he was the one who had killed that poor woman tonight? Should she call the police?

And tell them what?

She hadn’t gotten a good look at the man’s face, nor did she know which direction he’d fled after he left the alley. A call to the police would accomplish nothing more than to blow her cover. And Celeste’s.

And, anyway, he was probably just some homeless guy going through the Dumpsters.

But…what if he wasn’t?

The sirens grew louder, and reluctantly, Cassie walked over and opened the French doors. Stepping outside, she glanced around. The secluded balcony overlooked a quiet tree-lined street. It reminded her of a Parisian boulevard she’d once seen in a picture.

The small, exclusive hotel was only three stories, and in August, it operated at less than half capacity. When Celeste had made the reservations, she’d had her choice of suites. She’d put Cassie on the third floor, at the far southeast corner where she not only had a view of the street, but also of the narrow alley that provided access to the service entry of the hotel.

The siren sounded as if it was only a block or two from the rear of the hotel, and as Cassie peered over the balcony into the shadows, she spotted someone moving about below her. A tall figure dressed in black…

Casanova!

She instantly chided herself for letting her imagination get the better of her. Hadn’t she just heard on the news that John Allen Stiles was still serving time in Huntsville?

But there were some who believed in his innocence. And another woman had been murdered just a few blocks from where Cassie stood. What if that police detective was right? What if the real Casanova was still out there somewhere? What if she’d come face-to-face with him earlier?

Below, the figure moved out of the shadows and was caught for one brief moment in a glimmer of light from the street. As he turned his head toward the balcony, Cassie caught her breath.

She knew him.

CHAPTER TWO

JACK TRIED TO let himself into his apartment as quietly as he could, but before he could get inside the door across the hall opened, and his neighbor, Cher Maynard, popped her head out.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said in that low, husky voice of hers. The woman could read a phone book and make it sound pornographic.

Jack winced, then plastered a smile on his face as he turned. “Yeah? I figured you’d given up on me by now.”

Her gaze slipped over him. “On you? Never.”

He walked over and handed her a set of keys. “Thanks for the use of your car, by the way. You’re a lifesaver.”

“I didn’t exactly do it out of the goodness of my heart, now did I? We have a deal, remember? I scratch your back…you scratch mine.” She stepped back and motioned with her head for him to join her in her apartment.

Jack hesitated, trying to buy himself some time. “Are you sure? It’s late. Maybe we should do this some other time—”

“Oh no you don’t.” She curled a hand around his arm and yanked him inside the apartment, then slammed the door with her foot. Reaching behind her, she turned the dead bolt.

“Look, Cher, it’s been a long day. I’m wiped. If I could just crash for a few hours”

“Now, Jackie, don’t you worry.” Her smile worried him a great deal. “I’ll do all the work. All you have to do is relax and enjoy.”

Easier said than done, Jack thought as he glanced warily around her apartment. The one-bedroom unit was a veritable treasure trove of garage sale and secondhand finds. The red silk pillows and beaded lamp shades were charming, eccentric and a little overpowering, not unlike the woman who lived there.

His gaze moved back to Cher. They’d been neighbors for nearly two years, but her appearance still provoked a double take now and then. Her dark, glossy hair hung to her waist, and her eyes were heavily lined to resemble the seventies version of her famous namesake. She favored rhinestone-studded jeans, cropped tops and four-inch stilettos that put her just a smidgen over Jack’s six feet.

He’d never been sure which had come first, the name or the look. She’d told him once after a few too many margaritas that her real name was Charlene. He couldn’t exactly remember what he’d told her that night.

She walked over now and ran a long, tapered nail down the front of his shirt. “You might want to take that off. Things are apt to get a little messy before we’re through.”

“It’s chilly in here,” he said nervously. “I think I’ll leave it on if you don’t mind.”

She slanted him a look through her false lashes. “What’s the matter, Jackie? You’re not getting cold feet, are you? It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

She pushed him toward the old, flea market barber’s chair that she’d pulled up next to the kitchen sink. “Have a seat and we’ll get started. Are you sure you don’t want to remove your shirt?”

He sank into the chair and sighed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Just what every girl wants to hear.” She whipped out a plastic cape and gave it a good snap.

“So…what exactly are you planning to do?” Jack eyed the bottles and mixing bowls on the counter beside the sink.

Cher tied the cape around him, then patted his shoulder. “All you need to know is that you’re in good hands.”

“Famous last words,” he muttered.

“No grumbling. We had a deal, remember? I lend you my car and in return, I get to practice on your hair until I graduate from beauty school.”

Which couldn’t come soon enough for Jack. He’d had four haircuts in a three-week span. At this rate, he’d be bald by the time Cher got her diploma.

“Look at you. You’re all knotted up.” She began to massage his shoulders and the back of his neck. “I bet all this tension has something to do with that murder in Montrose earlier tonight. When I heard about it on the news, I immediately thought of you and what you always say about Casanova—that he’s still out there somewhere. Jackie…you don’t think it was him tonight, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Jack admitted. He hadn’t been able to get much from his contacts at HPD. For whatever reason, the brass was keeping a tight lid on the flow of information about the latest homicide. Which made Jack all the more suspicious. Were they trying to cover up a connection to Casanova?

Cher shuddered. “Let’s talk about something else. It gives me the creeps just thinking about that monster roaming around out there.” Her knuckles kneaded Jack’s shoulders. “So tell me about your day. Are you still following that actress around?”

He frowned. “I’m not exactly following her around. She never leaves the hotel.” Until tonight. Tonight, he’d seen her up close and personal, and the meeting had left him oddly unsettled. Maybe it was because he’d bought in to her Hollywood image, had begun to think of her as some celluloid goddess, and then seeing her in person had made him realize that she was a real flesh-and-blood woman. She could be hurt by what he was doing.

Cher’s fingers continued to work their magic, and he sighed as the tension finally began to seep away.

“Hey, Jack?”

The massage was so relaxing, he’d almost drifted off. “Yeah?”

“What else have you learned about Celeste Fortune?”

“You know I don’t like to talk about my work.” It had been a mistake to say anything to Cher about the assignment. He hadn’t meant to, but she’d overheard him on the phone with Max the other day, and since he’d needed to borrow her car, he couldn’t exactly tell her to kiss off when she started asking questions.

Besides, he also didn’t want her to think—and blab around the complex—that he was some freak who kept pictures of a relatively obscure actress in his apartment.

“Come on. Don’t be so coy.” Cher’s hands moved back to his neck, and she deepened the massage. “Just admit it, why don’t you? You have a little crush on her.”

“That’s crazy.”

“No, what’s crazy is that you think she won’t be pissed when she finds out what you’re doing. Besides, a woman like her is way out of your league, Jackie.”

“I realize that. But I don’t have a crush on her, anyway. Boys get crushes. Men get—”

“Obsessions? First Casanova and now Celeste Fortune. Anyone ever tell you you’re a little on the neurotic side?” Cher plowed a knuckle into a knot at the back of Jack’s neck and he jumped.

“Ouch! Anyone ever tell you you’re a little on the sadistic side?”

“Oh, shut up and take it,” she muttered. “You deserve it.”

“What the hell did I do?”

“You’re a man.”

So that was it. The latest Mr. Right had evidently turned out to be another dud. At least by Cher’s standards. Jack wondered what had been the matter with this one. The previous guy had parted his hair on the wrong side, and the one before that had preferred boxers instead of briefs. Or briefs instead of boxers. Jack couldn’t keep up. The point was, Cher was picky when it came to romance.

But her love life was something she’d have to sort out on her own. Jack had his own problems. Slumping down in the chair, he closed his eyes and thought about Celeste Fortune.

“Just admit it, why don’t you? You have a little crush on her.”

Was he that obvious?

The stack of videos in his apartment had probably been the giveaway.

How could a woman as beautiful and glamorous as Celeste Fortune allow herself to get mixed up with a sleaze like Owen Fleming? The man was a typical Hollywood player, from what Jack had been able to find out. He’d married a rich wife, then proceeded to go through starlets like a pig at a feeding trough.

Jack thought about the way Celeste had come at him tonight, all fired up, blue eyes undoubtedly blazing behind those dark glasses. He had a feeling she’d be a real pistol in bed, but it wasn’t likely he’d ever find that out. However, that didn’t stop him from fantasizing, and he let himself conjure up all sorts of interesting scenarios as Cher worked on his hair.

An hour and a half later, she removed the cape and tossed it aside. “All done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Jack stretched. “Guess not. I think I must have dozed off a few times.” He put a hand to his hair. “Feels short.”

“Hardly more than a trim.”

“Really? So what was all that smelly gunk you put on my head?”

“Oh, just a deep, penetrating conditioner.”

“A conditioner, huh? Well, it burned like hell. Let me see that mirror—”

When he reached for the hand mirror on the counter, Cher grabbed it and put it behind her back. “You don’t trust me?”

“I want to see for myself.” When Jack reached for the mirror again, she took a step back.

“It’s late,” she said in a rush. “I think you should just sleep on it, and then when you wake up in the morning, you’ll be all refreshed and ready to face the world with your brand-new…look.”

Jack’s gaze narrowed. “What do you mean, my new look? What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing. It may be a little…shorter than we talked about. Now don’t freak,” she hastened to add when he grabbed the mirror from her. “It’ll just take some getting used to, that’s all.”

“Ho…ly…sh—”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

“Compared to what?” Jack turned his head first one way, then the other. It was short all right. Short and…blond. Bleached blond. What little hair he had left was now the color of straw. And it appeared to have roughly the same texture. “Fix it, Cher. I can’t walk around like this.”

Cher assumed a wounded expression. “Fix it? Why would you want to fix it? The color looks great on you.”

Jack sighed. “In other words, you can’t.”

“We haven’t gotten to that part yet,” she admitted sheepishly. “But if you can get past the shock, I think you’ll like it. You might even thank me for it later. The color really does show off those gorgeous eyes of yours and those dreamy cheekbones. Not to mention your tan. If nothing else, it’ll make you stand out in a crowd.”

“In my line of work, that’s hardly a plus.” Jack glanced in the mirror again. Okay, maybe Cher was right. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Maybe it wasn’t quite as short or as blond as he’d first thought. And the color did set off his eyes…

“Do me a favor,” she said. “Just give it a day or two. If you still don’t like it, you can come down to the beauty school and I’ll have my instructor take a look at it—”

The phone interrupted her and Cher glanced at her watch. “Oh, no. I had no idea it was so late.”

Jack’s brows shot up at her nervousness. “What’s the matter? Got a hot date?”

“Uh, no. That’s probably just my mother calling.”

“At this hour?”

“She sometimes loses track of time. You know how it is with old people.”

Jack had met Cher’s mother. The woman wasn’t a day over fifty, and she had a body that wouldn’t quit. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“She’ll call back. She always does.” Cher grabbed his arm, pulled him from the chair, and began to hustle him toward the door.

Jack turned. “About your car—”

“Oh, yeah, sure, you can use it tomorrow. I’ve still got my brother’s car. I can take that to class.” She grabbed her keys from the table and all but threw them at him. Then she opened the door and gave him a shove.

Jack stubbornly resisted. “Hey, what gives? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to get rid of me.”

“It’s late, that’s all, and I’m tired—”

Behind her, the answering machine picked up and Cher’s recorded greeting—a really bad rendition of “I’ve Got You Babe”—began to play.

Jack wanted to wait around to hear the message, but Cher was having none of that. With a quick “Good night,” she slammed the door in his face, and he was left standing in the hall, wondering why that phone call had flustered her so much.

* * *

CHER CAST AN uneasy glance toward the door as she lowered her voice. “I told you I’d be in touch when I have something.”

She listened for a moment, her hand clutching the phone as the caller’s tone grew more belligerent. “Calm down. I know ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. I know we have a deal. I’m trying to hold up my end, but you’ve got to give me some time.”

Another pause, then Cher said shakily, “Look, there’s no call for threats—”

But the line had gone dead, and as Cher hung up the phone, she felt the first tremor of fear at what she’d done.

* * *

CASSIE COULDN’T SLEEP. She couldn’t get her mind off the man she’d seen looking up at her balcony. She knew him. Knew his face, but she couldn’t place him. It was maddening, that glimmer of recognition, then nothing more.

Was he the same man she’d seen earlier in the alley?

Was he the killer?

But according to the news, the murder had taken place hours ago. Why would the killer still be lurking in the area? Wouldn’t he want to put distance between himself and the crime scene?

Unless he was afraid of being spotted on the street. Or unless…he lived nearby.

Finally, Cassie had worked herself up into such a state that she’d put back on the scarf and dark glasses, left the hotel, and gone across the street to use the pay phone she’d spotted earlier. When the operator had answered, she’d asked to speak to the detective in charge of the murder investigation, and to her surprise, she’d been put right through.

But the officer she’d spoken to sounded too young to be a detective, and rather than heading up a homicide investigation, Cassie suspected he’d been assigned the unenviable task of fielding all the crank calls that had undoubtedly come pouring in after the news broadcast.

He had politely taken down all her information, but he hadn’t seemed to attach much significance to what she’d seen. Maybe it was because they’d already apprehended a suspect, Cassie thought hopefully. Or maybe eyewitnesses at the scene had given an entirely different description of the killer. Whatever the cause for the officer’s cavalier attitude, Cassie was just glad she’d done her civic duty. Now she could go to bed with a clear conscience and get a good night’s sleep.

But now, in addition to worrying about whether or not she’d come face-to-face with a killer, she had to wonder if the police would be able to somehow trace that call back to her. She hadn’t given her name, or Celeste’s, but her voice had undoubtedly been taped. What if they came around the hotel asking questions? Should she continue to pretend to be Celeste, or should she come clean and give them her real name?

And if she did come clean, what would Celeste say?

And more important, what would Margo Fleming do if she found out what Celeste was up to?

Not your problem, a little voice reminded her. If Celeste had taken up again with her married lover, that was her business, but a tawdry affair couldn’t be allowed to take priority over a murder investigation.

Perhaps the best thing Cassie could do to truly get the matter off her conscience was to go down to the police station the following morning and tell them everything—

What was that?

Cassie bolted upright in bed, trying to identify the sound. A dog barked just outside her window, and then she heard a woman’s voice. She relaxed at the sound. She knew who it was. Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard, the guest in Suite 3C, was taking her Maltese, Chablis, for a late evening stroll.

Across the room, Mr. Bogart got up from his bed and trotted to the window to peer out into the darkness. He turned to Cassie and began to whimper.

“The power of suggestion, huh?” Cassie fluffed her pillow. “Well, too bad, buddy. You’ll just have to wait until morning.”

The dog pawed frantically at the glass, then turned and raced into the living room where she could hear him scratch at the door.