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?

“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.

“I’m not taking you out,” she called.

He began to yelp, then howl, and after a moment, Cassie heard a series of soft thuds that sounded as if he might be throwing himself against the door.

“Oh, all right already,” Cassie grumbled as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Dressing quickly in jeans and a T-shirt, she pulled a baseball cap over her hair and clipped Mr. Bogart’s leash to his collar. Then off they went.

They took the elevator down to the lobby, and Cassie kept her face averted as she nodded briefly to the night clerk behind the desk. Outside, she wanted to go right, but Mr. Bogart insisted on going left. Rolling her eyes, Cassie let him take the lead, but when they came to the alley, she balked.

“Uh-uh. Not no way, no how,” she told the Chihuahua. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time we went down that road? You got a boot up your little—”

Mr. Bogart jerked on the leash with such ferocity that Cassie was caught off guard. The leash slipped through her fingers, and the little dog took off like a shot.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she shouted behind him. This time, she wasn’t going to follow him. She didn’t care what Celeste said. That alley was teeming with perverts.

A moment later, Mr. Bogart came trotting out of the alley with a little white mop in tow. The rhinestone leash dragging behind the Maltese glittered in the light from the street, and Cassie stared at the dog in surprise. “Chablis? Is that you?”

Ignoring Cassie, the Maltese sat down and panted delicately in the heat as she watched Mr. Bogart spin in circles, chasing his tail and yapping in doggie-speak, “Look what I can do!”

“You’re hot,” Chablis’s rapturous gaze seemed to imply.

“Sorry to interrupt this love fest,” Cassie said dryly, “But where’s your mommy, Chablis?”

Just then, Cassie heard something that sounded like a groan coming from the alley. Her pulse quickened as she peered into the shadows. “Who’s there?”

The groan came again, louder this time, and then a woman’s shaky voice called, “Help! Please, someone help me…”

The two dogs turned and raced back into the alley with Cassie close on their heels. Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard lay just beyond the overhang of Cassie’s balcony. She’d propped herself against the wall of the hotel as she massaged her left ankle. When she saw Cassie, she let out a cry of relief. “Oh, thank God! I was afraid I might have to lie here until morning.”

Cassie rushed over and knelt beside her. “What happened?”

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard was a tiny, wiry woman with a smooth cap of red hair, intrepid blue eyes and an imperious demeanor that could be, Cassie suspected, a bit terrifying at times. She was probably in her late fifties, but her face had been so carefully nipped and tucked that only the slightest tilt of her eyes gave away the work and her age.

“He came at me like a crazed animal!” she exclaimed, but Cassie couldn’t tell if the woman’s shrillness was due to fright or outrage. “I thought he was going to kill me!” She gazed around frantically. “Chablis! Where’s my baby?”

“She’s right here,” Cassie assured her. “But who attacked you, Mrs. Ambrose…Pritchard…?” She trailed off awkwardly, uncertain how to address the woman. “Did you get a look at him?”

“No, not really.” The tiny woman shuddered. “And I’m thankful for that, or else I know I would have seen that face in my sleep tonight. I only caught a glimpse of him over there, just beneath your balcony. When I called out…he rushed toward me. Came at me so quickly I didn’t know what to do. He could have had a knife or a gun…”

“You’re safe now,” Cassie murmured. “What did he do to you?” she tried to ask tactfully.

“He shoved me so hard I fell down, and then he fled that way—” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard pointed toward the rear of the hotel.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“It’s my ankle. I don’t think I can walk, and like a fool, I left my cell phone in my suite. Thank God you came along when you did or else he might have—” She broke off with a gasp, and her eyes widened as her gaze lifted to a point beyond Cassie’s shoulder.

It was only then that Cassie saw the shadow looming on the wall above the injured woman.

Someone had come up behind them.

CHAPTER THREE

THE DIMINUTIVE WOMAN let out a scream that was so ear-splitting Cassie froze for a moment. Her last coherent thought before she braced herself for the attack was that every small animal within a five-mile radius had probably keeled over at that sound. Including poor Mr. Bogart and little Chablis.

But, no. The two infatuated canines were still very much conscious and gazing up at the newcomer with nothing more than idle curiosity.

All this went through Cassie’s mind in the blink of an eye as she whirled and prepared to defend herself. Then the man said in a rush, “Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard! What on earth…”

“Lyle? Is that you skulking about over there? You scared me half to death!” the older woman scolded.

“I’m so sorry,” he said contritely. “But…what happened? Why are you on the ground?”

“Why do you think? I’ve had a bad fall.” In the space of a heartbeat, Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard’s tone had gone from fearful to caustic, and the newcomer seemed to be the source of her irritation.

Cassie glanced at the woman in surprise. Then, her heart still racing, she transferred her gaze to the man hovering over them. He was youngish, somewhere around thirty, with a slim build, brown hair styled in the latest shag, and even in the dark, Cassie could tell that his clothing—black on black—had a European flair.

She didn’t know why, but when he returned her scrutiny, she found herself shrinking away from him.

“Miss Fortune? I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

Cassie frowned. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Lyle. Lyle Lester. The night manager? We haven’t formally met, but I’m…a big admirer of yours.”

That was a first. Celeste was still a relatively unknown actress, or at least, she had been until the scandal with Owen Fleming broke. Cassie hadn’t considered the possibility that she might actually come face-to-face with some of her cousin’s fans. She was at a loss as to how she should respond. “That’s…nice.”

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard said impatiently, “Lyle, if you could stop salivating for half a minute, perhaps you could give me a hand.”

“Yes, of course, but…you say you fell? I do hope nothing is broken.” His tone implied that a fractured hip might not be out of the realm of possibility for someone of Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard’s advanced age. Evidently, the hostility went both ways, and Cassie couldn’t help wondering about the pair’s history.

“Actually, she was attacked,” Cassie said.

He glanced up in alarm. “Attacked? By whom?”

“I didn’t ask his name,” the older woman snapped. “Nor did I get a good look at him. It all happened too quickly.”

“Oh, dear, are you sure you’re all right? Perhaps we should call an ambulance. After all, one can’t be too careful…” At your age.

“No need for that.” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard’s tone was positively frigid by now. “I’m not the frail old lady you seem to think I am. If you would just help me up…”

But, in spite of her bravado, it soon became obvious that she needed a good deal more than a hand up. She couldn’t put any weight on her ankle, nor was she able to balance herself using Lyle as a crutch. “Allow me,” he said with a little half bow, then, despite his thin stature, swept the woman into his arms with no effort whatsoever. He was much stronger than he looked, and he walked with the kind of grace and agility that made Cassie think of a dancer.

She expected the older woman to protest, but instead Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard peered over Lyle’s shoulder into the shadows. “Where’s my Chablis?” she demanded. “I can’t leave her out here. She’s probably frightened half to death, poor baby. I doubt either one of us will get a wink of sleep tonight.”

“I’ll bring her along,” Cassie said, reaching for the Maltese, who did not look in the least distressed by the evening’s events. If anything, she appeared thoroughly besotted as she gazed at Mr. Bogart with doe-eyed intensity. When Cassie had finally corralled the dogs, the pair happily cavorted side by side back to the hotel.

The whole party took the elevator to the third floor, and after Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard handed Cassie her key card, she unlocked the door and held it open while Lyle carried the injured woman inside and placed her gently on a green silk divan.

“Are you sure you won’t go to the emergency room?” he asked anxiously.

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard gave him a scornful glance. “You can stop all that fussing. I don’t intend to sue. I’m not the litigious sort.”

Lyle assumed a wounded air. “A lawsuit was the furthest thing from my mind. My only concern is for you.”

“How sweet.” She made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her tone. “You’ll be happy to know, then, that I have a friend in town whose husband is an orthopedic surgeon. Rest assured if the ankle isn’t better by morning, I’ll give him a call. Now be a good boy and run along.” She shooed him off with the back of her hand. “I don’t need a thing more from you tonight.”

“In that case,” he said huffily, “I should get back to my desk.”

“Wait a second. Both of you, just hold on a minute,” Cassie said.

They examined her with surprise, as if they’d forgotten all about her presence.

“Don’t you think we should call the police?” she asked.

“The police?” they repeated in unison.

Cassie frowned. “Yes, the police. You were attacked, Mrs. Ambrose. I mean, Mrs. Pritchard…Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just call me Evelyn.”

Cassie nodded gratefully. “You said you were afraid your assailant was going to kill you.”

“Did I say that?” The woman shifted on the sofa. “I was distraught and in a great deal of pain. I’m afraid I may have overreacted. But there’s no need to involve the police.”

“I think there is,” Cassie insisted. “I don’t know if either of you are aware of this or not, but a woman was murdered a few blocks from here tonight. And earlier, I saw a strange man lurking in the alley. He could have been your attacker…or even the killer.”

“Oh, dear,” Lyle murmured. He gave Cassie a sheepish grin. “I’m afraid you may have seen me.” At her surprised look, he nodded. “I was in the alley earlier. As a matter of fact, I saw you standing on your balcony.”

Was that why he looked familiar to her? Cassie wondered. They hadn’t met until tonight, but perhaps she’d caught glimpses of him around the hotel. “Do you mind telling me why you were out there?”

“Not at all. There’s really no mystery to it. Some of the kitchen staff saw someone going through the Dumpsters. I assumed it was Old Joe and decided to go out and have a look for myself.”

“Old Joe?” Cassie asked doubtfully.

“He’s harmless. He stays in a shelter on Montrose, but every now and then he drops by here to go through the trash. If I’m on duty, I give him a hot meal and a little cash, and he disappears, sometimes for weeks or months at a time. I wanted to head him off tonight before someone called the police. He can be a nuisance, but as I said, he’s harmless and I’d hate to see him hauled off to jail. Poor old guy isn’t in the best of health.”

And she’d attacked him with her purse, Cassie thought guiltily. Although she didn’t have the impression that Old Joe was exactly ancient or fragile. Judging by the way he’d sprinted down that alley, he still had a lot of life left in him.

“Well, that explains everything,” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard said in satisfaction. “Undoubtedly, this Joe person is the man I encountered in the alley.”

“But you said he attacked you,” Cassie reminded her. “I’d hardly call that harmless.”

“Perhaps he didn’t mean to. I probably frightened the poor creature half to death, and when he tried to flee, he knocked me down.”

It was a logical explanation, but Cassie’s suspicions were aroused. She had her reasons for not wanting to involve the police, but what were Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard’s? Or Lyle’s?

“Well, now that everything has been cleared up, I really do have to get back to work.” He turned to Cassie. “I’ll have another look in the alley just to make sure nothing is amiss, and I’ll alert the staff to be on the lookout for any strangers lurking about the hotel. If anyone notices anything the least bit out of the ordinary, we’ll notify the proper authorities immediately.”

“Thank you.”

After he left the room, Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard fell back against the cushions and sighed. “That man is exhausting.”

“I should go, too, and let you get some rest. You’ve had quite an ordeal tonight,” Cassie said. “Is there anything I can get you before I leave?”

“I wouldn’t mind a shot of vodka,” the woman said candidly.

“Shall I call room service for you?”

“No, there’s ice in the bucket and a bottle of Cristal in the fridge. I know Grey Goose is all the rage with you young folks, but I’m old-fashioned. I like my champagne French and my vodka Russian.”

Cassie listened idly as she filled a glass with ice, poured in a generous amount of vodka, then carried the drink to the injured woman.

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard took a sip and sighed. “Oh, that hits the spot. The Russians do know their vodka. One can almost forgive them for that messy little affair in Cuba back in ‘62…”

Cassie didn’t have the faintest idea what the woman was talking about. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard eyed her over the rim of her glass. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Of course, I do. We met briefly in the lobby a few days ago.”

“We met before that,” the woman said slyly. “But I could tell you didn’t remember.”

Cassie’s pulse quickened. First Lyle Lester and now Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard. Evidently, her cousin wasn’t quite as unknown as she’d let on to Cassie. And what was it Celeste had told her on the phone that day? “Don’t worry about running into friends or acquaintances at the Mirabelle. Most of the people I know could never afford to stay there.”

“I’m sorry,” Cassie murmured, not really knowing what else to say.

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard shrugged off the apology. “Oh, don’t be. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. It was a brief encounter. We were on the same elevator a few months ago at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The only reason I recall it so vividly is because your little dog there and Chablis got on so famously. We even joked about it being the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Does that ring a bell?”

The woman looked so hopeful that Cassie nodded. “Of course. I remember now. You had on the most gorgeous outfit that day. Chanel, wasn’t it?” It was a stab in the dark, but since Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard always dressed impeccably, Cassie thought it a safe guess.

“As a matter of fact, it was. How sweet of you to notice.” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard took another sip of her vodka. When she glanced up, her eyes glinted with something that might have been mischief. Or malice. “It was only later, of course, that I realized…forgive me, I don’t mean to be indelicate…but you were meeting Owen that day, weren’t you?”

Cassie gasped. She couldn’t help herself. “You know Owen Fleming?”

The woman smiled. “Small world, isn’t it?” Then her expression sobered. “Owen and my late husband were business partners for a number of years until Thomas caught him, literally, with his hand in the till. Turned out, he’d embezzled millions from the company, and it took Thomas years to straighten out his finances, not to mention his good reputation. A word to the wise, my dear.” She sat up and leaned toward Cassie. “Owen Fleming is a man completely without scruples. I don’t know how Margo has put up with him all these years, but I expect, in the end, she’ll have her revenge.”

“What do you mean?” Cassie asked almost fearfully.

“You see, Margo is originally from Chicago. Her mother’s maiden name was Gambini. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Sounds Italian,” Cassie murmured.

“Sicilian. The Gambinis control the most powerful crime syndicate in the Midwest. Margo may have moved away years ago, but she is still Family and the Gambinis always take care of their own. If I were you, dear, I’d watch my back. Not that it will do you any good. The Family employs experts for that sort of thing. Wet work, I believe they call it. You wouldn’t even hear them coming…”

* * *

JUST WHAT THE HELL had Sissy gotten her involved in? Cassie wondered nervously as she let herself and Mr. Bogart into the suite. After she’d unclipped his leash, he ran over anxiously to check out the food and water situation before heading off to bed.

Cassie wished her own concerns were so basic. Okay, so the man hiding behind the Dumpster and the one below her balcony had been explained by Lyle Lester, but instead of resting easier, now she had to worry about a Mafia hit man coming after her. Her cousin had said nothing about ties to the Gambini crime family. As anxious as Cassie had been to put distance between herself and the Cantrells, she was pretty sure that she would have remembered something like that.

So what was she supposed to do now? Call the whole thing off? Go crawling back to Manville with her tail tucked between her legs? Shove all her dreams back into the Payless shoe box where she’d kept them for the past ten years?

She couldn’t do it. She’d waited too long to start her new life. Returning to her hometown just wasn’t an option, Cassie decided. Besides, the threat of a Mafia hit man paled in comparison to facing Minnie Cantrell’s wrath. The old woman was a witch in every sense of the word. She claimed to have not only the power to remove warts and divine water, but could also hex, conjure spirits and wreak all manner of havoc on those who crossed her or her kin.

Cassie had never personally witnessed any of the woman’s powers, nor did she believe in them. But there were plenty in her hometown who did, and once Minnie Cantrell cursed you, you might as well pack it in. You became a pariah in the community, a social out-cast to be shunned and scorned, and if there was anything worse than being stuck in the sticks, it was being stranded there without a single friend to your name.

Cassie had wanted to leave for years. For as long as she could remember, she’d dreamed of moving to Houston or New Orleans, settling into her own little place and getting a job at an art gallery where she might someday exhibit her own work. But while her mother had still been alive, Cassie couldn’t leave Manville.

Her mother was gone now, after losing a long battle with lung cancer and emphysema, and there was no one left from the Boudreaux clan—as ornery a bunch as the Cantrells—who Cassie felt any special affinity for. Celeste’s call had come at a most opportune time. The art department at Manville High School had suffered major budgetary cuts, which meant that most of Cassie’s classes had been dropped from the fall schedule. When the school district declined to renew her contract, she’d suddenly found herself unemployed, unattached and just itching for an adventure.

Be careful what you wish for, her mother had always warned.

“Good advice, Mama,” Cassie murmured as she headed off for bed. She’d just slid under the covers when the phone on the nightstand rang. She hesitated to answer at first, then figuring it might be Lyle checking to make sure everything was okay, she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” she said carefully.

“You are a hard woman to track down,” a female voice accused.

Cassie didn’t have a clue as to the woman’s identity, but she tensed, anyway. “Who is this?”

“Who is this?” the woman asked incredulously. “It’s Olivia. Olivia D’Arby? You know, your roommate? The girl you left holding the bag when you skipped out on the rent?”

Roommate? What roommate? Celeste had said nothing about a roommate.

The whole situation was getting more complicated by the minute. And it had sounded so simple at first. Spend a month in a luxury hotel pretending to be her cousin, and in return she would be treated to a new wardrobe, a little cash and ample opportunity to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

But now, in addition to everything else, a mysterious roommate was calling, and if Cassie said or did anything the least bit suspicious, the whole scheme could unravel. And she had a bad feeling that if that happened, she would be the one left holding the bag.

“Well? Aren’t you even going to ask how I found you?” the woman demanded.

Cassie’s hand gripped the phone. “How?”

“You left your itinerary on the computer. Not too smart for someone in hiding. What if the press or Margo Fleming had somehow gotten hold of it? But don’t worry,” she rushed to assure Cassie. “I deleted everything.”

“Thanks.”

Olivia paused. “What’s wrong? You sound kind of strange.”

Cassie cleared her throat, then lowered her voice. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“You’re sick? Well, that’s the least of your worries.” Cassie couldn’t detect even a drop of sympathy in the woman’s voice. “That’s why I’m calling. Some guy’s been around asking a lot of questions about you. He talked to some of the neighbors, and he managed to corner me in the parking lot yesterday when I got back from my interview. Since I didn’t get the part, I wasn’t exactly in a friendly mood. He got an earful, but I don’t think it was what he was after. Anyway, I thought you’d probably want to know what she’s up to now.”

“She?”

“Margo Fleming, of course. Who else would have sent that guy?” Olivia hesitated again. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem kind of out there. Maybe you’re taking too much medication or something.”

“I’m fine,” Cassie rasped. “Thanks for the call.”

“Wait a minute, damn it. You can’t just blow me off like that. I went to all the trouble of tracking you down, the least you can do is give me the juicy details.”

Juicy details? What was she talking about?

“Oh, I get it.” Olivia’s tone dropped conspiratorially. “He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Oh, for the love of…Owen. Remember him? Your rich, married lover? The man who gave you that huge diamond and promised to make you a star?”

Was that resentment Cassie heard in the woman’s voice?

“Since I saw him first, the least you can do is be straight with me.”

Definitely resentment, Cassie decided.

“Is he there with you or not?” Olivia persisted.

“I’m alone.”

“I don’t believe you. You leave town in the middle of the night, and a few days later, Owen disappears. You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence.”

Cassie had no intention of telling her anything. All she wanted to do was get off the phone, pronto, before she said something to tip her hand. Honestly, what had Celeste been thinking when she left her itinerary on the computer? She must have known her roommate would find it.

Or…was that the point? Was this some sort of test? Maybe Olivia D’Arby was in on the ruse, and she was calling to make sure that Cassie didn’t cave under pressure.

“I appreciate the call, but I’m not feeling well.” Cassie lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “I really think I should get to bed.”

“You do that,” Olivia said coolly. “But if Margo Fleming shows up at your door, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I shudder to think what that woman is capable of.”

Was that a note of glee she detected in the roommate’s voice now? Cassie wondered.

* * *

WELL, SHE’D FLUNKED that little test, now hadn’t she? Evelyn thought gleefully.

It was just as she’d suspected. The woman was a complete fraud.

The whole story about their chance encounter in an elevator at the Beverly Hills Hotel had been a spur-of-the-moment fabrication. There had been no Chanel outfit and certainly no quip about the beginning of a beautiful friendship between Chablis and that…that horrid little dog she called Mr. Bogart.

“As if my princess would ever show the slightest interest in such a creature,” Evelyn crooned. Chablis’s responding sigh was one of pure bliss. Undoubtedly she was dreaming about Zoë von Hendenburg’s shih tzu or William Kendall’s Lhasa apso. But a Chihuahua?

Evelyn shuddered. Over her dead body!

Still, the next few days promised to be…interesting. It was possible, of course, that the woman who had been in her suite earlier was, indeed, Celeste Fortune. Perhaps she’d pretended to remember the meeting in the elevator to spare Evelyn’s feelings. After all, it was always awkward when one party remembered a brief encounter that the other did not.

And had that been the only incident, Evelyn might have been able to shrug it off in just that way.

But her suspicions had already been aroused before this evening, hence, the test.

Pleasantly buzzed from the vodka, Evelyn lay back against the sofa and smiled as she recalled the night she’d first seen Celeste Fortune in person. A little birdie had told her that the actress had booked herself into the Mirabelle, and so Evelyn had arrived ahead of her. She’d been waiting in the lobby behind a potted palm to get her first look.

Celeste had arrived in a cab, completely alone, wearing a cap pulled low over her face much as she had been tonight. She’d thought it a clever disguise, no doubt, but Evelyn, who was something of a movie buff, especially when it came to Owen’s productions, would have recognized her even without being tipped off. Even without that infamous diamond sparkling on the woman’s hand.

Evelyn had followed her up to the third floor and observed her from a discreet distance as the bellman let her into her room. A few minutes later, a maid carrying a stack of fresh towels got off the elevator and knocked on Celeste’s door.

Evelyn remembered the incident vividly because there had been something a little strange about the maid’s appearance. For one thing, she’d worn a really bad wig.

And she’d seemed nervous. She kept glancing over her shoulder until Celeste had let her in.

Evelyn had watched in amazement as the woman came out a few minutes later and headed straight for the elevator. Again, Evelyn’s attention was drawn to the wig. It looked slightly askew, as if she’d pulled it on in a hurry, but the real giveaway was the Boucheron diamond glittering on the woman’s finger. No maid owned a rock like that.

It was obvious to Evelyn that the two women had switched places, but why? And who was the imposter in Suite 3A pretending to be Celeste Fortune?

Where was the real Celeste? Off somewhere romantic and exotic with Owen?

It would be just like that bastard to plan such an elaborate scheme so that he could steal away for a few days with his mistress. And the real kick in the teeth? His devoted wife was probably picking up the tab for the whole affair.

Hands trembling in outrage, Evelyn carefully removed her own wig. Setting it aside, she smoothed back white tufts of hair as she reached for the phone.

CHAPTER FOUR

CASSIE COULD BARELY contain her excitement. Metro was one of the trendiest, not to mention priciest, restaurants in the Montrose-Westheimer area, and from what she’d seen so far, worth every penny.

Easy to say, of course, considering her cousin was picking up the tab.

Dinner at Metro was one of the outings Celeste had arranged, and despite lying awake half the night worrying about the conversations she’d had with Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard and Olivia D’Arby, Cassie had been looking forward all day to finally spending an evening away from the hotel.

The restaurant catered primarily to the arts and theater crowd, and as she gazed around, Cassie still had a hard time believing that she was actually there, seated on the terrace and blending into the bohemian atmosphere as if she truly belonged.

She sighed happily. This was the Houston she’d longed to discover since she’d arrived in town over a week ago. The museums, the bistros and art galleries, the colorful parade of people along the streets. She wanted to be a part of it all.

Oh, my, she thought with a slight shock as she watched a chicly dressed transvestite sashay by in an exquisite pair of Manolo Blahniks. You would not see that in Manville.

You wouldn’t see a lot of things in Cassie’s hometown, which was why she’d been hankering to get out ever since she’d graduated from high school. Her mother had gotten sick, though, during Cassie’s senior year, and she’d stayed home to take care of her and to watch from afar as her cousin had gone off to first Houston, and then Hollywood, to seek fame and fortune.

Cassie hadn’t been jealous. Truly, she hadn’t. She was happy for Sissy’s success. And she didn’t begrudge the time she’d spent caring for her mother. The two of them had been very close, and Cassie still mourned her loss.

But at the same time, she couldn’t help luxuriating in her newfound liberty. Her mother’s death had freed her in more ways than one. It had allowed her to take a long, hard look at her life and to decide once and for all which parts were worth keeping and which ones needed to be tossed away.

Her schoolteacher’s wardrobe had been the first to go.

Danny Cantrell had been the second.

Even now, Cassie felt a prickle of guilt for the way she’d broken things off with him. She should have worked up her courage long before they’d arrived at the church, but it wasn’t like Danny had taken her decision all that hard. Mostly, he’d just been hungover from the night before.

Only after his family had goaded him had he and his friends started harassing Cassie. All of a sudden, she’d had a rash of flat tires and threatening phone calls, and after Earl Cantrell had almost run her down one morning, she knew it was time for a change.

So here she was.

She placed her order with a very cute waiter and contentedly sipped her Grey Goose vodka—thank you, Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard—cocktail as she watched the street. A few minutes later, her attention was distracted by a man seated a few tables over from her. When she glanced in his direction, she caught him staring at her.

Quickly, she averted her gaze, wondering if he was coming on to her.

Maybe he simply found her attractive, she decided. After all, that wasn’t such a stretch, was it? She might not be in her cousin’s league, but she wasn’t exactly a carnival sideshow, either.

And tonight she looked especially stylish, if she did say so herself, in her new Diesel jeans and Juicy Couture T-shirt—also compliments of Celeste. Of course, those jeans were undoubtedly a size or two—or three—larger than her cousin normally wore, but Cassie wouldn’t dwell on that evil. Instead, she glanced down at her feet, admiring the way her pink-polished toenails peeked out of her new Jimmy Choo slides.

A girl could get used to this life, she thought with an inward sigh.

And then in the next instant, as she stole another glance at the stranger, she wondered, Does he think I’m her? Not Celeste Fortune, necessarily, but a woman who could afford five-hundred-dollar shoes and Stella McCartney sunglasses and who knew which vodka to order and which sushi bar to frequent?

Or could he see right through her? Did he know she was a fake?

Cassie couldn’t tell from his expression since he also wore sunglasses, but she knew he was looking at her. He was the kind of man who had always intimidated her a little because he so obviously came from a world she coveted. His hair was very short and very bleached, his dark glasses, ultracool and high tech. He had the look of an artist or a musician or even an actor, someone for whom the bohemian lifestyle was as natural as breathing. And his attitude was that of a man who didn’t give a damn what the rest of the world thought of him.

Cassie was instantly smitten.

And wary. A man like that would undoubtedly be interested in Celeste Fortune, but plain old Cassie Boudreaux? Only when hell froze over.

Still watching her, he slowly removed his sunglasses, and when Cassie saw his blue eyes, a thrill raced up her backbone. She found herself reaching up to take off her own glasses.

And then their gazes met.

Clung.

It was like something from a movie, Cassie thought with another shiver. It was fate. Providence. Very good karma.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she scooped an ice chip from her drink, ran it over her lips and slid it into her mouth.

His gaze on her deepened. And then very deliberately, he ringed the edge of his glass with his fingertip. When his finger dipped inside, a shudder went through Cassie’s whole body.

Oh, my God, she thought in alarm. What was she doing?

* * *

HOLY—

Jack cut himself off and drew a deep breath. Were they doing what he thought they were doing?

So much for an inconspicuous surveillance, but hell, who cared? Celeste Fortune was hot.

And way out of your league, Jackie, he could hear Cher warn him.

Okay, okay, but she was hot. Her hair. Those eyes. Those…lips.

He groaned inwardly when she slid the ice cube into her mouth yet again. If they kept this up, he wouldn’t be walking out of this place with his dignity intact, that was for damn sure. If they kept this up—

A movement on the roof of the building across the street momentarily caught his attention and he glanced up with a frown. Something flashed in the deepening shadows, like light bouncing off glass. Or a rifle scope…

No sooner had the thought formed in his head than a shot rang out, and all hell broke loose on the terrace. A waitress dropped a tray of drinks and someone screamed.

Jack saw the terror in Celeste Fortune’s eyes a split second before he dove.

* * *

CASSIE WAS MOMENTARILY frozen by shock and fear, and then it was she who screamed as the stranger hurled himself toward her. He slid across her table, tipping her chair backward, and they both went crashing to the floor.

She was frozen again, this time without breath. The stranger lay sprawled on top of her, his lips only inches from hers, his blue gaze peering into hers.

“Are you okay?” he asked anxiously.

Cassie still couldn’t speak. All she could do was lie there gasping for air.

“You’re not hurt, are you? Oh, God, you’re not—”

“Can’t…breathe…” she managed.

He rolled off her. “Stay down,” he warned, and then he got to his feet, vaulted over the wrought-iron fence surrounding the patio, and sprinted into the street. A horn sounded, tires squealed, but he didn’t seem to notice. In a matter of seconds, he’d disappeared into the traffic.

Cassie glanced around. She was the only one on the floor. In fact, a number of people had hurried over and stood staring down at her.

“It’s okay,” someone said. “It was just a car backfiring.”

Nervous laughter erupted on the terrace.

Now that Cassie’s initial fear had dissipated, mortification set in. “I thought it was a gunshot,” she muttered as she struggled to her feet.

“So did I,” the waitress who’d dropped the glasses said sheepishly. She reached to give Cassie a hand up.

“It was that old blue truck that just went by,” someone commented. “I thought it was part of the Art Car parade at first, but then I realized it hadn’t been painted to look that way. The metal was just all rusted. And it had Louisiana plates.”

Cassie glanced up sharply. Danny’s uncle drove an old rusty blue pickup, and he and his nephew were as thick as thieves. What if they’d come to Houston looking for Cassie?

But that was impossible. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going. That was part of her and Celeste’s agreement. In order for the plan to work, no one could know where she was, so she’d packed up and left town in the middle of the night.

The rusty, blue truck had to be a coincidence. No way Danny and Earl could have found her so quickly and, besides, there wasn’t a Cantrell alive who’d be caught dead in Montrose.

“Where’d your friend run off to?” the first waitress asked Cassie.

She tore her attention from the street. “He’s…not my friend. I never saw him before.”

“Maybe he was just embarrassed by the way he overreacted.”

I think we both overreacted, Cassie thought, remembering the way his finger had slowly traced the edge of his glass. She felt that odd little shudder go through her again.

The waitress cocked her head as she studied Cassie. “Say, do I know you? You seem familiar.” She snapped her fingers. “I know. You look like that actress. The one who was in—”

Cassie was spared from having to answer by the maître d’ who pushed his way through the crowd. “Miss, are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Nothing hurt but my pride,” Cassie tried to quip as she brushed off her two-hundred-dollar jeans.

“We’ll get this mess cleaned up and have a new table ready for you in a matter of moments. In the meantime, if you would care to wait at the bar…”

“Oh, I don’t think I could eat a bite after all that excitement,” Cassie said with a weak smile. “I’m still a little shaky. If I could just have my check?”

He waved her off. “It’s on the house, of course. Please accept our sincerest apologies for the inconvenience.”

As he escorted her from the terrace, Cassie heard the waitress say behind her, “She looks just like her! You know the one I mean. She was in that movie…damn, I can’t think of her name…”

The maître d’ walked Cassie through the restaurant and even accompanied her out to the street after taking the time to personally call her a cab.

“You don’t have to wait with me,” she assured him. “I’m perfectly fine.” She felt a bit of what Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard had experienced the night before with Lyle Lester. She wasn’t sure if the man’s solicitousness was truly out of concern for her safety or fear of an impending lawsuit.

Apparently convinced that he’d done everything he could to ward off such a threat, he wished her a good night and went back into the restaurant.

The cab showed up a few minutes later, and as Cassie climbed into the back, she glanced at the building across the street. For some reason, her gaze was drawn upward, and she saw someone standing on the roof looking down at her. In the split second before he disappeared, she could have sworn he was the stranger from the restaurant.

But…what was he doing up there?

* * *

JACK WATCHED CELESTE’S cab drive off, then he turned his attention back to the roof. He hadn’t found anything yet, but he knew what he’d seen. Light reflecting off glass. Someone had been up there. He was still convinced of that even though he’d realized by the time he was halfway across the street earlier that the sound he’d heard was a backfire and not a gunshot.

Besides, a professional hit man would have used a silencer.

Professional hit man? Whoa, hold the phone. Jumping to a few wild conclusions there, aren’t you, buddy?

Who would want Celeste Fortune dead?

The cop in him silently began to list suspects. Owen Fleming’s wife. An old boyfriend. A jealous roommate.

And that was just off the top of his head. He knew from experience the potential for animosity was endless when it came to women like Celeste Fortune.

But if someone had really been watching her earlier, the culprit was probably just some sleazy tabloid reporter who’d followed her to Houston, hoping to catch Owen Fleming in a compromising position with his hot, young mistress. What Jack had seen on the roof could have been light reflecting off a camera lens.

His theory made a lot of sense, and he might have been able to buy it if not for that nagging sensation in his gut telling him Celeste Fortune was in danger.

A similar sensation had warned him that Casanova was still on the loose, and look where that premonition had gotten him.

* * *

THE FRONT DESK was deserted when Cassie walked into the lobby a few minutes later. She wondered if Lyle Lester had come on duty yet, and if he might be lurking about somewhere. For some reason, the notion of him skulking about in the halls and stairwells made her shiver, and she hurried across the lobby into a waiting elevator.

The car began to ascend, then jerked to a stop when the power went out. Cassie was plunged into pitch black for a moment before a dim emergency light came on. Trying to remain calm, she pressed the red button on the panel, but nothing happened. She couldn’t find a phone, either, so what was she supposed to do?

Panic! a little voice screamed in her head, but Cassie ignored it. No need for that. The power had simply gone off, and she was trapped somewhere between the first and second floor. It wasn’t like she was in danger of plunging hundreds of feet to her death. If worse came to worst, she could try to reach that little door in the ceiling, climb out, and—

A soft thud sounded from somewhere above her, and then the elevator shimmied as if…someone…had…jumped…on top…

Slowly, Cassie lifted her gaze.

“Hello?” she called as her heart flailed against her chest. “Is someone up there?”

No answer. Everything was silent except for the sound of her own breathing.

She whirled back to the control panel and jammed the red emergency button with her thumb.

Stay calm, she warned herself.

To hell with that. Frantically, she began to push random buttons.

A split second later, the power came back on and with a slight shudder, the elevator continued its ascent to the third floor.

As Cassie got out, she turned and glanced at the panel in the ceiling. Had someone been up there? Was he still there?

With a little shriek, she jumped back as the elevator doors slid closed.

Letting herself into her suite, Cassie tried to convince herself that the whole thing had been her imagination, triggered by the incident at the restaurant. But when the phone rang, she jumped violently, and then scolding herself, rushed to answer it. She hoped it was Celeste. She had a few choice questions for her cousin, like why in the hell hadn’t she mentioned the fact that a hit man might be on her tail?

“Did I scare you?” said an electronically altered voice in her ear.

The blood in Cassie’s veins turned to ice as her hand squeezed the phone. “Who is this?”

“Open the door and find out.”

The line went dead then, and as Cassie slowly turned toward the door, someone knocked.

CHAPTER FIVE

CASSIE’S GAZE REMAINED riveted on the door. There was no way she would answer it. No way in hell she would go anywhere near it—

The dead bolt! Had she locked it when she came in? She couldn’t remember. The phone had started to ring. She’d been distracted—

She flew across the room and twisted the lock, but it was already engaged, thank goodness.

Was he still out there? Cassie wondered frantically.

Pressing her ear to the door, she heard nothing. Then, her heart still pounding, she glanced through the peephole. She couldn’t see anything, either. Her tormentor might have cut and run or…he might be standing to the side of the door, out of sight, hoping to lure her into the hall.

Cassie glanced over her shoulder at the phone, wondering if she should call the front desk or even the police. But what would she tell them? That someone had played a prank on her? Because that’s all it was, wasn’t it? She couldn’t actually be in danger, could she?

What if she was? What if Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard was right, and Margo Fleming had called on her family to exact a little payback?

But…wouldn’t a Mafia hit man be a little more subtle?

Come to think of it, though, subtlety had never been the Cantrells’ strong suit.

When Cassie put her eye back to the peephole, someone stared back at her.

She gasped and jumped away from the door. Whoever was out there knocked again, more boldly this time, as if he didn’t care who might hear him.

Cassie’s hand flew to her chest. Her heart was racing so fast she could hardly catch her breath. “Who’s there?” she called.

A male voice said anxiously, “Miss Fortune? It’s Lyle…Lester. The night clerk said she saw you get on the elevator right before the power went off. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Then why hadn’t he simply called her suite? Cassie wondered.

And how had the night clerk witnessed her getting onto the elevator? The girl hadn’t even been at the desk when Cassie had come in.

“Miss Fortune?”

Cassie bit her lip. Then drawing a deep breath, she said, “I’m fine. No harm done.”

“I’m so relieved to hear it. I’ve brought you up a flashlight and some candles. I heard on the news earlier that these outages are happening all over town. Something about an overloaded power grid caused by the heat wave. Hopefully, it’ll just be temporary, but I thought it best to be prepared just in case.”

Cassie stepped back up to the peephole. She couldn’t tell what Lyle held in his hand, but she sure as hell wasn’t about to open the door to find out.

“I’m…indisposed at the moment,” she called. “Can you just leave the stuff outside the door?”

A slight hesitation, then, “Of course. If you need anything else, please let us know.”

“I will.”

Cassie’s eye was still pressed to the peephole, and as Lyle Lester walked away, she saw him pause once and glance over his shoulder before he disappeared from her view.

* * *

JACK PULLED A dark cap over his head and rubber boots onto his feet, then headed for the Dumpsters behind the Mirabelle. He’d bribed a maid to mark an X in red tape on the trash bags that came from Celeste’s suite, so he had high hopes that his job would go more smoothly tonight.

He had to be careful, though. Now that Celeste had gotten a good look at him, he couldn’t chance running into her again. He was damn lucky she hadn’t recognized him from the night before, but he supposed he had Cher to thank for that.

At any rate, it had been stupid and amateurish to follow her into that restaurant. The pricey menu and trendy decor were about as far out of his league as she was, and besides, it was never a good idea to get that close to a mark. It really wasn’t a good idea to get too close…to her.

But Jack had conducted enough surveillance operations to recognize the symptoms. It was the Stockholm Syndrome in reverse. Spending so much time observing from afar, the watcher began to identify with the subject to the point of infatuation. Sometimes the temptation to see her up close and personal became irresistible. Sometimes he would even fantasize about getting to know her, about protecting her…

That had to be it. How else to explain his feelings for Celeste Fortune? Love at first sight?

There was a time when Jack would have been the first to scoff at such a notion, but not after the Casanova case. Not after he’d seen with his own two eyes how five sophisticated and successful women had been swept off their feet by a suave and sadistic killer.

Love at first sight? Loneliness? The thrill of a stranger’s seduction? Who knew what had motivated those women to invite a killer into their homes after they’d taken the time to carefully set the stage for romance?

The criminal psychologist called in to consult on the case had been convinced that Casanova stalked his victims for weeks, possibly months before he approached them. According to Dr. West, the killer had gotten to know his targets inside and out—their hopes and dreams, their deepest fears and darkest fantasies. And then he used those intimacies to seduce them.

He’d probably even gone through their trash, Jack thought in disgust as he pulled out a plastic bag marked with a red X. He dropped the bag on the ground and grimaced.

What was he doing?

Just what the hell was he doing?

He was a cop, for God’s sake. The fact that he’d been kicked off the force didn’t change who he was. What he was. A man who’d sworn not only to uphold the law, but to serve and protect.

This wasn’t serving anybody but himself and some rich geek who couldn’t get a woman on his own merits. So he’d stooped to this level and so had Jack. He’d allowed his financial and professional setbacks to cloud his judgment. He’d used his desperation to catch a killer as an excuse to trade in his ethics.

And in the process, he’d become someone he didn’t much like or respect.

Well, it stopped now, he decided as he picked up the trash bag from Celeste’s room and slung it back into the Dumpster. As he turned away in self-loathing, he heard something rattle in the alley.

He froze. For the longest moment, he listened to the darkness, but when he heard nothing else, he figured it must have been his imagination or a rat scurrying through the trash.

Then he heard a bumping sound, and leaving the Dumpsters, he flattened himself against the wall of the hotel and peered down the alley. He saw nothing at first, but then farther down, near the street, something moved underneath a third-floor balcony.

Hugging the wall, Jack slipped silently into the alley. As he drew closer, he recognized the sound he’d heard earlier. A grappling hook had been thrown over the balcony railing of Celeste’s suite, and a slender figure clad in black was now shimmying up the rope.

Drawing his weapon, Jack sprinted from the shadows. “Police! Halt!”

The suspect spun, saw him, then doubling his efforts, scurried the rest of the way up before Jack could reach him. Climbing over the railing, the intruder pulled the rope up behind him, then turned and tried the French doors.

Jack took aim as he raced toward the balcony. “Freeze!”

The suspect—his face covered by a ski mask—glanced back at Jack, then slung the grappling hook all the way to the roof. It caught on a drainpipe, and as nimble as an acrobat, he scampered up.

A dozen scenarios flashed through Jack’s head, none of them good. If he fired his weapon, there would be hell to pay. Impersonating a police office carried a stiff sentence, and considering the animosity he’d left behind at police headquarters and city hall, he couldn’t imagine anyone coming down on his side.

Still, it wasn’t hard to figure that a guy wearing a ski mask and wielding a grappling hook in the middle of the night was up to no good. It was obvious he’d meant to get in Celeste’s suite, but for what purpose, Jack could only imagine.

The intruder had almost made it to the roof by this time. Grasping the edge, he hitched himself over, then scrambled to his feet. Pausing for a moment, he gazed over the edge.

Jack had him in his sights. He could have easily taken him out, but he didn’t. Instead he slowly lowered his weapon.

There was something familiar about him…her…

Something that sent a shiver up Jack’s spine as their gazes met in the darkness.

Then, with a mocking salute, the intruder turned and disappeared over the slope of the roof.

* * *

JACK RANG THE BELL, then banged loudly on Max Tripp’s door until a light came on in the town house. A few minutes later, his ex-partner drew back the door.

Max looked shocked when he saw the bandage wrapped around Jack’s hand. “What happened to you?”

Jack brushed past him. “We need to talk.”

“So you said on the phone.” Max closed the door and turned. He looked as if he’d dressed in a hurry and in the dark. He wore a pair of sweatpants and an old HPD T-shirt that might have served double duty as a cleaning rag. His disheveled appearance was a far cry from the slick image he presented at his posh offices on South Post Oak, and for a moment, Jack was relieved to see the man he’d known years ago. Maybe this Max would be willing to listen to reason.

But his next words didn’t instill much hope. “This had better be good.” Reluctantly, he gestured toward the living room.

“It is,” Jack said grimly as they both took seats. “She’s in danger, Max.”

“Who’s in danger?”

“Celeste Fortune.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not the only one tailing her. I’ve been getting a strange vibe ever since I started the surveillance, but tonight I actually saw someone try to break into her suite. You know what this means, don’t you?”

Max’s frowned deepened. “What?”

Restless, Jack got up and began to pace. “We have to warn her.”

“Now hold on a minute.” Max’s gaze tracked him to and fro. “Let’s not make any hasty decisions here. Just calm down and tell me exactly what you saw.”

“It started when I followed her to a restaurant on Montrose tonight.” Quickly, Jack explained about the flash of light on the building across the street.

Max shrugged after he’d heard him out. “So? You said yourself you didn’t find anything. More than likely what you saw was light reflecting off a window in the building.”

“No, I’m positive it came from the roof. And then when I went back to the hotel a little while later, I saw someone climb up to her balcony. He tried to get into her room, but the door was locked. If I hadn’t been there to scare him off, he probably would have broken the glass. God only knows what he meant to do once inside.” The images swirling around in Jack’s head made him feel sick. If he hadn’t been there— “The point is, she’s obviously in danger and we have to warn her.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

Jack stopped pacing and glared down at Max. “What do you mean we can’t do that? If anything happens to her, it’ll be on our conscience.”

Max shrugged again. “Then that’s a chance we’ll have to take. If we go to her now, it’ll blow the whole operation. We can’t do it. Our loyalty is to the client.”

“Like hell it is,” Jack said angrily. “We’re cops, for God’s sake.”

“Were cops. That’s the operative word,” Max reminded him. His expression hardened. “Look, I know you always took that ‘to serve and protect’ stuff to heart, but you’re not on the force anymore. You work for me now, and I thought we had an understanding.”

Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “A woman’s life is at stake. That supercedes any agreement we had.”

Max calmly folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t know that her life is in danger. You’re jumping to conclusions. The guy you saw tonight was probably a run-of-the-mill burglar or a two-bit jewel thief after that huge rock Fleming bought her. Now that you’ve scared him off, I doubt he’ll be back.”

Jack wasn’t so sure about that. The guy knew what he was doing. By the time Jack had found a way up to the roof, the suspect had disappeared without a trace. He couldn’t have escaped so easily unless he knew his way around that hotel backward and forward.

Jack hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of him. All he’d gotten for his trouble was a bad scrape on a rusty nail. And just his luck, he didn’t remember when he’d had his last tetanus shot.

“If you’re not going to do anything about this, then I’ll take care of it myself,” he said. “I’ve still got a few favors I can call in downtown.”

Max gave him a shrewd appraisal. “And just what are you going to tell them? That the woman you’ve been stalking is being stalked by someone else? The way I hear it, you’ve already been making a nuisance of yourself downtown trying to get information about that homicide in Montrose. Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to convince them that Celeste Fortune is being stalked by Casanova.”

Anger shot through Jack at the man’s cold assessment. Something had happened to Max since he’d left the police department. Something that Jack didn’t want to see when he looked at himself in the mirror every morning. “I’ll tell them whatever I have to,” he warned.

“Meaning?”

“I’ll tell them I work for you.”

Max stood. “You seemed to have forgotten that little thing called a confidentiality agreement that you signed the other day. You go shooting off your mouth about our business arrangement, and I’ll deny ever having had this conversation with you. I’ll say I threw a few odd jobs your way because I felt sorry for you. What you did with Celeste Fortune you did on your own. I’ve never even heard of her. Who do you think they’re going to believe, Jack? Unlike you, I still have friends in high places.”

Jack clenched his fists. “What the hell are you doing, Max? We were partners once.”

“And we could be again, but you’ve got to forget about being a cop. That part of your life is over. I’m giving you a chance to make something of yourself, but the first thing you have to learn about our business is that protecting our client’s interests comes first.”

Jack glanced at his ex-partner in disgust. “Sounds to me like covering your ass comes first.”

Max walked over to the window and stared out for a moment, then turned. “Let me ask you something. Do you really think you were kicked off the force for ruffling too many feathers at city hall? Hell, you’d been doing that for years. But the brass put up with it because you were a good cop. They didn’t want to lose you. So what changed?”

“You seem to have all the answers,” Jack said coldly. “You tell me.”

“They got rid of you because you scared them. You became so obsessed with the Casanova case that even guys who’d known you for years began to worry about your stability. An unbalanced cop is a dangerous entity, as we both know. You go down there now with a cockamamy story about some actress being stalked, what do you think they’re going to do? Who do you think they’re going to put under surveillance? It won’t be Celeste Fortune.”

“We’ll see about that.” Jack whirled and strode toward the door.

Behind him, Max said, “Did it ever occur to you that the best way to protect her is to keep doing what you’re doing?” When Jack turned, Max continued grimly, “You’ve got a job to do, Jack. If someone wants to harm Celeste Fortune, it’s in our client’s best interest to find out who that person is.”

* * *

FROM HIS POSITION across the street, Jack could see the southeast corner of the hotel, including Celeste’s balcony. The lights were off inside her suite so he assumed the earlier incident hadn’t awakened her.

He hated to think of her up there sleeping peacefully in her bed with no inkling of the danger that could be lurking nearby.

And Jack couldn’t tell her.

Max was right about that. I know someone is stalking you because I’ve been stalking you myself. Yeah, that’d go over big—with her and the police. He couldn’t tell Celeste she was in danger any more than he could alert the cops because he’d be the one put under a microscope. So what the hell was he supposed to do?

After he left Max’s place, Jack had toyed briefly with the idea of placing an anonymous call to the police, but he knew only too well how much good that would do. At the most, they’d send a patrol car to check out the alley and when they found nothing, the whole thing would be forgotten.

So it was up to Jack to protect her. Max was right about that, too. Jack had to keep doing what he was doing in order to watch out for her, but would that be enough? He couldn’t spend twenty-four hours a day on surveillance. He couldn’t shadow her every move.

Or…could he?

An idea came to him suddenly, and yanking his wallet from his pocket, he pulled out the check Max had given him a few days ago. An advance, he’d said, to get some nice clothes and a decent haircut.

Well, he had the haircut. And he knew that Cher, queen of resale shopping, could help him out with his wardrobe. Now all he had to do was book himself into the Mirabelle and strike up a friendship with Celeste. With any luck, he’d be able to catch her stalker in the act before his money ran out.

Settling in for the night, Jack slid down in the car seat, folded his arms, and began to plan a “coincidental” meeting with the gorgeous actress.

CHAPTER SIX

CASSIE LAY ATOP the padded sundeck of a thirty-five-foot cabin cruiser and hoped this second outing Celeste had arranged for her would go more smoothly than the first.

So far everything had gone according to schedule. The rental car had arrived at the hotel that morning promptly at nine o’clock, and less than an hour later, Cassie had crossed the causeway on I-45 into Galveston.

She’d spent another half hour looking for Ethan Gold’s house on Jamaica Beach, but she hadn’t minded the search. From her very first glimpse of the Gulf, the tension had steadily melted away.

Now Cassie felt positively decadent, lying topless in the sun on her own boat. Well, okay, her own borrowed boat. The distinction didn’t bother her one bit because she had two whole days to loll about in the sun and surf and pretend that this life really did belong to her.

Soon enough she’d have to come back to earth and start the old job search, but for now, this had to be one of her cousin’s better ideas, she decided lazily.

According to Celeste, Ethan Gold, her old drama professor at the University of Houston, had insisted that she have the use of his beach house while she was in town. “There’s a boat and everything,” Celeste had told her. “I know how much you love to be out on the water.”

Cassie had forgotten just how much she did love the fresh air and open sea. When she and Celeste were kids, their fathers had owned a fishing boat together, and on weekends and summers, the cousins had practically lived on the Gulf. They’d become expert swimmers early on—their fathers had seen to that—and had even learned to handle a boat by the ripe old age of eleven.

They’d become so proficient, in fact, that by the time they hit adolescence, they were taking the boat out alone, sometimes with permission and sometimes without.

The two had been as close as sisters back then, and those days were some of the happiest and most carefree of Cassie’s life.

Then everything had changed. Celeste’s family moved away, and Cassie’s parents divorced. Her father relocated to Florida, and Cassie seldom heard from him. A few years later, her mother was diagnosed with emphysema and later, lung cancer. For almost a decade, it had been one trauma after another, and somewhere along the way, the carefree, adventurous Cassie had gotten lost in the harsh realities of life.

In her most vulnerable moments, she sometimes wondered how differently things might have turned out if her parents had stayed together. Would her mother still have gotten sick? Would Cassie, free of responsibilities, have had the nerve to pursue her dreams the way her cousin had?

She liked to think so, but she’d learned a long time ago that there was no profit in looking back. Besides, she had the rest of her life to work on those dreams, to try and recapture that old carefree Cassie, and now she had nothing to hold her back. No job. No fiancé. No responsibilities except to herself.

That was why she’d been so eager to accept Celeste’s proposal. It wasn’t just the money or the new clothes or the luxurious accommodations that had attracted her to the scheme. It was the scheme itself. The promise of adventure for which Cassie had been yearning a long, long time.

And so here she was. Footloose and fancy-free.

Well, almost.

There was the little matter of that threatening voice on the phone the other night.

“Did I scare you?”

Yes, as a matter of fact.

Every time Cassie thought about that anonymous call, shivers stole up and down her spine. The person on the other end hadn’t actually threatened her, but if the call had been nothing more than a prank, why had the caller gone to the trouble of electronically disguising his voice?

And afterward, Lyle Lester had shown up at Cassie’s door.

True enough, he’d left a flashlight and candles outside her room, but his arrival had been extremely fortuitous. Could he have called her from the hallway on a cell phone? Cassie wondered. She’d received a couple of hang up calls since then, too. Was Lyle responsible for those as well?

He’d said the other night that he was an admirer, but just how big a fan was he? Had his appreciation crossed the line into psychotic obsession?

And speaking of psychotic…

Cassie frowned as an image of the stranger she’d seen at Metro materialized in her head. The more she thought about him—and she’d thought about him a lot—the more bizarre his behavior seemed. Everyone on the patio had reacted as though they’d heard a gunshot when the truck backfired. But rather than taking cover, the stranger had lunged straight for Cassie. Why? Why had he been so willing to put himself between her and a bullet? And, even more disturbing, why had he assumed she was the target?

In retrospect, Cassie had to admit that her own behavior that night had been a little on the bizarre side as well. Coming on to a complete stranger was so totally unlike her.

But…was it really?

How did she know what she might be capable of? It had been a long time since she’d had the opportunity to explore the real Cassie. For the past ten years, she’d been a caregiver, a fiancée, and a schoolteacher, but none of those things had satisfied her deepest yearnings, her darkest fantasies.

Somehow, the blue-eyed stranger had tapped into her hidden desires, and for a fleeting moment, he’d unleashed something wild inside of her. Something at once familiar and strange.

He could give her adventure. She knew that instinctively.

He wasn’t like any man she’d ever known. Certainly not like Danny. Her ex-fiancé could be an enthusiastic and ardent lover when the mood struck him, but hardly an imaginative one.

Oh, he knew how to turn a woman on. He could do that just by walking into a room. His bronzed, perfectly proportioned body had reduced stronger women than Cassie to quivering masses of hormones. But how quickly the charm faded once he opened his mouth.

The stranger at Metro…he was hardly in Danny’s league looks-wise. He wasn’t as tall or nearly as good-looking, and his body had appeared leaner and more sinewy rather than muscle-bound. But there had been something about him…something sensuous and mysterious…

He had an air of having seen and done things that Cassie could only imagine. But she wanted to do more than imagine. She wanted to experience those things for herself.

After all, there had to be more to life than the missionary position, didn’t there?

Resting her chin on her arms, she gazed around. It was a hot, still day. The water was unusually calm, which was why she’d decided to drop anchor and relax for a bit in the sun.

“You’ll pay for that when you’re forty,” she could hear her mother scold her. Her mother hadn’t so much as set foot outside without slathering on sunscreen, and even at the beach, she’d always worn a hat and long sleeves. But with all her precautions, Felicity Boudreaux had still died young, without ever having seen much of the world. Cassie didn’t want that to be her fate.

She sighed, feeling melancholy, as she always did when she thought of her mother.

Glancing at her watch, she was surprised to find how long she’d already been out. She would need to head in soon, but for now it felt so good to be on the water after being cooped up in that hotel for over a week. Poor Mr. Bogart. She’d left him all alone at the beach house. To make up for it, she would take him for a nice, long walk on the beach after dinner. Maybe then he’d stop pining for Chablis.

Cassie had tried to break it to him gently that the immaculately groomed Maltese was about as far out of his league as the guy at Metro was hers. But Mr. Bogart wouldn’t listen. Evidently, Hollywood had gone to his little doggie head. Cassie could understand that. The good life suited her just fine, too.

As she watched the activity on the water, she noticed that another boat had anchored several hundred yards to the starboard side while she’d been daydreaming. Far enough away not to intrude on her privacy, but near enough that she felt a vague sense of unease. When she lifted her hand to shield her eyes, she saw someone fishing off the deck.

She reached behind her back to refasten her swimsuit straps, but as she lifted herself from the deck, an unexpected gust of wind caught the top and swept it away. It drifted on an air current for one brief moment before taking a header into the water.

Cassie stared at the bobbing fabric in dismay. Luckily, the extra padding kept it afloat.

* * *

“HO…LY…” JACK’S MUTTERING segued into a low whistle. He’d picked up his binoculars at precisely the right moment to catch a glimpse of a topless Celeste Fortune before she jumped into the water.

Stunned by the flash of skin, he quickly lowered the binoculars, warning himself that he was fast becoming little better than a Peeping Tom. But, pervert or not, he was also a red-blooded male with a half-naked woman in view. How the hell was he supposed to react to that? Ignore her? Look the other way?

He did what came naturally.

Adjusting his cap to keep the sun out of his eyes, he lifted the binoculars again and watched her strike out toward something blue that floated in the water several yards from her boat. Since he’d caught a glimpse of the same color before she hit the water, he assumed that it was her swimsuit top now drifting away on a current.

Man, could that girl swim.

For anyone else, that top would have been halfway to Mexico by now, but Celeste reached it easily. As she turned back to the boat, a wave caught and lifted her, and Jack was given another fortuitous peek before she struggled into her top.

Not bad.

Smaller than he would have thought from her pictures, but not bad at all. In fact, he’d say the view was pretty damn spectacular.

He would wait until she got back in the boat, then he’d make his move. He had it all planned. Every little detail. He would hail her, pretending to have engine trouble, and then when she offered him a ride—

A flare of bright light, followed by a loud boom, caught him off guard, and then the force of the blast knocked him back a step or two.

As Jack watched in horror, Celeste’s boat exploded in flames, and a moment later, the swell of water beneath the hull of his own boat pitched him forward. He had to grab on to the rail to keep from going overboard.

Bracing himself, he lifted the binoculars and stared at the spot in the water where he’d last seen her. He could find nothing now but bits of burning debris floating on the waves.

Sliding behind the wheel, he started the engine and turned the boat sharply, opening up the throttle as he headed for the flaming vessel. Circling the wreckage, he scanned the water, his heart like a drumbeat inside his chest. On his second pass around, he spotted her. She’d surfaced about fifty yards away, and when she saw him, she began to frantically hail him.

Easing back on the throttle, Jack brought the boat alongside her, then leaned over the edge to give her a hand up. She came slithering over the side like a frightened mermaid, all wet and slinky and golden.

If her breasts were smaller than he’d imagined, the rest of her was curvier. Not as lean and toned as in her movies, but sexy, nonetheless.

She wasn’t as drop-dead gorgeous, either, without the makeup and subtle lighting. The harsh glare of sunlight revealed a smattering of freckles across her nose and highlighted an unsightly bruise on her upper thigh. She wasn’t flawless by any stretch of the imagination.

Was he disappointed? Jack wasn’t sure. In some ways, it was a relief to know that she wasn’t quite as perfect as the image he’d seen on the big screen. Because nobody could live up to that.

He knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”

“I…think so. I don’t know what happened…” She lay in the bottom of the boat, not gracefully posed but with arms and legs sprawled all over the place.

Her breasts were barely hidden by her skimpy swimsuit top, and Jack tried to glance away. Honest. He did. But they were right there. Practically in his face. And he’d seen them, in all their glory, just moments ago.

Even though his sunglasses hid his eyes, she must have sensed the direction of his gaze because she quickly covered herself.

Gallantly, he whipped a shirt off the back of a seat and handed it to her. She accepted it gratefully, tugging it over her breasts and all the way down to her knees. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she sat trembling on the floor like a netted fish.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked again.

She swiped a wet strand of hair from her face. “Yes, but…I don’t understand what…happened. One moment I was in the water…and the next thing I knew—” She broke off, her eyes going wide as she stared up at him.

Too late, Jack realized his cap had blown off during the rescue, revealing his shock of bleached hair.

She put fingertips to her lips. “You’re…him,” she said in wonder.

In a matter of seconds, Jack’s carefully laid plans had literally gone up in smoke, but he was nothing if not resourceful. He could improvise with the best of them. “Him?” Yeah, that was brilliant.

“I saw you at Metro. You were—” Beneath the beginnings of a sunburn, her face turned an even brighter shade of red. “What are you doing here?” she asked still in that same tone of awe.

So she’d recognized him, but at least she didn’t seem suspicious. That was a good sign, Jack decided. It gave him something to work with. “What am I doing here? I’m rescuing you. In case you didn’t notice, your boat just exploded. Lucky I decided to go fishing today.”

She pushed herself away from him as suspicion set in with a vengeance. “Luck? Are you telling me this is some sort of coincidence?”

He hesitated, then decided to go with plan B. “Not exactly—”

“Oh, God, I think I’m going to be sick.” She crawled on all fours to the side of the boat. Then pulling herself up, she hung her head over the rail and retched noisily into the water until there was nothing left in her stomach.

Jack stood by helplessly, not quite certain what to do. The sight of the woman upchucking over the side of the boat was in such extreme contradiction to the woman on the silver screen. He couldn’t get over it.

But far from being repulsed, Jack had the utmost sympathy for her because he’d been in her position more than a few times. Usually by his own doing, but still…

He wet a towel in the water, then held it out to her as her dry heaves finally subsided. She collapsed weakly in the bottom of the boat, holding the towel to her face. “That must have been attractive.”

Jack grinned. “Just consider it your contribution to the Gulf’s ecological system. I’m sure the fish appreciate the effort.”

“That’s disgusting.” But she looked grateful that he’d decided to make light of an awkward situation. “I guess it just hit me all at once…how close I came to…” She shuddered violently. “If I hadn’t jumped in the water, I’d be dead right now.”

Jack had been thinking about that, too.

“How could something like that happen?” She pressed the wet towel to her forehead as she gazed up at him. “How could a boat just explode like that?”

Jack shrugged. “Could have been a fuel leak.” But he didn’t really believe that. He glanced up and quickly scanned the water. Attracted by the explosion, several boats raced toward them. Jack turned and surreptitiously pulled a .38 from his bag, then slipped it underneath a towel on the seat beside them.

The nearest boat, a maroon-and-white cabin cruiser similar to the one that had exploded, began to hail them. A moment later, the craft pulled alongside them. Jack kept his hand on the seat, mere inches from the .38.

“Anyone hurt?” a man called out.

“Everyone’s fine,” Jack said. “We think there may have been a fuel leak.”

“Hell of an explosion,” the newcomer observed. He had three passengers with him, two women and a man. They all gazed at the flaming wreckage in awe. “Anything we can do to help?”

“I’ve notified the coast guard,” Jack said. “In the meantime, better not get too close.”

The man nodded, then turning to say something to the others, he pulled away. Several boats were ringing the smoldering wreckage by now, but most of them had enough sense to keep a safe distance.

“We should get out of here, too,” Jack said. “A stray gust of wind, and we could have a real disaster on our hands.”

Celeste was still shivering as she gazed up at him. “Shouldn’t we wait for the coast guard? You did radio them, right? You said you did.”

“It’s all taken care of. Don’t worry,” he said. “Right now, let’s put some distance between us and that fire.”

As he started to turn away, she scrambled to her feet. Struggling to keep her balance, she stared at him in wide-eyed fear. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Not until you tell me who you are and why you’ve been following me.”

Yeah, genius. Tell her who you are and why you’ve been following her. I can’t wait to hear this myself.

“Are you a reporter?” she asked suddenly.

He shook his head. “No, I’m a cop.” Jack had never particularly subscribed to the honesty-is-the-best-policy approach, but he knew from his undercover stints with HPD that a little truth could sometimes go a long way. At least that was his hope.

“A…cop?” Something that might have been guilt flickered in her eyes as her hand flew to her throat. It was a defensive gesture, but Jack had no idea why.

Interesting. It appeared Celeste Fortune had a few secrets of her own. “My name is Jack Fury. I work for…Interpol.”

“Interpol?” She frowned in confusion. “But I thought…I thought Interpol was some kind of European police agency.”

“It is. But I was born and raised around here. I know the territory. That’s why I was given the assignment.”

“What kind of assignment?”

“For the past several months, we’ve been on the trail of a notorious jewel thief. We’ve followed him all over Europe, and now we’ve reason to believe that he’s here in the States. In Houston, to be exact, and we think he’s set his sights on the Mirabelle Hotel.” He was improvising his butt off, and getting himself in deeper and deeper by the minute.

Celeste gasped. “The Mirabelle? But that’s where I’m—”

“Yes, I know.”

The next few seconds were critical. She’d either accept him at his word, or start screaming bloody murder. It was to Jack’s advantage not to allow her much time to consider the two choices. “That’s why I’ve been following you,” he hastened to add.

“But—” She bit her lip in confusion. “I don’t understand. You don’t think I’m somehow connected to this thief, do you?”

His gaze held hers. “No. I think you’re his next target.”

* * *

CASSIE STARED AT him in shock. “Me? Why would a jewel thief target me? I don’t have anything of value—” She broke off, realizing her gaffe. Cassie Boudreaux owned nothing of value, but Celeste Fortune had undoubtedly been showered with expensive gifts from her rich lover.

Jack Fury cocked his head. “Nothing of value? I wouldn’t exactly call the Boucheron diamond worthless.” When she said nothing, he smiled. “Yes, we know all about Owen Fleming’s recent acquisition from Sotheby’s. When the stone didn’t turn up on his wife’s finger, we assumed he’d bought it for his mistress. You.”

Was that censure in his tone? Cassie wondered. Or was she imagining his disapproval? She couldn’t help feeling guilty about the affair even though she hadn’t been one of the participants. But Jack didn’t know that. He couldn’t know that she was only culpable of impersonating her cousin, but that wasn’t a crime, was it? Was it?

“As you can see, I’m not in possession of any rings,” she managed to say coolly as she waved her hands in front of him.

“You’d hardly wear a rare ten-carat pink diamond to the beach, now would you? If you’re smart, you’ve got it stashed someplace safe.”

As she watched him, Cassie’s suspicions suddenly returned. There was something about him…about his demeanor…about this whole setup…

Why had Celeste never mentioned the Boucheron diamond? Surely, a stone of such…epic proportions was something Cassie should have been made aware of, in case people asked questions. And by people, she meant Jack Fury.

She lifted her chin, prepared to improvise as best she could. “If you expect me to tell you where I keep my jewelry, you’re in for a shock. You say you’re a cop, but you haven’t shown me any identification. For all I know, you’re the jewel thief.”

“I haven’t shown you any identification because I’m undercover,” he said. “I can’t exactly go around flashing my ID and badge, now can I?”

Cassie’s gaze narrowed. Again, his explanation was just a little too convenient. On the other hand, if he really was working undercover, that might explain the overprocessed hair.

Still, Cassie knew she’d be a fool to simply take him at his word. And yet…even as her doubts continued to mount, she couldn’t help but remember the way he’d reacted at the restaurant to what they’d both thought was gunfire. He hadn’t hesitated even for a moment to protect her. His response had been instinctive, just as a cop’s would be.

Even now, his gaze on her was steady. Not shifting or wavering, but so relentless that Cassie felt a tremor course through her. His eyes were even bluer than she remembered. A deep ocean blue that made her wonder about hidden depths.

“Do you remember what happened at the restaurant the other night?” she asked reluctantly. “Almost everyone on the patio thought that sound was a gunshot. Did you?”

He shrugged. “I did at first.”

“Is that why you dove for me?”

“Sure.”

“But why would you assume I was the target? Why would a jewel thief want to kill me?”

His gaze left hers then to scan the ocean. “I didn’t stop to think about it. I just reacted because I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Something in his voice made Cassie’s heart start to pound even harder. Was it a note of sincerity? “Afterwards, I saw you on top of the building across the street. You were looking down at me.”

His gaze met hers again. “I thought I saw someone up there. I went to check it out.”

“And what about today? Why did you follow me to Galveston? If you think the jewel thief is after the—” What had he called it? “—Boucheron diamond, why didn’t you stay back at the hotel and watch for him?”

“Because he knows you’re too smart to entrust a three-million-dollar ring to a hotel safe. He also knows that a woman in love would want to keep an expensive gift from her lover somewhere close by.”

“Who says I’m in love?” Cassie blurted.

Jack’s gaze narrowed. “Aren’t you?”

She pushed back her wet hair. “Owen and I are finished, haven’t you heard?”

“Yes, I heard that.”

“Then how do you know I didn’t give the ring back?”

“Because you’d be a fool to give away that kind of security now that your career has—shall we say—suffered some setbacks.”

There it was again, the barest hint of disapproval, and this time Cassie was a little annoyed by it. “How is it you seem to know so much about me?” she demanded.

“I make it my business to know everything about the people involved in the cases I’m working. I don’t like surprises.”

Then brace yourself, mister.

But Cassie wasn’t yet ready to come clean with Jack Fury. A part of her wanted to trust him because, after all, what was her alternative? Jump back into the water? They were too far out for her to swim to shore, and if she hailed another boat, how could she be certain she wasn’t flagging down the real jewel thief? If he even existed.

But that wasn’t the real reason Cassie kept silent. To be honest, there was something deeply thrilling about being the object of Jack Fury’s attention. And once he found out she wasn’t Celeste, she’d be about as interesting to him as yesterday’s catch.

He was just so different from anyone Cassie had ever met before. She’d known there was something special about him the moment she’d set eyes on him at Metro. But she’d thought at first her attraction stemmed from the effortless way he blended into the arty world to which she’d always hoped to belong. Now she realized it was something else. Her thirst for adventure—for something more—drew her to him.

She’d been starved for life for far too long, and now Jack Fury, with a story as improbable as his hair color, promised her a feast.

Cassie thought back to that night at the restaurant, the little game they’d played with one another, and she shuddered.

The attraction was still there, no question about it. She just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Her mind raced with the possibilities. “What about the boat?”

“What about it?”

“Do you think your jewel thief had something to do with the explosion?”

He hesitated. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

He turned away from her then, and Cassie saw his hand snake out to grab something from underneath a towel on one of the seats. He was so quick about it that she had only a brief glimpse of something dark and metallic, but she knew instinctively that it was a gun.

So he was armed and, for all she knew, dangerous. And here she was alone with him on the high seas.

A measure of common sense returned. Adventure was one thing, but deliberately placing herself in imminent peril quite another.

What did she think she was doing? How could she even consider starting something up with Jack Fury? She knew nothing about the man. She didn’t even know if he was a real cop. What if he’d made up the whole Interpol-jewel thief story? What if, instead, he was some kind of…stalker?

Maybe he’d blown up the boat, just so he could rescue her. Get close to her.

Cassie had seen a similar scenario in a movie once. A psycho who’d set up all kinds of bizarre situations just so he could be near the object of his fascination.

Jack Fury might be a little on the strange side, but to be fair, he hadn’t done anything truly psychotic. Although Cassie was pretty sure he’d been staring at her breasts earlier, but she could hardly blame him for that. Her new Brazilian swimsuit was pretty skimpy, and truthfully, she might have been a little disappointed if he hadn’t snuck a peek.

Still, why had he told the man in the other boat that he’d called the coast guard when he obviously hadn’t?

Unless…he hadn’t wanted the others to call…

Because…he had something to hide…

Come to think of it, Cassie wasn’t all that keen on involving the authorities, either. Ethan Gold had made arrangements for Celeste to have the use of his boat, but Cassie wasn’t Celeste. Technically, she’d taken it out without Professor Gold’s permission, which meant that if he pressed charges, she could end up in jail. Or be forced to cough up the dough to reimburse him for damages. In either case, she’d be in deep doo-doo.

But back to Jack Fury…

He didn’t appear crazy or perverted, thank goodness. Then again, neither, apparently, had Ted Bundy.

But try as she might, Cassie just couldn’t picture a psycho killer in a pair of lime-green board shorts.

She couldn’t exactly picture an Interpol agent in a getup like that, either, but that didn’t stop her from appreciating the way those shorts hugged his lean hips and accentuated the ripple of subtle muscle in his abs and chest. The way they rode so low that with just a little tug…

What in the world had gotten into her? She’d just destroyed someone’s boat, barely escaped with her life, and now here she was, moments later, lusting after the guy who’d pulled her out of the water.

A guy who claimed to be an Interpol agent on the trail of an international jewel thief.

If Cassie bought that, he probably had a nice little bridge in Brooklyn he’d like to sell her, too.

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