Unauthorised Passion/Intimate Knowledge Page 2

  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 seve
nties 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?”