1 ...8 9 10 12 13 14 ...18 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.”
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