Amanda Stevens - Unauthorized Passion

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman gasped when she saw Jack.

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

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

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

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

“Help! Police!” she screamed.

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

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

Man, she was good.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

And tell them what?

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

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

But…what if he wasn’t?

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

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

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

Casanova!

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