Amanda Stevens - Unauthorized Passion

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.