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.