Unauthorized Passion: Unauthorized Passion / Intimate Knowledge. Amanda Stevens

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CASSIE’S GAZE REMAINED riveted on the door. There was no way she would answer it. No way in hell she would go anywhere near it—

      The dead bolt! Had she locked it when she came in? She couldn’t remember. The phone had started to ring. She’d been distracted—

      She flew across the room and twisted the lock, but it was already engaged, thank goodness.

      Was he still out there? Cassie wondered frantically.

      Pressing her ear to the door, she heard nothing. Then, her heart still pounding, she glanced through the peephole. She couldn’t see anything, either. Her tormentor might have cut and run or…he might be standing to the side of the door, out of sight, hoping to lure her into the hall.

      Cassie glanced over her shoulder at the phone, wondering if she should call the front desk or even the police. But what would she tell them? That someone had played a prank on her? Because that’s all it was, wasn’t it? She couldn’t actually be in danger, could she?

      What if she was? What if Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard was right, and Margo Fleming had called on her family to exact a little payback?

      But…wouldn’t a Mafia hit man be a little more subtle?

      Come to think of it, though, subtlety had never been the Cantrells’ strong suit.

      When Cassie put her eye back to the peephole, someone stared back at her.

      She gasped and jumped away from the door. Whoever was out there knocked again, more boldly this time, as if he didn’t care who might hear him.

      Cassie’s hand flew to her chest. Her heart was racing so fast she could hardly catch her breath. “Who’s there?” she called.

      A male voice said anxiously, “Miss Fortune? It’s Lyle…Lester. The night clerk said she saw you get on the elevator right before the power went off. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

      Then why hadn’t he simply called her suite? Cassie wondered.

      And how had the night clerk witnessed her getting onto the elevator? The girl hadn’t even been at the desk when Cassie had come in.

      “Miss Fortune?”

      Cassie bit her lip. Then drawing a deep breath, she said, “I’m fine. No harm done.”

      “I’m so relieved to hear it. I’ve brought you up a flashlight and some candles. I heard on the news earlier that these outages are happening all over town. Something about an overloaded power grid caused by the heat wave. Hopefully, it’ll just be temporary, but I thought it best to be prepared just in case.”

      Cassie stepped back up to the peephole. She couldn’t tell what Lyle held in his hand, but she sure as hell wasn’t about to open the door to find out.

      “I’m…indisposed at the moment,” she called. “Can you just leave the stuff outside the door?”

      A slight hesitation, then, “Of course. If you need anything else, please let us know.”

      “I will.”

      Cassie’s eye was still pressed to the peephole, and as Lyle Lester walked away, she saw him pause once and glance over his shoulder before he disappeared from her view.

      * * *

      JACK PULLED A dark cap over his head and rubber boots onto his feet, then headed for the Dumpsters behind the Mirabelle. He’d bribed a maid to mark an X in red tape on the trash bags that came from Celeste’s suite, so he had high hopes that his job would go more smoothly tonight.

      He had to be careful, though. Now that Celeste had gotten a good look at him, he couldn’t chance running into her again. He was damn lucky she hadn’t recognized him from the night before, but he supposed he had Cher to thank for that.

      At any rate, it had been stupid and amateurish to follow her into that restaurant. The pricey menu and trendy decor were about as far out of his league as she was, and besides, it was never a good idea to get that close to a mark. It really wasn’t a good idea to get too close…to her.

      But Jack had conducted enough surveillance operations to recognize the symptoms. It was the Stockholm Syndrome in reverse. Spending so much time observing from afar, the watcher began to identify with the subject to the point of infatuation. Sometimes the temptation to see her up close and personal became irresistible. Sometimes he would even fantasize about getting to know her, about protecting her…

      That had to be it. How else to explain his feelings for Celeste Fortune? Love at first sight?

      There was a time when Jack would have been the first to scoff at such a notion, but not after the Casanova case. Not after he’d seen with his own two eyes how five sophisticated and successful women had been swept off their feet by a suave and sadistic killer.

      Love at first sight? Loneliness? The thrill of a stranger’s seduction? Who knew what had motivated those women to invite a killer into their homes after they’d taken the time to carefully set the stage for romance?

      The criminal psychologist called in to consult on the case had been convinced that Casanova stalked his victims for weeks, possibly months before he approached them. According to Dr. West, the killer had gotten to know his targets inside and out—their hopes and dreams, their deepest fears and darkest fantasies. And then he used those intimacies to seduce them.

      He’d probably even gone through their trash, Jack thought in disgust as he pulled out a plastic bag marked with a red X. He dropped the bag on the ground and grimaced.

      What was he doing?

      Just what the hell was he doing?

      He was a cop, for God’s sake. The fact that he’d been kicked off the force didn’t change who he was. What he was. A man who’d sworn not only to uphold the law, but to serve and protect.

      This wasn’t serving anybody but himself and some rich geek who couldn’t get a woman on his own merits. So he’d stooped to this level and so had Jack. He’d allowed his financial and professional setbacks to cloud his judgment. He’d used his desperation to catch a killer as an excuse to trade in his ethics.

      And in the process, he’d become someone he didn’t much like or respect.

      Well, it stopped now, he decided as he picked up the trash bag from Celeste’s room and slung it back into the Dumpster. As he turned away in self-loathing, he heard something rattle in the alley.

      He froze. For the longest moment, he listened to the darkness, but when he heard nothing else, he figured it must have been his imagination or a rat scurrying through the trash.

      Then he heard a bumping sound, and leaving the Dumpsters, he flattened himself against the wall of the hotel and peered down the alley. He saw nothing at first, but then farther down, near the street, something moved underneath a third-floor balcony.

      Hugging the wall, Jack slipped silently into the alley. As he drew closer, he recognized the sound he’d heard earlier. A grappling hook had been thrown over the balcony railing of Celeste’s suite, and a slender figure clad in black was now shimmying up the rope.

      Drawing his weapon, Jack sprinted from the shadows. “Police! Halt!”

      The suspect spun, saw him, then doubling his efforts, scurried the rest of the way up before Jack could reach him. Climbing over the railing, the intruder pulled the rope up behind him, then turned and tried the French doors.

      Jack took aim as he raced toward the balcony. “Freeze!”

      The suspect—his face covered by a ski mask—glanced back at Jack, then slung the