Читать книгу Unauthorized Passion - Amanda Stevens - Страница 9

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.

He glanced up in alarm. “Attacked? By whom?”

“I didn’t ask his name,” the older woman snapped. “Nor did I get a good look at him. It all happened too quickly.”

“Oh, dear, are you sure you’re all right? Perhaps we should call an ambulance. After all, one can’t be too careful…” At your age.

“No need for that.” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard’s tone was positively frigid by now. “I’m not the frail old lady you seem to think I am. If you would just help me up…”

But, in spite of her bravado, it soon became obvious that she needed a good deal more than a hand up. She couldn’t put any weight on her ankle, nor was she able to balance herself using Lyle as a crutch. “Allow me,” he said with a little half bow, then, despite his thin stature, swept the woman into his arms with no effort whatsoever. He was much stronger than he looked, and he walked with the kind of grace and agility that made Cassie think of a dancer.

She expected the older woman to protest, but instead Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard peered over Lyle’s shoulder into the shadows. “Where’s my Chablis?” she demanded. “I can’t leave her out here. She’s probably frightened half to death, poor baby. I doubt either one of us will get a wink of sleep tonight.”

“I’ll bring her along,” Cassie said, reaching for the Maltese, who did not look in the least distressed by the evening’s events. If anything, she appeared thoroughly besotted as she gazed at Mr. Bogart with doe-eyed intensity. When Cassie had finally corralled the dogs, the pair happily cavorted side by side back to the hotel.

The whole party took the elevator to the third floor, and after Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard handed Cassie her key card, she unlocked the door and held it open while Lyle carried the injured woman inside and placed her gently on a green silk divan.

“Are you sure you won’t go to the emergency room?” he asked anxiously.

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard gave him a scornful glance. “You can stop all that fussing. I don’t intend to sue. I’m not the litigious sort.”

Lyle assumed a wounded air. “A lawsuit was the furthest thing from my mind. My only concern is for you.”

“How sweet.” She made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her tone. “You’ll be happy to know, then, that I have a friend in town whose husband is an orthopedic surgeon. Rest assured if the ankle isn’t better by morning, I’ll give him a call. Now be a good boy and run along.” She shooed him off with the back of her hand. “I don’t need a thing more from you tonight.”

“In that case,” he said huffily, “I should get back to my desk.”

“Wait a second. Both of you, just hold on a minute,” Cassie said.

They examined her with surprise, as if they’d forgotten all about her presence.

“Don’t you think we should call the police?” she asked.

“The police?” they repeated in unison.

Cassie frowned. “Yes, the police. You were attacked, Mrs. Ambrose. I mean, Mrs. Pritchard…Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just call me Evelyn.”

Cassie nodded gratefully. “You said you were afraid your assailant was going to kill you.”

“Did I say that?” The woman shifted on the sofa. “I was distraught and in a great deal of pain. I’m afraid I may have overreacted. But there’s no need to involve the police.”

“I think there is,” Cassie insisted. “I don’t know if either of you are aware of this or not, but a woman was murdered a few blocks from here tonight. And earlier, I saw a strange man lurking in the alley. He could have been your attacker…or even the killer.”

“Oh, dear,” Lyle murmured. He gave Cassie a sheepish grin. “I’m afraid you may have seen me.” At her surprised look, he nodded. “I was in the alley earlier. As a matter of fact, I saw you standing on your balcony.”

Was that why he looked familiar to her? Cassie wondered. They hadn’t met until tonight, but perhaps she’d caught glimpses of him around the hotel. “Do you mind telling me why you were out there?”

“Not at all. There’s really no mystery to it. Some of the kitchen staff saw someone going through the Dumpsters. I assumed it was Old Joe and decided to go out and have a look for myself.”

“Old Joe?” Cassie asked doubtfully.

“He’s harmless. He stays in a shelter on Montrose, but every now and then he drops by here to go through the trash. If I’m on duty, I give him a hot meal and a little cash, and he disappears, sometimes for weeks or months at a time. I wanted to head him off tonight before someone called the police. He can be a nuisance, but as I said, he’s harmless and I’d hate to see him hauled off to jail. Poor old guy isn’t in the best of health.”

And she’d attacked him with her purse, Cassie thought guiltily. Although she didn’t have the impression that Old Joe was exactly ancient or fragile. Judging by the way he’d sprinted down that alley, he still had a lot of life left in him.

“Well, that explains everything,” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard said in satisfaction. “Undoubtedly, this Joe person is the man I encountered in the alley.”

“But you said he attacked you,” Cassie reminded her. “I’d hardly call that harmless.”

“Perhaps he didn’t mean to. I probably frightened the poor creature half to death, and when he tried to flee, he knocked me down.”

It was a logical explanation, but Cassie’s suspicions were aroused. She had her reasons for not wanting to involve the police, but what were Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard’s? Or Lyle’s?

“Well, now that everything has been cleared up, I really do have to get back to work.” He turned to Cassie. “I’ll have another look in the alley just to make sure nothing is amiss, and I’ll alert the staff to be on the lookout for any strangers lurking about the hotel. If anyone notices anything the least bit out of the ordinary, we’ll notify the proper authorities immediately.”

“Thank you.”

After he left the room, Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard fell back against the cushions and sighed. “That man is exhausting.”

“I should go, too, and let you get some rest. You’ve had quite an ordeal tonight,” Cassie said. “Is there anything I can get you before I leave?”

“I wouldn’t mind a shot of vodka,” the woman said candidly.

“Shall I call room service for you?”

“No, there’s ice in the bucket and a bottle of Cristal in the fridge. I know Grey Goose is all the rage with you young folks, but I’m old-fashioned. I like my champagne French and my vodka Russian.”

Cassie listened idly as she filled a glass with ice, poured in a generous amount of vodka, then carried the drink to the injured woman.

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard took a sip and sighed. “Oh, that hits the spot. The Russians do know their vodka. One can almost forgive them for that messy little affair in Cuba back in ‘62…”

Cassie didn’t have the faintest idea what the woman was talking about. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard eyed her over the rim of her glass. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Of course, I do. We met briefly in the lobby a few days ago.”

“We met before that,” the woman said slyly. “But I could tell you didn’t remember.”

Cassie’s pulse quickened. First Lyle Lester and now Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard. Evidently, her cousin wasn’t quite as unknown as she’d let on to Cassie. And what was it Celeste had told her on the phone that day? “Don’t worry about running into friends or acquaintances at the Mirabelle. Most of the people I know could never afford to stay there.”

“I’m sorry,” Cassie murmured, not really knowing what else to say.

Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard shrugged off the apology. “Oh, don’t be. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. It was a brief encounter. We were on the same elevator a few months ago at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The only reason I recall it so vividly is because your little dog there and Chablis got on so famously. We even joked about it being the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Does that ring a bell?”

The woman looked so hopeful that Cassie nodded. “Of course. I remember now. You had on the most gorgeous outfit that day. Chanel, wasn’t it?” It was a stab in the dark, but since Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard always dressed impeccably, Cassie thought it a safe guess.

“As a matter of fact, it was. How sweet of you to notice.” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard took another sip of her vodka. When she glanced up, her eyes glinted with something that might have been mischief. Or malice. “It was only later, of course, that I realized…forgive me, I don’t mean to be indelicate…but you were meeting Owen that day, weren’t you?”

Cassie gasped. She couldn’t help herself. “You know Owen Fleming?”

The woman smiled. “Small world, isn’t it?” Then her expression sobered. “Owen and my late husband were business partners for a number of years until Thomas caught him, literally, with his hand in the till. Turned out, he’d embezzled millions from the company, and it took Thomas years to straighten out his finances, not to mention his good reputation. A word to the wise, my dear.” She sat up and leaned toward Cassie. “Owen Fleming is a man completely without scruples. I don’t know how Margo has put up with him all these years, but I expect, in the end, she’ll have her revenge.”

“What do you mean?” Cassie asked almost fearfully.

“You see, Margo is originally from Chicago. Her mother’s maiden name was Gambini. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Sounds Italian,” Cassie murmured.

“Sicilian. The Gambinis control the most powerful crime syndicate in the Midwest. Margo may have moved away years ago, but she is still Family and the Gambinis always take care of their own. If I were you, dear, I’d watch my back. Not that it will do you any good. The Family employs experts for that sort of thing. Wet work, I believe they call it. You wouldn’t even hear them coming…”

* * *

JUST WHAT THE HELL had Sissy gotten her involved in? Cassie wondered nervously as she let herself and Mr. Bogart into the suite. After she’d unclipped his leash, he ran over anxiously to check out the food and water situation before heading off to bed.

Cassie wished her own concerns were so basic. Okay, so the man hiding behind the Dumpster and the one below her balcony had been explained by Lyle Lester, but instead of resting easier, now she had to worry about a Mafia hit man coming after her. Her cousin had said nothing about ties to the Gambini crime family. As anxious as Cassie had been to put distance between herself and the Cantrells, she was pretty sure that she would have remembered something like that.

So what was she supposed to do now? Call the whole thing off? Go crawling back to Manville with her tail tucked between her legs? Shove all her dreams back into the Payless shoe box where she’d kept them for the past ten years?

She couldn’t do it. She’d waited too long to start her new life. Returning to her hometown just wasn’t an option, Cassie decided. Besides, the threat of a Mafia hit man paled in comparison to facing Minnie Cantrell’s wrath. The old woman was a witch in every sense of the word. She claimed to have not only the power to remove warts and divine water, but could also hex, conjure spirits and wreak all manner of havoc on those who crossed her or her kin.

Cassie had never personally witnessed any of the woman’s powers, nor did she believe in them. But there were plenty in her hometown who did, and once Minnie Cantrell cursed you, you might as well pack it in. You became a pariah in the community, a social out-cast to be shunned and scorned, and if there was anything worse than being stuck in the sticks, it was being stranded there without a single friend to your name.

Cassie had wanted to leave for years. For as long as she could remember, she’d dreamed of moving to Houston or New Orleans, settling into her own little place and getting a job at an art gallery where she might someday exhibit her own work. But while her mother had still been alive, Cassie couldn’t leave Manville.

Her mother was gone now, after losing a long battle with lung cancer and emphysema, and there was no one left from the Boudreaux clan—as ornery a bunch as the Cantrells—who Cassie felt any special affinity for. Celeste’s call had come at a most opportune time. The art department at Manville High School had suffered major budgetary cuts, which meant that most of Cassie’s classes had been dropped from the fall schedule. When the school district declined to renew her contract, she’d suddenly found herself unemployed, unattached and just itching for an adventure.

Be careful what you wish for, her mother had always warned.

“Good advice, Mama,” Cassie murmured as she headed off for bed. She’d just slid under the covers when the phone on the nightstand rang. She hesitated to answer at first, then figuring it might be Lyle checking to make sure everything was okay, she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” she said carefully.

“You are a hard woman to track down,” a female voice accused.

Cassie didn’t have a clue as to the woman’s identity, but she tensed, anyway. “Who is this?”

“Who is this?” the woman asked incredulously. “It’s Olivia. Olivia D’Arby? You know, your roommate? The girl you left holding the bag when you skipped out on the rent?”

Roommate? What roommate? Celeste had said nothing about a roommate.

The whole situation was getting more complicated by the minute. And it had sounded so simple at first. Spend a month in a luxury hotel pretending to be her cousin, and in return she would be treated to a new wardrobe, a little cash and ample opportunity to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

But now, in addition to everything else, a mysterious roommate was calling, and if Cassie said or did anything the least bit suspicious, the whole scheme could unravel. And she had a bad feeling that if that happened, she would be the one left holding the bag.

“Well? Aren’t you even going to ask how I found you?” the woman demanded.

Cassie’s hand gripped the phone. “How?”

“You left your itinerary on the computer. Not too smart for someone in hiding. What if the press or Margo Fleming had somehow gotten hold of it? But don’t worry,” she rushed to assure Cassie. “I deleted everything.”

“Thanks.”

Olivia paused. “What’s wrong? You sound kind of strange.”

Cassie cleared her throat, then lowered her voice. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“You’re sick? Well, that’s the least of your worries.” Cassie couldn’t detect even a drop of sympathy in the woman’s voice. “That’s why I’m calling. Some guy’s been around asking a lot of questions about you. He talked to some of the neighbors, and he managed to corner me in the parking lot yesterday when I got back from my interview. Since I didn’t get the part, I wasn’t exactly in a friendly mood. He got an earful, but I don’t think it was what he was after. Anyway, I thought you’d probably want to know what she’s up to now.”

“She?”

“Margo Fleming, of course. Who else would have sent that guy?” Olivia hesitated again. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem kind of out there. Maybe you’re taking too much medication or something.”

“I’m fine,” Cassie rasped. “Thanks for the call.”

“Wait a minute, damn it. You can’t just blow me off like that. I went to all the trouble of tracking you down, the least you can do is give me the juicy details.”

Juicy details? What was she talking about?

“Oh, I get it.” Olivia’s tone dropped conspiratorially. “He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Oh, for the love of…Owen. Remember him? Your rich, married lover? The man who gave you that huge diamond and promised to make you a star?”

Was that resentment Cassie heard in the woman’s voice?

“Since I saw him first, the least you can do is be straight with me.”

Definitely resentment, Cassie decided.

“Is he there with you or not?” Olivia persisted.

“I’m alone.”

“I don’t believe you. You leave town in the middle of the night, and a few days later, Owen disappears. You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence.”

Cassie had no intention of telling her anything. All she wanted to do was get off the phone, pronto, before she said something to tip her hand. Honestly, what had Celeste been thinking when she left her itinerary on the computer? She must have known her roommate would find it.

Or…was that the point? Was this some sort of test? Maybe Olivia D’Arby was in on the ruse, and she was calling to make sure that Cassie didn’t cave under pressure.

“I appreciate the call, but I’m not feeling well.” Cassie lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “I really think I should get to bed.”

“You do that,” Olivia said coolly. “But if Margo Fleming shows up at your door, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I shudder to think what that woman is capable of.”

Was that a note of glee she detected in the roommate’s voice now? Cassie wondered.

* * *

WELL, SHE’D FLUNKED that little test, now hadn’t she? Evelyn thought gleefully.

It was just as she’d suspected. The woman was a complete fraud.

The whole story about their chance encounter in an elevator at the Beverly Hills Hotel had been a spur-of-the-moment fabrication. There had been no Chanel outfit and certainly no quip about the beginning of a beautiful friendship between Chablis and that…that horrid little dog she called Mr. Bogart.

“As if my princess would ever show the slightest interest in such a creature,” Evelyn crooned. Chablis’s responding sigh was one of pure bliss. Undoubtedly she was dreaming about Zoë von Hendenburg’s shih tzu or William Kendall’s Lhasa apso. But a Chihuahua?

Evelyn shuddered. Over her dead body!

Still, the next few days promised to be…interesting. It was possible, of course, that the woman who had been in her suite earlier was, indeed, Celeste Fortune. Perhaps she’d pretended to remember the meeting in the elevator to spare Evelyn’s feelings. After all, it was always awkward when one party remembered a brief encounter that the other did not.

And had that been the only incident, Evelyn might have been able to shrug it off in just that way.

But her suspicions had already been aroused before this evening, hence, the test.

Pleasantly buzzed from the vodka, Evelyn lay back against the sofa and smiled as she recalled the night she’d first seen Celeste Fortune in person. A little birdie had told her that the actress had booked herself into the Mirabelle, and so Evelyn had arrived ahead of her. She’d been waiting in the lobby behind a potted palm to get her first look.

Celeste had arrived in a cab, completely alone, wearing a cap pulled low over her face much as she had been tonight. She’d thought it a clever disguise, no doubt, but Evelyn, who was something of a movie buff, especially when it came to Owen’s productions, would have recognized her even without being tipped off. Even without that infamous diamond sparkling on the woman’s hand.

Evelyn had followed her up to the third floor and observed her from a discreet distance as the bellman let her into her room. A few minutes later, a maid carrying a stack of fresh towels got off the elevator and knocked on Celeste’s door.

Evelyn remembered the incident vividly because there had been something a little strange about the maid’s appearance. For one thing, she’d worn a really bad wig.

And she’d seemed nervous. She kept glancing over her shoulder until Celeste had let her in.

Evelyn had watched in amazement as the woman came out a few minutes later and headed straight for the elevator. Again, Evelyn’s attention was drawn to the wig. It looked slightly askew, as if she’d pulled it on in a hurry, but the real giveaway was the Boucheron diamond glittering on the woman’s finger. No maid owned a rock like that.

It was obvious to Evelyn that the two women had switched places, but why? And who was the imposter in Suite 3A pretending to be Celeste Fortune?

Where was the real Celeste? Off somewhere romantic and exotic with Owen?

It would be just like that bastard to plan such an elaborate scheme so that he could steal away for a few days with his mistress. And the real kick in the teeth? His devoted wife was probably picking up the tab for the whole affair.

Hands trembling in outrage, Evelyn carefully removed her own wig. Setting it aside, she smoothed back white tufts of hair as she reached for the phone.