Unauthorized Passion: Unauthorized Passion / Intimate Knowledge

“I want to see for myself.” When Jack reached for the mirror again, she took a step back.

“It’s late,” she said in a rush. “I think you should just sleep on it, and then when you wake up in the morning, you’ll be all refreshed and ready to face the world with your brand-new…look.”

Jack’s gaze narrowed. “What do you mean, my new look? What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing. It may be a little…shorter than we talked about. Now don’t freak,” she hastened to add when he grabbed the mirror from her. “It’ll just take some getting used to, that’s all.”

“Ho…ly…sh—”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

“Compared to what?” Jack turned his head first one way, then the other. It was short all right. Short and…blond. Bleached blond. What little hair he had left was now the color of straw. And it appeared to have roughly the same texture. “Fix it, Cher. I can’t walk around like this.”

Cher assumed a wounded expression. “Fix it? Why would you want to fix it? The color looks great on you.”

Jack sighed. “In other words, you can’t.”

“We haven’t gotten to that part yet,” she admitted sheepishly. “But if you can get past the shock, I think you’ll like it. You might even thank me for it later. The color really does show off those gorgeous eyes of yours and those dreamy cheekbones. Not to mention your tan. If nothing else, it’ll make you stand out in a crowd.”

“In my line of work, that’s hardly a plus.” Jack glanced in the mirror again. Okay, maybe Cher was right. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Maybe it wasn’t quite as short or as blond as he’d first thought. And the color did set off his eyes…

“Do me a favor,” she said. “Just give it a day or two. If you still don’t like it, you can come down to the beauty school and I’ll have my instructor take a look at it—”

The phone interrupted her and Cher glanced at her watch. “Oh, no. I had no idea it was so late.”

Jack’s brows shot up at her nervousness. “What’s the matter? Got a hot date?”

“Uh, no. That’s probably just my mother calling.”

“At this hour?”

“She sometimes loses track of time. You know how it is with old people.”

Jack had met Cher’s mother. The woman wasn’t a day over fifty, and she had a body that wouldn’t quit. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“She’ll call back. She always does.” Cher grabbed his arm, pulled him from the chair, and began to hustle him toward the door.

Jack turned. “About your car—”

“Oh, yeah, sure, you can use it tomorrow. I’ve still got my brother’s car. I can take that to class.” She grabbed her keys from the table and all but threw them at him. Then she opened the door and gave him a shove.

Jack stubbornly resisted. “Hey, what gives? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to get rid of me.”

“It’s late, that’s all, and I’m tired—”

Behind her, the answering machine picked up and Cher’s recorded greeting—a really bad rendition of “I’ve Got You Babe”—began to play.

Jack wanted to wait around to hear the message, but Cher was having none of that. With a quick “Good night,” she slammed the door in his face, and he was left standing in the hall, wondering why that phone call had flustered her so much.

* * *

CHER CAST AN uneasy glance toward the door as she lowered her voice. “I told you I’d be in touch when I have something.”

She listened for a moment, her hand clutching the phone as the caller’s tone grew more belligerent. “Calm down. I know ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. I know we have a deal. I’m trying to hold up my end, but you’ve got to give me some time.”

Another pause, then Cher said shakily, “Look, there’s no call for threats—”

But the line had gone dead, and as Cher hung up the phone, she felt the first tremor of fear at what she’d done.

* * *

CASSIE COULDN’T SLEEP. She couldn’t get her mind off the man she’d seen looking up at her balcony. She knew him. Knew his face, but she couldn’t place him. It was maddening, that glimmer of recognition, then nothing more.

Was he the same man she’d seen earlier in the alley?

Was he the killer?

But according to the news, the murder had taken place hours ago. Why would the killer still be lurking in the area? Wouldn’t he want to put distance between himself and the crime scene?

Unless he was afraid of being spotted on the street. Or unless…he lived nearby.

Finally, Cassie had worked herself up into such a state that she’d put back on the scarf and dark glasses, left the hotel, and gone across the street to use the pay phone she’d spotted earlier. When the operator had answered, she’d asked to speak to the detective in charge of the murder investigation, and to her surprise, she’d been put right through.

But the officer she’d spoken to sounded too young to be a detective, and rather than heading up a homicide investigation, Cassie suspected he’d been assigned the unenviable task of fielding all the crank calls that had undoubtedly come pouring in after the news broadcast.

He had politely taken down all her information, but he hadn’t seemed to attach much significance to what she’d seen. Maybe it was because they’d already apprehended a suspect, Cassie thought hopefully. Or maybe eyewitnesses at the scene had given an entirely different description of the killer. Whatever the cause for the officer’s cavalier attitude, Cassie was just glad she’d done her civic duty. Now she could go to bed with a clear conscience and get a good night’s sleep.

But now, in addition to worrying about whether or not she’d come face-to-face with a killer, she had to wonder if the police would be able to somehow trace that call back to her. She hadn’t given her name, or Celeste’s, but her voice had undoubtedly been taped. What if they came around the hotel asking questions? Should she continue to pretend to be Celeste, or should she come clean and give them her real name?

And if she did come clean, what would Celeste say?

And more important, what would Margo Fleming do if she found out what Celeste was up to?

Not your problem, a little voice reminded her. If Celeste had taken up again with her married lover, that was her business, but a tawdry affair couldn’t be allowed to take priority over a murder investigation.

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.