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.”