Unauthorized Passion: Unauthorized Passion / Intimate Knowledge. Amanda Stevens
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Cher’s fingers continued to work their magic, and he sighed as the tension finally began to seep away.
“Hey, Jack?”
The massage was so relaxing, he’d almost drifted off. “Yeah?”
“What else have you learned about Celeste Fortune?”
“You know I don’t like to talk about my work.” It had been a mistake to say anything to Cher about the assignment. He hadn’t meant to, but she’d overheard him on the phone with Max the other day, and since he’d needed to borrow her car, he couldn’t exactly tell her to kiss off when she started asking questions.
Besides, he also didn’t want her to think—and blab around the complex—that he was some freak who kept pictures of a relatively obscure actress in his apartment.
“Come on. Don’t be so coy.” Cher’s hands moved back to his neck, and she deepened the massage. “Just admit it, why don’t you? You have a little crush on her.”
“That’s crazy.”
“No, what’s crazy is that you think she won’t be pissed when she finds out what you’re doing. Besides, a woman like her is way out of your league, Jackie.”
“I realize that. But I don’t have a crush on her, anyway. Boys get crushes. Men get—”
“Obsessions? First Casanova and now Celeste Fortune. Anyone ever tell you you’re a little on the neurotic side?” Cher plowed a knuckle into a knot at the back of Jack’s neck and he jumped.
“Ouch! Anyone ever tell you you’re a little on the sadistic side?”
“Oh, shut up and take it,” she muttered. “You deserve it.”
“What the hell did I do?”
“You’re a man.”
So that was it. The latest Mr. Right had evidently turned out to be another dud. At least by Cher’s standards. Jack wondered what had been the matter with this one. The previous guy had parted his hair on the wrong side, and the one before that had preferred boxers instead of briefs. Or briefs instead of boxers. Jack couldn’t keep up. The point was, Cher was picky when it came to romance.
But her love life was something she’d have to sort out on her own. Jack had his own problems. Slumping down in the chair, he closed his eyes and thought about Celeste Fortune.
“Just admit it, why don’t you? You have a little crush on her.”
Was he that obvious?
The stack of videos in his apartment had probably been the giveaway.
How could a woman as beautiful and glamorous as Celeste Fortune allow herself to get mixed up with a sleaze like Owen Fleming? The man was a typical Hollywood player, from what Jack had been able to find out. He’d married a rich wife, then proceeded to go through starlets like a pig at a feeding trough.
Jack thought about the way Celeste had come at him tonight, all fired up, blue eyes undoubtedly blazing behind those dark glasses. He had a feeling she’d be a real pistol in bed, but it wasn’t likely he’d ever find that out. However, that didn’t stop him from fantasizing, and he let himself conjure up all sorts of interesting scenarios as Cher worked on his hair.
An hour and a half later, she removed the cape and tossed it aside. “All done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Jack stretched. “Guess not. I think I must have dozed off a few times.” He put a hand to his hair. “Feels short.”
“Hardly more than a trim.”
“Really? So what was all that smelly gunk you put on my head?”
“Oh, just a deep, penetrating conditioner.”
“A conditioner, huh? Well, it burned like hell. Let me see that mirror—”
When he reached for the hand mirror on the counter, Cher grabbed it and put it behind her back. “You don’t trust me?”
“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