Unauthorized Passion: Unauthorized Passion / Intimate Knowledge. Amanda Stevens
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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,