them were frowning, two obnoxious females thrusting their chins out against the world.
* * *
HONEY, do what you got to do. The blazes with anyone else. Cassie heard Flo’s voice in her head clear as day. More rarely she heard Edie’s voice, Kate’s mother, and for all intents and purposes Cassie’s Mom No. 2. It seemed Cassie’s bold-as-brass lifestyle leaned more toward Flo’s advice than Edie’s.
She wondered if hearing voices meant she was going crazy, or just that Pleasantville was getting to her. Both, she decided, and stripped out of her clothes, fingering through the things she’d brought, looking for some comfy pajamas.
She was a clothes hound and, thanks to her job, had collected many beautiful things. They were a comfort to her, the silk and lace, and proved, if only to herself, she was no longer poor.
Poor had meant longing, yearning, helplessness, and she hated all three. She would never long, yearn or be helpless again.
She thought of her little stalking problem—the slashed tires, her ransacked apartment, the threatening letters—and shivered.
Well, hopefully, she’d never feel helpless again.
In her suitcase she came across a tin of cookies her agent had given her. Cookies were a rare treat for a lingerie model, but since she’d canceled work for the entire summer, she tore into them and grabbed her book.
The Savage Groom. Maybe some good old-fashioned French Revolution period lust would clear her head. At least she could afford her books now instead of sneaking into the library and past the haughty Mrs. Wilkens for them.
“Chocolate,” she moaned out loud and stuffed another in her mouth. Happy and cozy in imported silk, a fattening cookie in one hand and a book in the other, she flopped back on the bed and let herself relax for the first time in too long. “Two days, two tickets and a pounding headache. That’s got to be some kind of record, even for me.”
Another weight hit the bed and Cassie lifted her head. Her gaze collided with the slanted yellow one of Miss Priss. “You.”
“Meow.”
Cassie tried to shoo her off, but the cat wasn’t only annoying, she refused to budge, letting out that terrible wail she had.
“Meow.”
“Hey, I just fed you…” When had that been? “Yesterday.” Oh, man, good thing she wasn’t a mother. Just as she opened her mouth to apologize, the cat turned in a circle, presented her behind and sat within an inch of Cassie’s nose.
“Eww, move.”
Miss Priss did. She moved closer and, claiming half the pillow with her big, fat, furry body, she began to clean herself. Her private self.
“I am not sharing a pillow with someone who licks her own genitalia.”
Miss Priss didn’t seem to agree, and with a bolt of ingenuity, Cassie grabbed the spare pillow and threw it at the cat, who landed with a hiss on the floor. Leaning over the edge, she smiled smugly. “Stay.”
“Mew.”
That was an “I’m sorry” mew if she ever heard one. Damn it. What was she doing, snapping at a cat? Wasn’t that like kicking a puppy? With a regretful sigh, she reached out a peace offering in the form of a cookie, and—
“Ouch!” Yanking back her scratched palm, Cassie sat up. “That’s it. Go play on the freeway.”
“Mew.”
“Oh, fine.” She got up and fed the ingrate. Then, using both pillows now, she settled back on the bed against the headboard.
The sound of a roaring truck ruined her peace, and she went to the window. The trash truck. Now there was a job. The guy on the back of the truck hopped off at her neighbor’s house and hoisted the cans. He had a slouch and a gut and…and it was Biff. In an instinctive gesture she backed from the window. Assessed how she felt.
And grinned. There had to be some justice in the world if she—a Tremaine—was living on Lilac Hill and Biff—former star football player—was collecting her trash.
She called Kate, who’d appreciate the irony.
“Kate, Biff is the trash guy,” she said when her cousin picked up the phone. “And he’s not even the driver. He picks up the trash.”
“Perfect job for him, I’d say.”
Oh, yeah, she could count on Kate. “I’m sprawled on the most luxuriously silk-covered bed in a luxurious bedroom surrounded by the most amazing, luxurious house. Can you believe it? My mother lived like a queen after I was gone.” And because it felt good, so good to relax, she arched her neck.
“My God,” Cassie murmured.
“What? A spider?”
She stared at herself in the mirror framed above the bed. She’d seen the mirrors before now, of course, but they were still a shock. She studied herself dispassionately. Her body was barely covered in azure-blue imported silk, showing off her full breasts and the belly that didn’t look quite as flat as it should for a lingerie model. With a grimace, she tossed the cookies aside. “No, it’s just this place. The garage is full of furniture from the duplex and my mother has mirrored ceilings.”
Kate let out a startled laugh. “Well, we always knew Flo wasn’t a prude.”
Funny how even though Cassie knew exactly who and what Flo was—a woman unable to resist a man, any man at all—when it came right down to it, it was hard to picture her own mother having sex on this bed and enjoying the view from above. “You realize I’m on Lilac Hill, right? Lilac Hill. My fancy neighbors would have a coronary at the secrets this bedroom holds.”
“I imagine that was part of the fun for her.”
Ever the voice of reason, her Kate. Despite Kate’s own demons, she’d always helped Cassie see things differently. And more importantly, she made Cassie smile. “Flo did enjoy a good scandal. But Lilac Hill, for God’s sake.” The place that as children they’d stared at enviously, fantasized over. “I feel like I fell down the rabbit hole.”
“You deserve it,” Kate said with a sudden fierceness in her voice. “Both of you. You’ve worked so hard all your lives, and now Flo is sailing the Greek Islands and you’re a world-famous lingerie model. You both paid your dues for so many years. You’re supposed to enjoy this.”
“But I miss work.” Cassie sighed. “The photo shoot I bailed on this week was in the Bahamas.”
“Which is where your stalker was going to meet you. Isn’t that what the last threat said?”
Yes, but she didn’t want to go there. She so didn’t want to go there. “So I’m here. In a house my mother never paid for.”
“Of course she did. She loved…who was it—Mr. Miller the banker, right?—and he cared enough about her to give it to her. Just like Mr. McIntyre, who left her that building downtown.” She laughed. “I bet Mrs. McIntyre is spitting nails over that.”
“Oh,
