by pretending to be something he’s not.”
“Are you telling me you’ve never pretended to be interested in something just to get a woman’s attention?” Max gestured with his glass. “Say you meet her in a bar. You get to talking. She mentions a movie she just saw and loved. You saw the same movie and hated it. But this woman…she’s hot, you know? Someone you’d definitely like to hook up with. Do you admit you’re not into chick flicks and risk turning her off, or do you lie and say you like any film with Tom Hanks just to keep the conversation going?”
Jack scowled. “That’s different.”
“Yes, it is,” Max agreed. “Because this woman you meet in the bar…you’re not looking for anything more serious than a good time. No commitment. Just a casual relationship. Maybe even just a one-night stand. But our client is looking for the woman of his dreams. Someone with whom he can share his life—and his money, I might add. Given all that, some might say we’re doing the woman a favor.”
Jack still wasn’t convinced, but did he really have a choice here? Offers hadn’t exactly come pouring in since he’d gotten the boot from the police department. In the meantime, Casanova was still out there somewhere. Without funds, Jack had no way to find him and stop him before he killed again. And he would kill again. It was only a matter of time.
He ran his hand through his hair. “Tell me more about the target.”
With one finger, Max shoved the folder across the desk. “Take a look for yourself. There’s a picture of her inside.”
Reluctantly, Jack opened the folder and removed the eight-by-ten glossy. As he studied the photograph—obviously a professional headshot—something prickled along his backbone. Not nerves or even a lingering distaste over what he’d been reduced to. No, his reaction was purely visceral, a physical response to the woman’s blatant sexuality. She practically oozed sex, from her tousled blond hair to her heavy-lidded blue eyes and her full lips that were glossed and parted and looking as if they were made to—
“Jack?”
He glanced up.
Max grinned. “She’s something, isn’t she? Do you recognize her?”
“Can’t say that I do.” Jack returned his gaze to the picture. “Is there some reason I should?”
“She’s been in a few movies, done some TV spots. She’s still relatively obscure, but her last few roles have won her a fair amount of critical acclaim and she seemed on the verge of breaking out before she became embroiled in a scandal that pretty much stopped her career dead in its tracks.”
“What kind of scandal?” Jack’s curiosity was piqued in spite of himself.
“She was involved with some big shot producer by the name of Owen Fleming out in L.A. Ever heard of him?”
Jack shook his head. He didn’t pay much attention to movies unless he wanted to impress a woman. Which kind of made Max’s earlier point, he supposed.
“They managed to keep the affair under wraps for several months,” Max said. “Then he bought her this huge diamond which she flashed around L.A., and the wife got wind of it. The whole thing blew up into a nasty PR mess, and apparently Celeste decided to get out of town until things cooled off. We figure that’s why she’s back in Houston.”
“What do you mean she’s back in Houston?”
“She went to school here. From what I understand, she’s still pretty tight with her old drama professor at the university. They even lived together for a while before she took off for L.A. You may want to talk to him at some point as well as to her current roommate.” Max reached for the folder and flipped through the pages. “Olivia D’Arby. She’s an actress, too, although her parts seem to be few and far between.”
“What about the client? Who is he?” Who was the guy willing to plunk down $75,000—and that was just for starters—for a “chance” encounter with Celeste Fortune?
“I can’t tell you that. The identity of our clients remains confidential, even to our operatives.” Max took another sip of his scotch. “So…what do you say? Are you in?”
Yeah, he was in. But after a week on the job, Jack was more certain than ever that he didn’t have the stomach for this kind of work. He hated to think that he might actually be giving off the same sleazy, stalker vibe as some of the low rent P.I.s who used to hang around the police department, hoping to pick up a tip.
He had to admit, however, that it was easy money. Most people would probably be amazed by the amount of their personal information that could be accessed with little more than a phone call or a Google search.
Celeste Fortune was no exception. Since Jack had taken the assignment, he’d learned all kinds of interesting tidbits about her, but the broader picture was that of a small-town girl searching for love—and fame—in all the wrong places.
The story was as old as Tinseltown itself, and as Jack finished with the first Dumpster, he wondered again why a woman with Celeste Fortune’s looks and talent had allowed herself to become such a cliché.
And now another man wanted her. Another man was willing to pay a small fortune to have her.
But in the week since he’d started watching her, it was Jack who had unwittingly fallen under her spell.
* * *
SHE STOOD IN front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom of her suite, her gaze going from her reflection to the magazine cover that she’d propped on the nearby dresser. She sighed. Who was she trying to kid? There was no way she could measure up to that airbrushed fantasy. She must have been out of her mind to think that she could ever be anything more than a small-town girl with big dreams and a penchant for trouble.
Just look at the mess she’d made of things, and she was only twenty-eight. There was no telling how screwed up her life would be by the time she turned thirty. And it wasn’t like running away was going to resolve the situation. If anything, it would only prolong the agony.
Still, leaving had seemed like a good idea at the time. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” her mother had always advised, and taking that counsel to heart, she’d fled town in the middle of the night, and now here she was, holed up in a ritzy boutique hotel in Houston.
Going stir-crazy.
Honestly, what good did it do to be in the city of her dreams, trying to start a new life, if she couldn’t even leave her suite? Would it really hurt to take a brisk walk through Hermann Park or a leisurely stroll along Montrose Boulevard? What would be the harm in visiting a museum or two, or having lunch at one of the trendy eateries on restaurant row?
She’d had her heart set on taking in all those places until her cousin, Sissy, had firmly disabused her of the notion.
Sissy Fontenot aka Celeste Fortune.
“All the stars use look-alikes nowadays when they want to avoid the press,” her cousin had explained on the phone a few days ago. “So when my publicist suggested I get a decoy until this mess blows over, I immediately thought of you, Cassie. Remember how people always used to think we were twins when we were little?”
“Well, we are double cousins,”
