Unauthorized Passion. Amanda StevensЧитать онлайн книгу.
of a human, but stared you right in the face and dared you, dared you, to enter their private domain.
Spraying himself down with heavy-duty insect repellent, he tossed the can back in his bag. Sweat trickled down his temples as he approached the dark blue trash bins. Even after dark, the temperature hovered around ninety and the humidity had a life of its own. There was no breeze to speak of, either. Some people considered August in Houston a little like hell on earth, but they were wrong. August in Houston was hell on earth to the third power. It was what the fiery depths of Hades only wished it could be.
This was Jack’s city and he loved it.
The aroma wafting from the Dumpsters? Not so much. If there was anything he’d learned from his nearly ten years as a Houston cop it was that rich people’s trash did, indeed, stink.
Smelled to high heaven, he thought as he bent over the first bin and began poking around with a stick. River Oaks, the Fourth Ward…didn’t matter. Garbage was garbage. He hadn’t minded the task so much when he’d still been a cop. Back then he would have happily crawled through a mountain of refuse to find evidence that would put away a killer or a clue that might help find a missing child. There’d been times when he’d been so intent on the job at hand that he hadn’t even noticed the smell.
Things were different now. Looking for receipts, letters, ticket stubs, anything that would give some rich techno geek the inside track on the hot babe he’d set his sights on was not exactly fulfilling work. It was downright distasteful, in fact. Little more than legal stalking, and as he sorted through the trash, Jack asked himself once more if he was really that desperate.
Overdrawn bank account? Check.
Final eviction notice? Check.
Furniture sold, car repossessed, stereo and TV pawned? Check, check and check.
Yep, he was that desperate.
His laptop was the only thing of value he had left, and he wasn’t about to put that in hock. Without a computer he wouldn’t be able to track the progress of the Casanova case, but then, if he didn’t come up with something soon, there wasn’t going to be any progress. As far as HPD was concerned, the case was closed. A suspect had been tried, convicted and was now serving consecutive life sentences in Huntsville for the brutal slaying of five women.
Jack had been one of the first detectives assigned to the task force tracking Casanova—a slick psycho who seduced his victims before killing them—and he’d been on the scene when the arrest had gone down. At first, he was as ecstatic as everyone else, but then certain things had started to bother him. Not all the loose ends had been tied up by the arrest, and when word got out that he was still asking questions, he’d been kicked off the force for conducting an unauthorized investigation.
Just like that. No suspension, no review board, nothing. After ten years, he was out. Even the union had refused to help him because politics was politics. The mayor had agreed to back the union’s demands in exchange for the police department’s support of his Houston First initiative, an aggressive campaign strategy to give the city a higher profile. With an Olympic site committee coming to town, a serial killer on the loose didn’t exactly fit with the image His Honor wanted to project.
Besides, the terror had finally come to an end, things were returning to normal and no one at city hall or HPD headquarters wanted a rogue cop stirring up trouble. So Jack was out.
But he wasn’t finished with Casanova. Not by a long shot. He had a score to settle with a killer, and if in the meantime his own survival depended on getting the goods on some spoiled Hollywood starlet, then so be it.
“Her name is Celeste Fortune,” his ex-partner, Max Tripp, had told him that first day when Jack had agreed to an interview. Max had left the police department five years earlier to open his own P.I. firm. He and Jack had eventually lost touch. Then out of the blue, Max had called shortly after Jack had been fired. Max swore it was a coincidence, but Jack suspected that his ex-partner was still wired into the department, which was another reason he’d taken the job. If Max had contacts on the inside, Jack wanted them.
He’d also, by that time, spent so much of his own money on the Casanova investigation that he’d pretty much run out of options. Still, as Max had described the nature of his business that day, Jack had grown more and more uneasy.
“You want me to stalk this woman,” he’d said incredulously. “Is that what I’m hearing?”
“No, of course, not.” Max slid his hand down his silk tie. “I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. We’re a legitimate business concern here.”
“Yeah, well, sounds to me like you’re walking a fine line,” Jack muttered. “So maybe you’d better spell it all out just so there’s no misunderstanding later on.”
Max nodded. “Fine. I’ve nothing to hide. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get you on board. You’re one of the best investigators I’ve ever worked with. We need a man with your talents around here, and if you play your cards right, you could be looking at a partnership down the road. Think about it, Jack. No more ground beef dinners. No more ten-year-old sedans that leave you stranded on the Southwest Freeway during rush hour.” Max’s critical gaze swept over him. “I’ll even give you an advance so you can get yourself some decent clothes and a good haircut.”
Or pay his back rent. Designer duds, or a roof over his head? Tough call.
Max removed a folder from a drawer and placed it on top of the desk. “As I told you earlier, we have a very elite and discriminating clientele. The man who comes to us is more often than not a self-made millionaire, usually in the high tech field. He’s in his thirties or forties, extremely intelligent, reasonably attractive and physically fit. He has all the accoutrements of wealth including investment portfolios, fast cars and beautiful homes in the most desirable locations. What he doesn’t have is the perfect woman.”
So who does? Jack wondered.
“But he’s seen her. He knows who she is.” Max stood and walked over to the bar to pour himself a drink. He offered one to Jack, but he declined. Scotch on an empty stomach? Asking for trouble.
Max came back to the desk and sat down. “Maybe he caught a glimpse of her getting into a cab. Or maybe their eyes met across a restaurant or their shoulders brushed on a crowded elevator. The point is, he knows she’s the one. But so do dozens of other guys because this woman is something special. She has class, beauty, grace. Men flock to her in droves. Attractive, successful, very often wealthy men, not unlike our client. So how does he set himself apart from the rest? How does he get her to single him out from the crowd? That’s where we come in.”
Max propped his feet on the desk and folded his hands behind his head. “We lay the groundwork for him. We talk to her friends, family, co-workers…anyone who can give us insight into her likes and dislikes. Her hopes and dreams. Her deepest, darkest secrets. We even look up old school chums and ex-boyfriends—all handled very discreetly, of course. We find out her favorite books, her favorite restaurant, the kind of music she listens to. Then, when we have everything we need, we design a coincidental meeting between her and the client. We arrange for them to be seated next to each other at an Astros game…or at the Wortham Center, depending on her tastes. We arm our client with the right information to arouse her interest, ignite that initial spark and then…the rest is up to him. And nature.”
“It’s dishonest,” Jack said flatly. “It may not be illegal, what you’re doing, but it sure as hell ain’t ethical.”
Max picked up his drink. “Think of it this way. If these two are meant to be together, all we’re really doing is giving fate a little nudge. But if it doesn’t work out, they go their separate ways. She never has to see him again. No harm, no foul.”
“But what if she does want to see him again? What if she falls for him?” Jack argued. “He’s selling her a bill of goods by pretending to be something he’s not.”
“Are you telling me you’ve never pretended to be interested in something