Something Different/Pepper's Way Read online

  Praise for Kay Hooper

  SLEEPING WITH FEAR

  “Readers will be mesmerized.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hooper’s Special Crime Unit novels all have their own unique blend of mystery, suspense and the paranormal laced with a touch of romance. The author is a gifted teller of action-packed stories.”

  —Romantic Times Book Review

  “Suspense just doesn’t get better than Kay Hooper’s novels… it’s a one-sitting read that will hold you in its grip from beginning to end.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  CHILL OF FEAR

  “Hooper’s latest may offer her fans a few shivers on a hot beach.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Kay Hooper has conjured a fine thriller with appealing young ghosts and a suitably evil presence to provide a welcome chill on a hot summer’s day.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “The author draws the reader into the story line and, once there, they can’t leave because they want to see what happens next in this thrill-a-minute, chilling, fantastic reading experience.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  HUNTING FEAR

  “A well-told, scary story.”

  —Toronto Sun

  “Hooper’s unerring story sense and ability to keep the pages flying can’t be denied.”

  —Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

  “Hooper has created another original—Hunting Fear sets anintense pace…. Work your way through the terror to the triumph… and you’ll be looking for more Hooper tales to add to your bookshelf.”

  —Times Record News

  “It’s vintage Hooper—a suspenseful page-turner.”

  —Wichita Falls (TX) Facts

  SENSE OF EVIL

  “A well-written, entertaining police procedural… loaded with suspense.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Filled with page-turning suspense.”

  —Sunday Oklahoman

  “Sense of Evil will knock your socks off.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Enjoyable… thought-provoking entertainment.”

  —Calgary Herald

  TOUCHING EVIL

  “Following her highly popular Shadow series, Hooper again scores big with this psychic thriller. Touching Evil is the first installment in her Evil series involving Noah Bishop’s specially talented group of agents. It kept me furiously turning the pages until the chilling climax.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “Touching Evil is a full-force, page-turning, suspense-driven read. …Hooper provided enough twists and turns to her story that it had this reader anxiously gripping the pages and not leaving my couch for hours on end.”

  —Mystery Reader

  STEALING SHADOWS

  “A fast-paced, suspenseful plot… The story’s complicated and intriguing twists and turns keep the reader guessing until the chilling ending.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This definitely puts Ms. Hooper in a league with Tami Hoag and Iris Johansen and Sandra Brown.”

  —Heartland Critiques

  HAUNTING RACHEL

  “A stirring and evocative thriller.”

  —Palo Alto Daily News

  “An intriguing book with plenty of strange twists that will please the reader.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “It passed the ‘stay up late to finish it in one night’ test.”

  —Denver Post

  FINDING LAURA

  “Hooper keeps the intrigue pleasurably complicated, with gothic touches of suspense and a satisfying resolution.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Ms. Hooper throws in one surprise after another…. Spellbinding.”

  —Rendezvous

  AFTER CAROLINE

  “Harrowing good fun. Readers will shiver and shudder.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Kay Hooper comes through with thrills, chills, and plenty of romance, this time with an energetic murder mystery with a clever twist. The suspense is sustained admirably right up to the end.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Kay Hooper has crafted another solid story to keep readers enthralled until the last page is turned.”

  —Booklist

  AMANDA

  “Amanda seethes and sizzles. A fast-paced, atmospheric tale that vibrates with tension, passion, and mystery. Readers will devour it.”

  —Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Kay Hooper’s dialogue rings true; her characters are more three-dimensional than those usually found in this genre. You may think you’ve guessed the outcome, unraveled all the lies. Then again, you could be as mistaken as I was.”

  —Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “Kay Hooper has given you a darn good ride, and there are far too few of those these days.”

  —Dayton Daily News

  “Will delight fans of Phyllis Whitney and Victoria Holt.”

  —Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

  BANTAM BOOKS BY KAY HOOPER

  THE BISHOP TRILOGIES

  STEALING SHADOWS

  HIDING IN THE SHADOWS

  OUT OF THE SHADOWS

  TOUCHING EVIL

  WHISPER OF EVIL

  SENSE OF EVIL

  HUNTING FEAR

  CHILL OF FEAR

  SLEEPING WITH FEAR

  THE QUINN NOVELS

  ONCE A THIEF

  ALWAYS A THIEF

  ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  AMANDA

  AFTER CAROLINE

  FINDING LAURA

  HUNTING RACHEL

  CLASSIC FANTASY AND ROMANCE

  ON WINGS OF MAGIC

  THE WIZARDS OF SEATTLE

  MY GUARDIAN ANGEL (ANTHOLOGY)

  YOURS TO KEEP (ANTHOLOGY)

  Table of Contents

  Something Different

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  Pepper’s Way

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  About the Author

  A writer is only as good as those rare and unrewarded friends who bolster, cheer (or jeer), criticize, question, applaud—or just listen in sympathetic silence. Ideas bounce off these friends, plots are tried for effect, character motivation explored. Discussions go on over the phone; across coffee tables or dinner tables; and in the presence of baffled, bemused spouses.

  And you thought I wrote alone.

  Pam and Bob, this one’s for you.

  Something Different

  one

  GYPSY HIT HER BRAKES INSTINCTIVELY AND swerved as the small brown rabbit darted across the road in front of her car. Satisfaction and relief at not hitting the creature were short-lived, however, as a sudden and savage jolt informed her that her already battered VW had been rear-ended.

  Her head snapped back and then forward, banging into the steering wheel with enough force to give her a brief view of stars in broad daylight. She found herself fighting various laws of motion in an effort to bring the car and herself safely to the side of the road. Her heart lodged in her throat for one flashing instant, because the side of the road was a narrow strip of dirt bordering on a sheer drop. And, Gypsy thought, neither she nor the car had wings.

  Sputtering, the VW’s engine voiced an unmistakable death rattle and expired as the little blue car with its bright yellow daisy decals lurched onto the strip of d
irt. Gypsy heard a more powerful engine rumble into silence behind her. Automatically and needlessly she pulled up the emergency brake and turned off the ignition switch.

  Although her forehead throbbed painfully, and the sickening fear at her near-maiden flight over the cliff hadn’t quite faded, Gypsy’s thoughts were crystal-clear and crazily detached.

  Not again. This could not be happening to her again. It was the third time in six months, and poor Daisy was certainly dead. Judging by the sound of the impact, not even the best body-and-fender man would be able to pound the dents out. And Daisy’s engine had quite definitely been mortally wounded.

  Gypsy abruptly became furious at whomever had murdered poor Daisy.

  The sound of the other car’s door slamming was followed swiftly by a startlingly deep and coldly controlled masculine voice. “Are you all right?” it demanded, and then added icily, “Don’t you know that it’s illegal as well as unsafe to drive a car without brake lights?”

  Gypsy fumbled for Daisy’s door handle and struggled out, letting her anger at Daisy’s assassin have full rein. “You hit me, dammit, and Daisy did have a brake light—the left one! Now you’ve killed her—” She broke off abruptly as she got her first clear look at Daisy’s assassin. He didn’t look like a killer.

  He was slightly under six feet tall, wide-shouldered but slender, and finely muscled. His burnished copper hair was thick and slightly shaggy, a bit longer than collar length. Eyes of an astoundingly intense shade of jade-green shot icicles at her. But his obvious anger couldn’t hide the shrewdness behind his eyes, and the rigidly held expression only emphasized his marvelous bone structure.

  Not a bit like a killer, Gypsy mused….

  Recovering from her initial surprise, Gypsy was just about to light into the handsome stranger when he aimed the first thrust.

  “My God! I thought the last of the flower children grew up years ago!”

  She automatically looked down at herself; there was nothing unusual. Faded, colorfully patched jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, ragged sneakers, and a silver peace sign dangling around her neck on a leather thong. She supposed that his description fit, but the thrust didn’t go home. In the first place one did not normally dress neatly to perform the errand Gypsy had just completed, and in the second place she didn’t much care how she looked—and this man’s distaste did nothing to change that.

  She rather pointedly eyed his neat, three-piece business suit, spending a long moment gazing at extremely shiny shoes. Then she let her gaze wander briefly to the gleaming silvergray Mercedes before returning it to his face. Satisfied with his reaction—a slight reddening beneath the tan of his cheeks— she let the matter drop, refusing to correct his first impression.

  Dropping the easily assumed dignity, she spoke heatedly. “You hit Daisy from behind, and that makes it your fault!”

  He sent a faintly bewildered glance toward Daisy’s crumpled rear end, but said shortly, “You had no brake lights.”

  “Big deal!” she snapped. “If you’d been watching where you were going, you would have seen me swerve to miss that rabbit, and— Oh! Corsair!” Hastily she turned back to her car.

  “Corsair?” the man muttered blankly, standing where she’d left him between their two cars and watching her open her car door and extract a bundle of cream-colored fur from inside. As she turned back toward him, he saw that the bundle was a large—a very large—Himalayan cat. Its face, paws, and tail were a dark chocolate color, and its broad face wore what seemed to be a permanently sulky expression.

  “Just look at him!” she said angrily. “It’s not enough that you killed poor Daisy; you nearly gave Corsair a heart attack!”

  To the man’s clear, jade eyes, Corsair didn’t look as though he’d ever be—or had ever been—startled by anything short of a massive earthquake. He started to make that observation out loud, then realized that by participating in this ridiculous conversation, he’d only prolong it.

  “Look—” he began, but she cut him off fiercely.

  “This is all your fault!”

  Jade eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “You’re certainly hell-bent to prove this was my fault, aren’t you? I’ll bet you don’t even— How old are you?” he demanded abruptly.

  Gypsy drew herself up to her full height of five nothing and deepened her glare. “You should never ask a woman her age! Where did you learn your manners?”

  “Where you learned yours!” he retorted irritably.

  Into that tense confrontation came a slow, grinding thunk, and Daisy’s entire engine hit the ground in a little puff of dust.

  Gypsy stared rather blankly for a moment and then began to giggle. “Poor Daisy,” she murmured.

  The man was leaning back against the low hood of his car chuckling quietly, his icy temper apparently gone. “Why don’t we start over?” he suggested wryly. “Hello, I’m Chase Mitchell.”

  “Gypsy Taylor,” she returned solemnly.

  “Gypsy? Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “No reason at all, I’m sure.” Gypsy sighed, her amusement brief. “How am I going to get home? Daisy isn’t going anywhere without the aid of a tow truck.”

  “I’ll take you. We have to exchange insurance information anyway.” He was looking down disgustedly at the slightly crumpled hood that he’d just stopped leaning against, then looked up quickly as a thought apparently occurred to him. “You are insured?” he asked carefully.

  Knowing full well that Daisy’s lack of brake lights made her at least partially to blame for the accident, Gypsy had stopped protesting. “Certainly I’m insured,” she responded with dignity. After a beat she added, “At least… well, I think I am.”

  “How can you not be sure?”

  “Well, I move around a lot.” Unconsciously Gypsy had gravitated closer to the dented Mercedes. “Sometimes the notices from the insurance company get lost in the mail or—” She broke off hastily as she noted a disconcertingly icy storm gathering in his jade eyes. Gypsy loved a good storm, but she wasn’t an idiot. “I’m insured. I know I’m insured.”

  “Right.” As pointedly as she had done before, Chase looked from the top of her short black curls to the toes of her sneaker-clad feet. In between he noted a petite but nicely curved figure that in no way belonged to a teenager, and a face that was lovely—with fine bone structure and wide, dreamy gray eyes. “I thought you were about fifteen,” he murmured almost to himself, “but I think I was wrong.”

  Gypsy blinked. “You certainly were.” She was neither flattered nor insulted. “By about thirteen years. I’m twenty-eight.” She blinked again, and added in a scolding voice, “And that was a sneaky way to find out!”

  He grinned suddenly, and Gypsy was astonished at the change it wrought in his stern face. The jade eyes gleamed with amused satisfaction, laugh lines appearing at their corners, and white teeth flashed in a purely charming and surprisingly boyish smile.

  “Well, I had to find out,” he said. Before she could ask why, he was going on briskly. “Hop in and I’ll take you home.”

  Having always relied on her instincts about people, Gypsy didn’t worry about getting into a car with a stranger. Not this stranger. For some reason she instinctively trusted him. With a sigh and a last lingering glance toward the fallen Daisy, she started around to the passenger side of the Mercedes. Then she hesitated and went back to her car long enough to pull the keys from the ignition.

  “Shouldn’t you lock it up?”

  “Why?” Gypsy asked wryly, heading back to the Mercedes. “Daisy isn’t going anywhere.”

  Conceding the point, he got in the driver’s side of his car, shut the door, and started it up. “Where to?”

  Gypsy pointed along the winding, steadily uphill road. “Thataway Follow the yellow brick road.”

  As the Mercedes pulled onto the road and began to climb smoothly, Chase distinctly felt baleful eyes on him. He risked a glance sideways, and found that it was the cat’s gaze he was feeling.

&
nbsp; Because of a childhood allergy—and no inclination since then—he’d had little experience with cats. But he recognized the expression on this one’s face. Only cats and camels could stare through supposedly superior human beings with such utter and complete disdain. It gave him a disconcertingly invisible feeling.

  Caused by a cat, it was a hell of a reaction, Chase thought.

  “Your cat doesn’t like me,” he observed, eyes firmly back on the tricky business of negotiating the road’s hairpin curves.

  Gypsy looked at him in surprise, and then glanced down at the cat resting calmly in her lap. Corsair was fixedly regarding one chocolate paw. “You’re imagining things,” she scoffed lightly. “Corsair’s never met anybody he didn’t like.”

  Chase risked another glance, and then wished he hadn’t. “Uh-huh. So why is he glaring at me?”

  Gypsy glanced down again. “He isn’t. He’s looking at his paw.” Her voice was mildly impatient.

  Chase decided not to look again. He also decided that Corsair was a sneaky cat. “Never mind. Tell me, Miss Taylor—”

  “Gypsy,” she interrupted.

  “As long as you’ll return the favor.”

  “Fine. I hate formality.”

  “Gypsy, then. Where exactly do you live? I know this road, and it dead-ends a mile or so further up. There are two houses—”

  “One of them’s mine,” she interrupted again.

  “Yours?” He sounded a bit startled.

  “I’m house-sitting,” she explained absently, looking out the window and thinking as she always did, that it was nice to have the Pacific for a backyard. “The owners were temporarily transferred to Europe—six months. I’ll be sitting for them another four months.”