Fame, fortune...and a fatal obsession

Sahara Travis is used to being worshipped by adoring fans, but now someone is fixated on her in a dangerous way. After multiple attempts on her life, she reluctantly agrees to hire a security specialist for her protection, though the last thing she wants is some burly bodyguard invading her personal space.

Former army ranger Brendan McQueen’s job is to keep the starlet safe and track down her would-be assassin. But when Sahara receives news that her estranged mother has been murdered and her father, the top suspect, is missing, Brendan quickly realizes this is much more serious than your average celebrity stalker.

With Brendan and her devoted assistant, Lucy, in tow, Sahara returns to her family estate in New Orleans to uncover the identity of her attempted killer before he can close in on his final target.

Praise for the novels of

New York Times bestselling author Sharon Sala

“[T]he Youngblood family is a force to be reckoned with.... [W]atching this family gather around and protect its own is an uplifting tribute to familial love.”

—RT Book Reviews on Family Sins

“[A] soul-wrenching story of love, heartache, and murder that is practically impossible to put down.... If you love emotional tales of love, family, and justice, then look no further... Sharon Sala has yet another winner on her hands.”

—FreshFiction.com on Family Sins

“So many twists and turns, and the ending will shock readers. Another stellar book to add to Sala’s collection!”

—RT Book Reviews on Dark Hearts

“Sala is a master at telling a story that is both romantic and suspenseful.... With this amazing story, Sala proves why she is one of the best writers in the genre.”

—RT Book Reviews on Wild Hearts

“Skillfully balancing suspense and romance, Sala gives readers a nonstop breath-holding adventure.”

—Publishers Weekly on Going Once

“Vivid, gripping... This thriller keeps the pages turning.”

—Library Journal on Torn Apart

“Sala’s characters are vivid and engaging.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cut Throat

Life of Lies

Sharon Sala

People lie. Sometimes it’s just a little white lie, meant to save someone’s feelings from being hurt. Sometimes it’s a big lie, told out of fear or anger, wanting to hurt someone by passing on an untruth.

But what if your whole life was a lie?

What if you had to participate in that lie for someone you loved?

This happens. Oftentimes to children, who grow up without a foundation to stand on, without a way to know good from bad, or lies from truth.

God bless the children who are denied the truth of how they came to be.

How can they find their futures when they do not know their pasts?

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Epilogue

Copyright

One

Dust motes stirred within the sunlight streaming into the hayloft of the abandoned barn. The hay bales that had been left behind were busted and moldy, fit only for the rats that wintered there, and partially hiding the couple making love on the mattress nestled along the back wall.

The heat of the day and the lack of moving air coated their bodies with beads of sweat, but it was the heat building inside them that was out of control.

Alicia groaned, and Jerry slid his fingers through her long dark hair and kept on moving, shifting his body just enough so that the camera in the shadows on the other side of the loft caught the bounce of her breast and the long length of her legs beneath him.

In the midst of their passion, Alicia heard voices approaching the barn. Her eyes widened. They were about to be found out! She grabbed Jerry’s arms.

“Someone’s coming!”

Jerry froze, then put his hand over her mouth and motioned toward their clothing in a pile at the foot of the bed. With the mood broken and their affair on the verge of being discovered, they scrambled to get dressed. But their bodies were slick with sweat and their hands were shaking. All they got on was underwear before the men entered the barn below.

Half naked and shaking in terror, they huddled together on the mattress, listening in disbelief to what sounded like a drug deal going down. Jerry turned toward the camera, his eyes widening in horror, then looked back at Alicia just as a gun went off below them.

Alicia clasped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming as more gunshots sounded, and as hay sprayed around them, she realized some shots were flying into the loft. She buried her face against her knees, trying to make herself as small a target as possible.

The shots ended as abruptly as they’d begun. She heard footsteps running out of the barn and turned with relief to Jerry until she saw him slumped down behind her, blood spilling onto the mattress.

“Jerry! Oh my God, Jerry!” she cried, and knelt beside him, trying to feel for a pulse. But there was none.

He was dead.

She leaned over his body, sobbing uncontrollably at the reality of what had just happened, then rocked back on her heels and screamed.

“Cut!” the director said, and then jumped out of his chair while Sahara Travis pulled herself up from the hayloft as gracefully as if she’d just curtsied before the queen.

She held out her arms as someone from wardrobe came running with a dressing gown to cover her up.

The director was pleased with both actors, and the lilt in his voice showed it.

Bobby French, the actor playing Jerry, stood up, scratching his bare belly and waiting for someone to bring him a robe.

“That was great, Bobby. Absolutely riveting, Sahara. We’ll break for lunch now. Everyone back on set in one hour.”

Sahara nodded as she began fastening her dressing gown while looking around for her personal assistant.

“Has anyone seen Lucy?” she asked.

One of the cameramen waved toward the craft service area.

“Catering was here. She might have taken your lunch to your trailer.”

“Thanks,” Sahara said, and strode off the set and then outside into the sunny California heat.

She was halfway to the trailer when she heard someone calling her name.

“Wait a second!” Lucy called, as she ran to catch up. “I was dropping off your lunch, and I got a call from wardrobe. They wanted you to stop in before you get back on set, but I told them to send someone to your trailer for measurements instead.”

Sahara frowned. “Thanks, but why do they need new measurements?”

“Your director doesn’t like the wardrobe in tomorrow’s scenes,” Lucy said.

“Whatever,” Sahara said, and walked up the steps and into the trailer with Lucy behind her.

The air-conditioning was welcome as she entered. Sahara turned toward the kitchen to wash up and was startled to see a woman curled up on the floor.

“It’s Moira,” Sahara cried, running to her.

She dropped to her knees beside the wardrobe assistant, assuming Moira must have fainted. But then she felt for a pulse and there was none.

“She’s not breathing! Call 911,” Sahara shouted to Lucy, then rolled Moira onto her back to begin CPR while her assistant frantically pulled out her phone.

Sahara tilted Moira’s head back and ran her finger inside her mouth to make sure the airway was clear, only to realize it was packed with food Moira never got to swallow. She leaned closer, intent on clearing the airway, when she smelled something that nearly stopped her heart. She yanked her finger out of Moira’s mouth and frantically wiped it on her robe, then jumped to her feet to wash her hands at the sink.

The tray with Sahara’s catered meal was on the counter and it was obvious that the food in Moira’s mouth came from that plate. Sahara smelled the food and then shoved it aside, staggering toward a chair to sit down, trembling in every muscle. The ramifications of what she was thinking were too horrifying to accept.

“The police are on the way,” Lucy said, as she turned around, and then saw her boss sitting at the table, staring at the body on the floor. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you doing CPR?”

“She’s dead. I think she’s been poisoned.”

Lucy gasped. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

“Her breath... I smelled bitter almonds. Someone put cyanide in my food, and she ate it.”

Lucy ran toward the counter and lifted the cover off Sahara’s lunch. Sure enough some food had been eaten off the plate. She smelled it, then spun toward Sahara with a look of disbelief.

“I smell it, too, but—cyanide? How do you know?”

Sahara was rocking back and forth where she sat with her hands curled into fists, shaking uncontrollably. She ignored Lucy’s question completely, focusing instead on the implications of what had just happened.

“Why would she eat my lunch? Maybe she thought I’d never miss it. Who cares—she’s dead, Lucy! But if she was poisoned by my food, then... Oh my God! She died because someone tried to kill me! Why? Why?” Sahara cried, and then burst into tears.

Lucy ran to comfort her as the sound of sirens filled the air. By the time the police cars were on the lot and heading for Sahara’s trailer, most of the crew was already there.

Tom Mahan, the director, was in a panic, thinking something had happened to the star of his movie. He was relieved to see Sahara sitting at the table in tears, but that ended abruptly when he saw the body.

“Oh my God! Moira! What happened?”

“We don’t know. She was here to take measurements, and it looks like she ate some of Sahara’s catered meal and...died. Sahara thinks Moira was poisoned,” Lucy said.

“I don’t think it, I know it,” Sahara insisted. “Remember the movie I did with Rhett Coulter? The stalker used cyanide on Rhett’s character to get rid of him so he could get to me. It was the medical examiner who smelled bitter almonds and said he’d been poisoned.”

“Yes, I remember!” Tom said. “Wow, good call, Sahara.”

She looked up at him in disbelief. “Can we please not celebrate my memory right now? Moira is dead.”

“Right! Sorry!” he said, and darted out of the trailer. Moments later he was back with a half-dozen uniformed officers from the Hollywood division of the LAPD, followed by a couple of detectives from Homicide who began issuing orders. To the director’s dismay, shooting would have to be stopped and everyone would be on lockdown until statements were taken.

A couple of officers were unrolling crime scene tape around the trailer as everyone was sent back to the set. An interview site was set up near craft services by commandeering one of the long serving tables to use as a desk.

Because she found the body, Sahara was called up first. The video camera was on and once again she was being filmed, but this time she wasn’t going to have to fake emotions. She was sick to her stomach and scared to death.

The detective doing the interview sat down on the other side of the table and introduced himself.

“Miss Travis, I’m Detective Colin Shaw from the Homicide division. We’re going to be filming all of the interviews for our records.” He gestured toward the video camera set up on a tripod nearby. “I need you to tell me in your own words what happened, beginning with where you were the hour prior to the discovery of Moira Patrick’s body.”

Sahara was suddenly aware of how naked she was beneath the dressing gown and pulled it tighter around her neck.

“We were on set. The crew, the director, Bobby, the actor in the scene with me. We were all there filming a rather difficult scene. It was our third take, so I’d guess we’d been there at least an hour and a half? Then Tom called a lunch break. I was going to my trailer and met my assistant, Lucy, on the way. We found Moira Patrick’s body inside.”

“Why was Moira in your trailer?”

“She’s part of...was part of wardrobe, and I was told that the director wanted some changes made for tomorrow’s scenes. She was sent to my trailer to get measurements,” Sahara said.

“What did you do then?” Shaw asked.

Sahara started to shake as she described beginning CPR, then seeing the food lodged in Moira’s throat and smelling the scent of bitter almonds.

“How did you know about that scent being linked to cyanide poisoning? Most people don’t know that.”

She told him what she’d already explained to Tom and Lucy about her previous movie role, then tears began to spill.

“She ate food meant for me. I was the intended victim.”

Shaw frowned. “Who would want you dead?”

Sahara grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and wiped her eyes.

“I don’t know. Lots of people. You would have to ask my manager, Harold Warner. He keeps track of all my hate mail.”

Shaw shook his head. Considering this was Hollywood, hate mail was as common in their business as spam in email.

“Is there anything in particular you’ve received recently that gave you cause for concern?”

“Nothing that I know of. Harold doesn’t usually show me any of it. Why would I want to see those angry letters?”

“Okay, what about your lunch? Where does your food come from?” Shaw asked.

“I don’t know the name of the company. Lucy, my personal assistant, might know. She usually picks it up for me and brings it straight to my trailer to put in the refrigerator. Nothing stays fresh in this heat.”

“How do you get on with Lucy? Would she have any reason to want you dead?”

“Lucy? No, absolutely not. We get along fine. She’s been with me for almost a year, and I pay her very well. I can’t imagine a reason why she’d want to end a monthly income.”

Shaw continued with the questions he’d prepared, making sure he’d covered every detail with Sahara before finishing.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Shaw said once he’d gotten all the information he could.

Sahara was pale and trembling.

“Am I allowed to leave the set now?”

“Yes, ma’am. Where did you intend to go?”

“Home. I just want to go home. I don’t suppose my assistant is allowed to leave with me?”

“Not yet. We’ll need to question everyone before they can head out. I can have an officer take you home, though.”

She nodded. “Yes, please. Can I go back to my trailer to change clothes and get my purse?”

“I’m sorry, but no. Right now, everything in that trailer is part of the crime scene.”

“Lord have mercy,” Sahara muttered. “Then I guess I’ll clean up in wardrobe and borrow some clothes to wear home.”

“The officer will be waiting out front.”

“Am I still in danger?”

“Until we get confirmation from the lab that your food was actually poisoned, I can’t say.”

Sahara shoved a shaky hand through the tangles in her hair.

“Great. Hopefully I won’t have to die before someone makes up their mind.”

* * *

Harold Warner was a Mel Gibson look-alike and a Hollywood veteran. He’d started out as an actor but quickly tired of the casting calls and went to work on the other side of the business as an agent, then later moved to personal management.

He was just about to pull into valet parking for lunch with a friend when his cell phone rang. Still focused on getting into the proper turn lane, he hit the hands-free button to answer in his usual abrupt and impatient manner.

“Harold Warner.”

“Mr. Warner, this is Detective Shaw with the LAPD. I need to talk to you about Sahara Travis.”

Startled, both by the man and the question, Harold swerved into the wrong lane, barely missing the Porsche just behind him.

The driver honked at him loud and long as he flew past, but Harold was already trying to get off the street.

“What about Sahara Travis? Has something happened to her?”

“Not to her, no. But we are concerned about her safety after the incident that occurred today. There’s been a death on the set of her movie, and we think Miss Travis may be in danger, as well. We’re still in the early stages of the investigation, but—”

“A death? What the hell? Is Sahara okay? Where is she?”

“I had an officer take her home,” Shaw said.

“Did you put a guard on the penthouse?” Harold asked.

“No, sir. Not at this time.”

“Talk about leaving the barn door open,” Harold grumbled. “I’m heading to her apartment building right now.”

“I need to talk to you about the hate mail Miss Travis has received recently. If you’ve kept it saved, I’ll need to see what’s come in.”

“Okay, send an officer over to my office. I’ll have my secretary make copies for you.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Shaw said, getting only a disconnect for his troubles.

Harold was in a panic. Sahara was his paycheck, and a nice one at that, but he also adored her. It would be a tragedy if anything happened to her. He turned around and headed downtown, blowing through yellow lights and cutting corners too close for comfort.

He was sweating by the time he pulled into the parking lot at The Magnolia. He sat there long enough to give his secretary instructions and then ended the call and ran inside. He was sweating and puffing, thinking he probably should’ve been using that gym membership he kept in his wallet, when he saw Adam, the security guard, in the lobby.

“Afternoon, Mr. Warner.”

“Afternoon, Adam. Is Miss Travis in?”

“Yes, sir. She came back about thirty minutes ago. You go on up. I’ll ring her for you.”

* * *

Sahara was still rattled by the events of the day and was about to make herself some hot tea when the house phone at her elbow suddenly rang. It startled her enough that her heartbeat hit a hard, solid thud before it went back into a normal rhythm.

“Good Lord,” she muttered, as she picked up. “Yes?”

“Afternoon, Miss Travis, this is Adam. Mr. Warner is on his way up.”

“Thank you, Adam.”

Moments later there was a knock at her door. She looked through the peephole and felt a huge sense of relief at seeing Harold’s familiar face.

“Come in,” she said, as she opened the door.

“Are you okay?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.

“I am not physically injured in any way, if that’s what you’re asking. If you want to know how I feel inside, I’m sick to my stomach. A friend ate food meant for me, and it killed her. I can’t describe how sad that makes me feel. Who the fuck wants me dead this week, Harold? What do you know that I don’t?”

“Nothing new on that front. I promise. You’re on the upswing with marriage proposals. Your hate mail won’t amp up again until this movie comes out. You know how people feel about women who cheat on their husbands...”

Sahara rolled her eyes. “Does no one understand the meaning of fiction, and that acting means it’s not me, it’s me being a character in a story?”

“It’s all part of the life, you know that. Now tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out,” Harold said.

“Do you want some tea?” Sahara asked.

“No, I want answers,” Harold said.

“Then come into the kitchen, because I want tea.”

So she talked as she worked, making and pouring her tea while telling him everything from the moment she got to work until they walked into the trailer and found Moira.

Harold was used to her cool demeanor, but today he could tell his ice princess was cracking. By the time she finished her story, her voice was shaking.

She sat with her hands in her lap, staring down at the petit four on her plate. She’d taken one bite before the memory of the food inside Moira’s mouth flashed in her mind and she had to put it aside. It took half her cup of tea to wash down the bite she’d taken.

Harold knew she was bothered. Hell, he was bothered, too.

“I’m getting a bodyguard for you.”

She looked up. “No.”

“Don’t be hardheaded, girl. Someone wants you dead.”

Her chin jutted in defiance, even as her eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t need a bodyguard. They’ve shut down filming until the crime scene is released, so it’s not like I’m going anywhere. I won’t let anyone in the penthouse, so there’s no need for a guard, and that’s final.”

“But—”

“No buts, Harold. I’m serious. Lucy can run errands for me. You’re running interference for me. The media is going to be all over this when it breaks, but I’m not talking and I’m not budging from my home. I get that I need to stay safe, but I can do that by staying here—alone.”

He sighed. “Okay for now, but if anything else happens, you’re getting one whether you like it or not.”

“Nothing else is going to happen. I’ll even cook my own food. I can cook, you know.”

He sighed. “Actually, I didn’t know that. Good for you.”

She glared at him. “That sounded patronizing.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, you’re not,” she said.

Harold’s voice was rising. By the time he got to the end of his apology, he was yelling.

“You’re right! I’m not sorry. I’m frustrated. Part of my job is taking care of you...making sure you’re okay at all times, and you won’t let me do my job.”

She got up and carried her dirty dishes to the sink, dumped everything down the garbage disposal and turned it on, grinding out the sound of his disgust. When she turned around, he was still there.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he said.

Her shoulders slumped. “You should be. Go home, Harold. If something happens I need to know, you will call me.”

“Fine.”

She walked him to the door.

“Remember the code to go down?”

“Yes, I remember the damn code.”

She grinned. “Your Texas roots are showing, Mr. Warner. Stop cursing.”

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead, then left her standing in the doorway as he crossed the hall to the elevator and punched in the code on the keypad. The doors opened. He stepped in and then turned around to wave at her, but she’d already gone inside and closed her door.

“Damn hardheaded woman,” he muttered, and rode the elevator down.

* * *

Four hours later Lucy arrived at Sahara’s apartment with Sahara’s clothes, purse and a six-inch Italian meatball sub from the drive-thru of a deli she’d stopped at on the way over. It was just past four o’clock when she rang the doorbell.

Sahara opened the door to her personal assistant and was surprised to see that Lucy had her purse.

“My bag! How did you get that? I didn’t think we could remove stuff from the crime scene,” she said.

Lucy shrugged. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks, right?” She smiled. “I took it with me when I left the trailer and put it in my car. The sandwich, on the other hand, is fresh. Have you eaten anything?” she asked.

Sahara shook her head. “No, I can’t get anything down.”

“Well, yes, you can and will,” Lucy said. “I bought it on the way home, so we know it’s safe. It’s a meatball sub—your favorite.”

Sahara eyed the short, dark-haired woman and sighed.

“My Achilles’ heel. Thank you, Lucy. You know me too well.”

Lucy eyed Sahara closely, the worry obvious on her face. “You took a shower. That’s a plus. Now, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll bring you something cold to drink to go with your food.”

Sahara’s heart hurt. She kept picturing Moira’s body on a slab in the morgue and wondered if her parents had been notified. If only this day would be over.

She followed Lucy to the kitchen and slid onto a bar stool at the end of the counter, thinking, as she watched her assistant work, that Lucy knew the kitchen better than she did even though Sahara had lived here for more than three years.

She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes, wishing she was anywhere but here, wishing she hadn’t even accepted this role. The character of Alicia Lewis was like nothing she’d ever done, and now it felt tainted—the whole shoot felt tainted—as if it wasn’t supposed to happen. If it hadn’t, Moira would still be alive and working on some other project for another director, maybe sneaking bites of someone else’s food.

“Here you go,” Lucy said, as she set a plate in front of Sahara with the sandwich cut into thirds, a handful of chips on the side and a tall glass of sweet iced tea.

“Thank you so much,” Sahara said. “Have you eaten?”

“No, but—”

Sahara pointed at the bar stool beside her. “Sit. I can’t eat all of this anyway. We’ll share.”

Lucy blinked, unsure of how to respond. It wasn’t that Sahara didn’t treat her well, but she’d never done anything so...friendly.

“You want me to eat from your plate?”

Sahara looked startled. “I’m not sick. You won’t be catching anything, but if you don’t want to, it’s—”

Lucy shook her head. “No, no, that’s not it. I was just surprised, I guess.”

“I won’t share my tea, though. You’ll have to get your own,” she said, and grinned.

Lucy laughed, a little embarrassed. This was the first time since she’d started working for Sahara that she’d been this open.

“Yes, I’ll get my own drink,” she said, and poured another glass of sweet tea before she sat down.

Sahara pushed the plate between them, then reached for one of the pieces and took a bite. The thick red sauce permeated the meatball in spicy perfection while the toasted bun provided a crunch of texture.

“It’s so good,” Sahara said, and picked up a chip to chase the bite. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“You’re welcome,” Lucy said, and took a piece for herself. She wouldn’t let herself think of how weird this felt, and hoped her boss didn’t regret the familiarity tomorrow.

Two

Sahara walked the floor after Lucy left. Every sound startled her. Every siren outside made her feel hunted. By the time sundown came, she was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned for almost an hour, then gave up and turned on the lights. There were only two things that helped her relax. One of them was sex with a willing man, but since she was missing a partner, she opted for the other option and headed for the kitchen.

She opened the freezer and then leaned forward, welcoming the blast of cold air against her heated skin as she scanned the choices.

Butter Pecan, Rocky Road or straight Vanilla Bean.

“It’s been a rocky day. I think this fills the bill,” she said, reaching for the pint of Rocky Road ice cream. She closed the door with her elbow as she reached for a spoon and crawled back up on the bar stool to take off the lid.

The first bite was sweet salvation...chocolate, marshmallow and walnut bits.

Sex on a spoon, Sahara thought, and sighed as the cold treat slowly melted on her tongue.

She flashed on Moira again, but this time remembering what a sweet, funny girl she’d been and how she did love to eat. Her eyes welled with tears as she scooped up a bite and lifted it in a toast.

“To you, sweet Moira,” she said aloud in the empty kitchen. “May you have ice cream forever wherever you are.”

* * *

The killer was walking the floor and pissed beyond measure. This should have been an easy kill, and yet it had gone horribly wrong. Who the hell could have known that anyone would have the gall—the daring—to eat food off Sahara Travis’s personally prepared plate?

He finally headed for the bathroom to get ready for bed and paused at the mirror, eyeing his reflection. He was a long way from the years when his mother called him Bubba, but every time he looked in a mirror, that was who he saw.

Whatever. The plan had failed, but he wouldn’t let himself be discouraged. This didn’t mean anything except that there would be a next time.

* * *

Sleep was as frightening as the day had been. Sahara was up before daylight, exhausted and heartbroken. She stayed in a hot shower until her skin felt raw, trying to wash away yesterday’s horror, then dressed in old gym shorts and a T-shirt and went barefoot to the kitchen. She disliked the one-cup coffee makers and quickly started a full pot to brew, then toasted an English muffin while she waited and ate it with strawberry jam.

Soon, the scent of freshly brewed coffee was permeating the room, and it was just the wake-up she needed. After pouring herself a cup, she opened the sliding door leading out to her balcony, intending to take her first sip along with a breath of fresh air.

But the moment she stepped out on the balcony, a roar erupted from the crowd of people that had gathered below, startling her to the point that she splashed hot coffee on her bare foot and then cried out in pain.

She hobbled back inside to get ice on the burn and then called downstairs to the lobby to ask Adam what the hell was happening.

“Good morning, Miss Travis,” Adam said.

“Good morning, Adam. What’s going on outside?”

“Seems to be a gathering of fans and the media, I think.”

“Because of me?”

“Yes, ma’am. News broke about what happened on your set yesterday.”

“The vultures are already descending,” she muttered.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s great, just great. So much for a trip to the ER. What do you have on hand that’s good for burns?”

“Oh no—are you okay?”

“Not the end of the world. Just hot coffee on the top of a bare foot, but looks like it’s going to blister and hurts like hell.”

“Keep ice on it, and I’ll have a doctor here shortly.”

Sahara winced at the pain shooting up her leg.

“Thank you, Adam. Sorry to be a bother.”

“No, ma’am. This is no bother. This won’t be the first time we’ve had to call a doctor to this building. It shouldn’t be long. I’ll call right now,” he said, and disconnected.

Sahara hung up the house phone and then hobbled into the kitchen for more ice just as her cell phone signaled a text.

It was Lucy, asking if she needed anything and saying that she was on her way over.

She responded with a text to bring some bananas, a box of cook-and-serve vanilla pudding mix, milk, a box of vanilla wafers and anything else that looked good. Might as well stock up if she was going to be stuck here for a while.

She got a thumbs-up and a laugh emoji from Lucy, then disconnected and put some more ice on her burn.

* * *

Lucy came out of the supermarket with a whole extra sack of groceries above what Sahara had asked for. She already knew about the media chaos. She’d seen it on the early-morning news, which meant it was time to prepare for a lockdown. No way could Sahara go anywhere without bodyguards today, and Harold Warner was in charge of all that.

Lucy blew a lock of hair from one eye as she put the bags inside her car. It wasn’t quite 9:00 a.m., and it was already hot. If only her boss had a place up in the hills, one with a big pool and an even bigger wall around it, work would be so much better. She didn’t understand why an actress as famous and rich as Sahara Travis insisted on living in the middle of such a huge city, even if it was at The Magnolia, and even though she owned the penthouse. Sure, this place had a pool, but it was on the roof opposite the helipad at the other end, and it was even hotter up there—closer to the sun. Technically, the other residents of The Magnolia were on the same social level as Sahara, but it just didn’t fit Lucy’s idea of Hollywood glamour.

She upped the air-conditioning to frigid as she drove and breathed a sigh of relief as her car finally began to cool. She knew the media was already on-site, but upon arrival, it suddenly felt as if she was driving into a riot.

“Oh good Lord,” she mumbled, then honked loud and long to move a group of paparazzi as she took a quick turn into the adjacent parking garage.

She got out, unfolded a portable cart she kept in the trunk and transferred the two sacks of groceries into it before heading into the building.

Adam saw her coming. “Do you need any help, Miss Lucy?”

“No, I’ve got this, but thank you,” she said.

“All right, then. You tell Miss Travis that the doctor is on his way.”

Lucy frowned. “Doctor? What doctor? Is she hurt?”

“She burned the top of her foot with hot coffee.”

“Oh no,” Lucy said, and began hurrying toward the elevator.

“I’ll ring her and tell her you’re coming up,” Adam said.

Lucy waved to indicate she’d heard him and kept on going.

* * *

Sahara was in misery when she got word that Lucy was on the way up. The burn was worse than she’d thought. Nothing was alleviating the pain, not even the ice. She stumbled to the door and opened it just as Lucy came off the elevator at a fast clip, dragging the grocery cart behind her.

“Adam said you burned your foot.”

Sahara pointed down at the top of her left foot as Lucy raced in with the groceries. She locked the door and then knelt to look closer at Sahara’s burn.

“It’s making a blister. Oh wow. That looks really painful.”

“Ice isn’t helping,” Sahara said. “I don’t suppose you know how to treat a burn?”

“No, but Adam said to tell you the doctor was on his way over. He should be here soon.”

“Thank God. I’m going to lie down. Will you listen for the doorbell and let him in?”

“Of course,” Lucy said, following Sahara into the kitchen as she got another handful of ice cubes, wrapped them in a dishcloth and left.

Lucy began putting groceries away, wondering what else this day would bring.

As she washed her hands a few minutes later, she heard the doorbell, so she dried them quickly before she hurried to answer.

The man at the door was not exactly what she was expecting, but he was carrying a black bag and properly identified himself with photo ID.

“Dr. Barrett to see Miss Travis?”

Lucy frowned at the jeans, sandals and casual cotton shirt hanging loose over his pants, and then eyed the three-day beard and sunglasses pushed up on the top of his head.

“You don’t dress like any doctor I ever saw.”

“Well, this is my day to spend at the free clinic, and I try not to outdress my patients. They seem to trust me more this way,” he said.

She smiled at him. “Sorry for jumping to judgment, but we can’t be too careful right now. I’m Lucy, by the way.”

“No problem, Lucy. I heard about what happened on the news this morning,” Barrett said.

“Sahara went back to her room to lie down. Follow me.”

Chris Barrett had been to this complex before and was used to treating the wealthy, but he had to admit the idea of seeing Sahara Travis in person was exciting. She was one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood, and also one of the most secretive. She didn’t follow the party circuit and was rarely seen other than at red-carpet events.

He followed Lucy through the elegant living area to the door ajar at the end of the hall.

Lucy knocked twice and pushed it inward.

“Dr. Barrett is here,” Lucy said.

Chris walked into the suite, expecting to see a diva in silk and satin. Instead, he was met with bare feet, old shorts, a ragged UCLA T-shirt and a face of exquisite beauty completely devoid of makeup.

“Miss Travis, I’m Chris Barrett,” he said, and fell head over heels in love.

“He’s dressed like this because it’s his day to work at a free clinic,” Lucy offered.

Sahara rolled her eyes. “And I’m dressed like this because it’s comfortable. Hello, Dr. Barrett, I’m Sahara,” she said.

Chris grimaced when he saw her foot.

“What happened here?” he asked, as he lifted her foot onto an ottoman.

“I spilled hot coffee on it. It was a fresh pot, so it was scalding. Do you have something to make it quit hurting...like a pill, or a shot, or a magic wand? I’m not picky.”

Now he was entranced by her deprecating humor.

“I left the wand at home, but I’m pretty sure I have stuff that will ease your pain.”

He took a bottle of disinfectant out of his bag and stood up. “May I use your bathroom?”

Sahara waved a hand toward the door behind her and then leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.

Lucy caught the glimmer of tears on her lashes and was impressed by Sahara’s stoic manner. Somehow she’d always thought Sahara Travis was a pampered woman, but there was obviously a backbone to go with all that beauty. She knelt beside Sahara’s chair and laid a hand on her arm.

“I’m so sorry you’re hurting. This is the last thing you need right now. Can I get you anything? Something to drink maybe?”

Sahara grasped Lucy’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

“No, I’m fine, but thank you for asking.”

The doctor returned, properly disinfected, and was all business as he gloved up and began working on her foot.

When the house phone began to ring, Lucy got up to answer, leaving Sahara alone with the doctor.

Chris wanted to talk to her, to get to know her, but this felt like the wrong time. He might never get a chance like this again, but he was a doctor first, and she was obviously in too much pain to chitchat.

Sahara leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, letting her mind drift as the doctor worked so that pain was not at the forefront of her consciousness.

Finally, Chris taped the last piece of gauze around her foot and then gave her leg a quick pat.

“There you go, Miss Travis. This should keep you comfortable for a while.”

Sahara opened her eyes to see Lucy sitting nearby watching the process and then saw the white gauze wrapped around her foot.

“Thank you for coming here. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of the building without drawing attention to myself.”

“I can only imagine,” Chris said. “Now, don’t get it wet. Change the bandage once a day, and when you take this one off, make sure nothing looks infected, then apply some more of this salve and wrap it back up with more gauze.” He motioned to the assortment of supplies he was leaving behind. “I’ll stop by and check on you in a couple of days, if you’d like.”

She nodded.

“How long does the stuff last that you applied to the burn? Can she apply more or will over-the-counter pain meds help?” Lucy asked.

He handed her a prescription.

“If you’ll get this filled, she can take as needed. The main thing is to take it easy. Don’t be up on it too much right now and take the chance of reinjuring it.”

“Okay,” Sahara said.

“Well, I’d better be going. I’m sure there are patients waiting at the clinic,” he said. “I’ll see you in a couple of days unless you need me sooner.”

“I’ll see you to the door,” Lucy said, thus ending whatever else Chris Barrett wanted to say.

He looked back just as he was walking out the door, but Sahara was already out of the chair. So much for following doctor’s orders.

* * *

Sahara made it back to her bedroom before she burst into tears. Between the pain of the burn and Moira’s death, life had finally overwhelmed her. She hadn’t felt this lost since she was a child.

She eased down onto her bed and then turned onto her side away from the window and closed her eyes, trying to focus on anything but the pain.

Think, Sahara, think. Best day of your life?

That’s easy. The day I left New Orleans. It was a freedom I’d never known.

Best friend growing up? Susan, no, Emily, yes, Emily.

First time you had sex? The night of my sixteenth birthday with the boy across the street. What was his name? Larry? Harry? Well, shit. How did I forget the name of the first guy I had sex with? Bad me. Bad, bad me. It’s not like there were dozens afterward. Three, maybe four semiregular guys in my lifetime, but no one in over a year. I need to get laid.

Sahara groaned. The fact that she looked at life in this way made her sad. She’d always dreamed of sex meaning something between two people who loved each other, but she didn’t believe in Santa Claus anymore. Maybe there was no forever love, either.

Nix the pity party, Miss Travis. Some people pay good money for this kind of PR.

Lucy knocked on the door and came in, tiptoeing toward the bed.

Sahara kept her eyes closed, letting her believe she was asleep. She felt the afghan at the foot of the bed being pulled up and over her shoulders and sighed.

Lucy heard it, feared she was going to wake her up and quickly left.

Sahara waited until the door closed, and then she reached for the edge of the afghan and pulled it tight beneath her chin to keep the bad juju away. Someone had tried to kill her. It hadn’t worked, so they would likely try again.

Please, God, don’t let that happen.

It was the last conscious thought she had before she fell asleep.

* * *

Tom Mahan had been on the phone with the investors all morning. They were concerned about the delay in production and wanted answers the director didn’t have.

“Look, Fenton, I am aware that you have a big investment in the film, and we scored big when Sahara Travis came on board. But I called the detective in charge of the case this morning to see if he had any news for me, and he confirmed her food had been poisoned with cyanide. She’s still alive, but the young woman from wardrobe is not. Her name was Moira. Her parents are devastated. We’re all devastated by this, so we’re not going to resume filming at this time. I’ll know when it feels safe enough.”

Fenton Whiteside sighed. He knew Mahan’s hands were tied. Murder was always a messy situation.

“I’ll let the other investors know. Just keep in mind that you get a bonus if this film comes in under budget, and you’ll be kissing that goodbye if we’re shut down long. Paychecks still go out, whether they report for work or not.”

“Yes, yes, I know. This isn’t my first rodeo, but it’s damn sure the first time someone was murdered on one of my sets. I’ll be in touch,” he said, and disconnected.

He needed to go check on Sahara but dreaded the crowd he’d have to go through to get to her apartment. It had been all over the news this morning, so he had no doubt the Hollywood media machine would be in full swing. He made a quick call to her apartment, but when the call was answered, it was her assistant, Lucy, who picked up.

“Hello?” Lucy said.

“Lucy, it’s me, Tom. May I speak to Sahara, please?”

“Sorry, she’s still sleeping. The pain in her foot has knocked her out, and I don’t want to wake her. Can I have her call you?”

Tom was in shock.

“What’s wrong with her foot? Why is she in pain?”

“Oh, I guess I thought you knew. She accidentally spilled hot coffee on the top of her foot this morning. She has a second-degree burn. The doctor has been here and is treating her.”

“Son of a bitch! Why wasn’t I informed?”

“I couldn’t say, but I’m guessing that since filming has been put on hold, she didn’t think it mattered. She’ll heal and be back at work when you need her, and if she’s not healed, you can shoot around the fact that she’s going to be barefoot for a while. And don’t curse at me again.”

Tom sighed. “I’m sorry. It was just a surprise, that’s all. I sincerely apologize. Give Sahara my condolences on the accident, and if there’s anything I can do for her, anything at all, please let me know.”

“Yes, sir. I will,” Lucy said, and heard the line go dead.

“Prick,” she muttered, and went back to the pudding she was cooking. One of Sahara’s favorite comfort foods was banana pudding, and while she usually made it herself, Lucy knew that wasn’t happening this time around. The least she could do was have it ready.

A short while later she set the pudding aside to cool a little before putting the dish together, and as she was cleaning up, her cell signaled a text. When she saw who it was, she grinned. Wiley Johnson was who she thought of as her part-time lover...like in the song. He made her feel special. When they were together, she felt as beautiful in his eyes as Sahara Travis was to the world. It was a good way to feel.

The text was an invitation to dinner. She responded with a yes, but only if she didn’t have to work late here. The thumbs-up he gave her made her smile, and she shivered just thinking about the sex they always had for dessert.

* * *

Lucy was in the living room with the TV on mute and her laptop on her knees. Her fingers were flying on the keys as she worked while listening for sounds that Sahara was waking up. She glanced up at the clock. It was almost noon.

She set aside her work and went down the hall to check on Sahara. She could hear a television playing, so she knocked once, then opened the door into the suite.

Sahara was sitting in a window seat, looking out into the city.

“Hey,” Lucy said softly.

Sahara turned and smiled. “Hey, yourself.”

“Are you getting hungry? I made some lunch for us.”

Sahara swung her long shapely legs off the seat and stood.

“We could have ordered delivery, but I’m sure not going to turn down anything homemade.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Lucy said. “I’m not the Martha Stewart type. How’s your foot feeling?”

“Better after that stuff he put on it. It still hurts and certainly gives me a whole new understanding of people who suffer serious burns.”

“Life is like that,” Lucy said, as she led the way into the kitchen. “Do you want to sit in here or take the food to the living room so you can put your foot up?”

“Eat in here,” Sahara said. “I always ate in the kitchen with Billie when I was growing up.”

“Who’s Billie?” Lucy asked.

Sahara hesitated, then finally answered. “The woman who cooked for my parents.”

“You didn’t eat with your parents?” Lucy asked, and then watched all expression leave Sahara’s face.

“No,” Sahara said, but she didn’t elaborate. “What did you make? I’m suddenly starving.”

“I have cold shrimp with red sauce...heavy on the horseradish, a little pasta salad, and I made your banana pudding.”

“That sounds lovely!” Sahara said.

Lucy was pleased that her efforts were appreciated and quickly made their plates and carried them to the counter.

She poured iced tea for their drinks and then got the cutlery and napkins.

Sahara already had a cold shrimp in her fingers and was liberally dunking it in the red sauce as Lucy finished setting their places.

“I didn’t wait for you, but it’s your fault because it all looked so good,” Sahara said, as she swallowed her first bite.

Lucy pointed at Sahara’s lips.

“You have a little sauce just there.”

Sahara dabbed a napkin against her mouth and then plucked another shrimp from her plate.

“There’s likely to be more there before I’m through.”

A siren sounded as a police car sped past out on the street below. Sahara sighed.

“God bless whoever is in need,” she said, and then took a drink of iced tea.

Lucy gave her a strange look. “Why did you say that?”

Sahara looked up. “Say what?”

“About someone in need,” Lucy said.

“I don’t know. Sirens always give me the shudders. Somewhere, someone is in need or there wouldn’t be sirens, so I say a prayer.”

Lucy frowned. “Are your parents religious? Oh, maybe that’s too personal. I’m sorry.”

Sahara forked up a bite of pasta salad.

“No, they’re not religious. The only thing they ever worshipped was each other.”

Lucy smiled. “That is so sweet.”

Sahara shrugged and put the salad in her mouth.

“Mmm! This is so good! I love the little pepperoni pieces in with the pasta and veggies. I want to remember that.”

“Thanks,” Lucy said, and the rest of the meal passed with casual conversation and ended with two bowls of banana pudding.

Sahara scraped the last bite of pudding from her bowl and then licked the spoon.

“Oh my Lord, but this was good. I’ll be on the treadmill for a week. Thank you, Lucy. Thank you for doing this, even though it’s not in your job description.”

Lucy paused as she was gathering up dirty dishes.

“It has been a weird week. Sometimes change is good for what ails us. I’ll clean up here. You get off your foot.”

Sahara could already feel it throbbing and wasn’t going to argue.

She hobbled out of the kitchen, taking her iced tea glass with her, and went into the living room. She was all the way to the sliding doors to go out onto the patio when she remembered the paparazzi. She wasn’t going to give them an opportunity to make a nickel off her face if she could help it and went to her bedroom instead.

Three

The house phone rang as Lucy was wiping off the counters. She tossed the dishrag back into the soapy water as she went to answer it.

“Hello?”

“This is Detective Colin Shaw, Homicide. May I speak to Miss Travis?”

“Just a moment, please,” she said, and hurried out of the kitchen and through the house to Sahara’s bedroom suite. The door was open. Sahara was stretched out on the sofa and staring out the window with the television on mute.

“Sahara, Detective Shaw on the phone for you,” Lucy said.

“Thank you,” Sahara said, and sat up as she reached for the phone.

“Hello, this is Sahara.”

“Miss Travis, Detective Shaw here. I have some information for you. Do you have a minute?”

“Yes, of course,” Sahara said. “What’s up?”

“Lab tests are back. You were right. It was cyanide in the food that killed Moira Patrick. We don’t have any leads at the moment, though we’ve been through the hate mail your manager sent over. We’re still studying everything, but I need you to try to remember if there’s anyone you can think of that you’ve recently had words with?”

Sahara closed her eyes. So nothing was supposition anymore.

“No.”

“Maybe someone you work with who seems envious of your position, or resents your success?”

“I’m telling you, Detective, there’s no one. I mean, it’s believable that they exist. No one escapes that in this business. But there hasn’t been anyone who’s said anything of the sort to my face.”

“When does filming resume?” he asked.

“I haven’t heard.”

“Well, then, be careful and remember that familiar faces do not necessarily belong to friends.”

Sahara shivered. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, and then hung up the phone and immediately called Harold.

Her manager was in the middle of quarterly tax reports and started to let it go to voice mail until he saw who was calling.

“Hey, honey, how are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” Sahara said. “I just got word that the food was, indeed, poisoned with cyanide. I need a favor from you.”

“Anything. What do you need?”

“The address and phone number of Moira Patrick’s parents.”

“Why?” Harold asked.

“Because I need to express my sympathies and let them know I intend to pay for her services.”

“I’ll do that for you first thing in the morning,” Harold said.

“No. No, you won’t. This is my job. I want to call them before the night is over, so please get it for me now.”

He sighed. “Yes, of course,” Harold said. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll get what you need.”

“Thank you, Harold. I appreciate this.”

“No problem. It’s part of the job.”

He disconnected and called Detective Shaw, rattled off what he needed and why, then sent the info to Sahara in a text and returned to doing taxes.

Sahara got the text and then stared at the number, trying to muster the courage to make the call. Basically, it came down to doing what was right, so she called, then waited.

A woman answered in a weak, shaky voice.

“Patrick residence. This is Amanda.”

“Hi...” she replied hesitantly. This call wasn’t going to be easy. “This is Sahara Travis calling. I’d like to speak to either one of Moira Patrick’s parents.”

“Oh, Miss Travis. I’m Moira’s mother.”

Sahara took a deep breath. “There are no words for how sorry I am about what happened to her.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Amanda said, weeping across the line. “Moira loved her job, and she admired you so much.”

“Thank you for that,” Sahara said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I’d do anything to bring her back. She was a wonderful person. This is a nightmare, and we still have no idea who is responsible. But I want to let you know that I’ll be paying for the services myself. Not the company. Me. I wish with all my heart this had not happened.”

“That’s very kind of you but not necessary.”

“It’s important to me that I do this,” Sahara said. “I insist. I just need the name of the funeral home and I’ll cover the cost of whatever you choose for the arrangements.”

“Well, all right, then,” Amanda said. “Just a moment while I get the card to make sure I relay the proper address.”

“Why don’t you just send me a text with the information when you have time,” Sahara said.

“Yes, all right, and thank you again for this kindness.”

“It is the least I can do to honor a young woman I greatly admired. I can’t show up in person to the services—I wish I could, but between the mobs of people and the media...it wouldn’t be appropriate and you deserve peace when you have to say goodbye to Moira. But I want you to know my heart will be with all of you.”

Sahara waited for the text, then forwarded it to Harold with a note to cover the cost of everything from her personal account.

* * *

The next morning she got a call from Dr. Barrett’s office, asking for an update on her burn. Sahara informed them that the pain was lessening, but that she hadn’t taken off the bandage to look.

“Would you be available today for Dr. Barrett to stop by to check the injury?”

“Yes.”

“Great. He’ll be there within an hour or so.”

The moment the call ended, she went to the bathroom to get a towel and shampoo and quickly washed her hair at the kitchen sink. Then she hobbled back to the bathroom and toweled it dry. The thick, long curls were a menace to control, but that was what professional hair and makeup teams were for. She was fine with it on a day-to-day basis, and there was always someone around to fix it if it didn’t please the people who wrote her checks.

She was wearing pink shorts and a white T-shirt, her ode to a California summer, and as usual she was barefoot. She’d sent Lucy on an errand to get makeup and her brand of toiletries, so when Lucy Benton’s name popped up in caller ID, she answered without caution.

“Hello.”

“Who is this?” a man asked.

The male voice startled her. Her heart started to pound. Was this the man responsible for Moira’s death? Did he do something to Lucy? She didn’t want to be the reason people were dying.

“Where’s Lucy?” she demanded.

“Who’s Lucy?” he asked.

“She’s a friend, and you just called me using her phone.”

“Look, lady, I just found the phone in a shopping cart at Whole Foods and called the first name on the contact list. Just trying to help out.”

“Then please drop it off at the customer service counter. They’ll page her.”

“Yeah, all right.”

“I'm her boss, and I already took a picture of your face, so if you don’t turn in the phone, I will turn you in to the cops,” Sahara said, bluffing completely, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Well, hell, lady. How did you—”

“I see where you are, and it’s nowhere near customer service.”

“I’m going, I’m going there right now,” the guy said.

Sahara could hear him panting as he ran and then heard him turning the phone over at the counter just as she heard Lucy’s voice in the background.

“That’s my phone!”

“It was just in my basket, lady. I was on my way to turn it in, that’s all...”

“Oh! Then thank you very much,” Lucy said, as the manager at the counter took the phone, verified the info and handed it over.

Lucy pulled out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to the man who’d turned it in.

“Not a lot of honest people in the world anymore. I appreciate you turning this in.”

The guy took the ten, then waved it in front of Lucy and the phone.

“Turn the phone around...let that woman on the phone know that I did the right thing.”

Lucy frowned.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, uh...I called the first number on your contact list trying to find out who owned the phone, and the woman said she took a screenshot of me talking to her and was going to turn it in to the cops if I didn’t hand over your phone. I mean, I was gonna do that anyway, but...well, you must be pretty important to have a boss who’ll do something like that.”

He walked away, poking the ten-dollar bill into his pocket, and the manager looked at Lucy in confusion.

“I’ve never heard of a phone that could take a picture of the person you’re talking to unless you were FaceTiming or something.”

Lucy grinned and put the phone to her ear.

“Hello, are you still there?” she asked.

Sahara was grinning. “Yes, I’m here. I heard it all.”

“Many thanks. I don’t know if I believe he would have brought it back if it hadn’t been for the story you sold him.”

“Are you okay, otherwise?” Sahara asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It must’ve slipped out of my purse when I was paying, I guess. Be there soon.”

“Good to know. Gave me quite a scare to hear a man’s voice calling from your number. Just for a moment I was afraid someone else had been targeted because of me. Be careful.”

“Of course,” Lucy said, and disconnected as she hurried outside and got into the car.

The sun was bright. It would be another hot day. She missed the changing weather from back home and, not for the first time, wished Sahara Travis lived in the hills.

* * *

By the time Lucy got back to the penthouse, Sahara was on the phone with Tom.

“I understand you have a burn on your foot,” Tom said.

“Yes, but it’s getting better. The doctor is coming by in a bit to change the dressing and check it out.”

“So if we resumed shooting soon, you’d be able to come to set?”

“Yes. You may have to shoot around a bare foot or something for a while, but I’m not bedridden by any means.”

“That’s good. Yes, yes, that’s good,” Tom said. “The investors are on my ass, so—”

“Don’t worry, Tom. Just send my car and the pages and tell me when to show up.”

“That’s great!” Tom said. “You’re a real trouper, Sahara. I’ve been trying to get a new trailer moved out for you, but—”

“There’s no need for that,” Sahara said. “I’m not superstitious, and I don’t intend to run from this creep. The trailer is fine as long as they’ve cleaned up the crime scene.”

“Of course,” Tom said. “Absolutely. See you soon.”

Sahara rolled her eyes at Lucy as she disconnected.

“That was Tom. He’s getting antsy. Sounds like we’re going to resume shooting soon.”

Lucy nodded. “Good. The sooner this is behind us all, the better.”

Sahara turned around and stared at Lucy a few moments and then walked out of the room. There were a whole lot of things she could say about how callous that sounded, but she wouldn’t. It had been a stressful experience for all of them. Maybe this was just how Lucy dealt with the strain of what had happened.

“Any death threats in my email?” she asked, changing the subject.

Lucy shook her head. “No, thank goodness.”

“Well, that’s good news. Oh, the doctor is coming here soon to change the dressing on my foot.”

Lucy pushed back from the computer and ran to catch up with her boss.

“Do you want something cold to drink? Raspberry tea maybe?”

“That sounds good. Yes, thank you,” Sahara said. “Do we have hummus and pita chips?”

Lucy grinned. “Does a bear—”

Sahara laughed. “I am in something of a rut with snack choices, aren’t I?”

Lucy grinned. “I’ll bring your snack. You get settled in wherever you want to receive the doctor.”

“In the living room,” Sahara said. “But not the one in my suite. The one we never use.”

Lucy went one way while Sahara went another. When Sahara reached the formal living room, she had a purpose in mind. She sat down at the baby grand, adjusted the seat and the pedals, and then ran her fingers up and down the keys. It was slightly out of tune, but it had been ages since she’d played, so maybe it wouldn’t matter.

She sat for a few moments with her fingers on the keys and her eyes closed, and then followed the music she heard in her head.

Lucy brought the snack and left it on the piano, but Sahara was lost in the song and didn’t look up.

* * *

Chris Barrett was about to ring the doorbell at Sahara Travis’s penthouse when he realized he was hearing piano music. He paused in the hall, smiling. Last time he’d heard music like this had been in his grandparents’ house when he was a kid. “Sentimental Journey” was a song out of their youth, and so were pianos.

Curious as to who was playing, he quickly rang the bell.

The personal assistant let him in again, but this time without criticism.

“Good morning, Lucy.”

“Morning, Dr. Barrett. Sahara is waiting for you in the living room.”

“Where’s that music coming from?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s just Sahara. She’s always playing grandma music.”

Chris was surprised, and when they reached the living room, he stopped and put a finger to his lips. Lucy left him alone to watch as Sahara played all the way through to the end. The moment she dropped her head and put her hands in her lap, he began to clap.

Sahara looked up. “Dr. Barrett!” she said, startled. “I didn’t realize you were here.” She stood and motioned toward the sofa. “Should we sit?”

“Sure,” he said, then waited until she crossed the room and plopped down on the sofa.

She smelled like the tropics, and Chris thought about what it would be like to come home to a woman like this every day.

“How has your foot been feeling? Any problems?” he asked, as he began removing the bandage.

“It hurt a lot the first night, but not so much now. We’re going to resume filming soon. I’m hoping it’s not going to present a problem.”

“Let me get the rest of this off so we can see what we have going here,” he said, and as soon as he had the bandage off, he gloved up and began examining the injury. “It looks better than I would have expected,” Chris said. “Healing quickly.”

“Family trait,” she said, and leaned forward for a better look. “The blister broke. That skin is coming off. What’s going to happen there?”

“We would expect the skin beneath to already be in a stage of regrowth, and it appears that it is. I’m going to remove a bit more of this dead skin, and then we’ll redress it and bandage it back up. Don’t wear any kind of shoe that rubs against the burn area.”

“How much longer before you would call it healed?”

“It’s hard to say.”

He heard her sigh. It obviously wasn’t the answer she wanted. He glanced up, fully intending to keep talking, but she was so stunning—even without a hint of makeup—that it caught him off guard.

Sahara frowned, then leaned forward and snapped her fingers in front of his face.

“Paging Dr. Barrett!”

He jumped. Well, damn it.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, embarrassed. “But, uh, I have an excuse. I left my sunglasses in the car and...was blinded by your beauty?”

Sahara threw her head back and laughed.

“Oh Lord. Where did you hear that one?”

“My pool boy...on the phone yesterday...trying to talk his girlfriend out of being mad at him.”

Sahara laughed again. A doctor with a sense of humor. That was a nice change of pace.

“Did it work on her?” she asked.

Chris grinned. “Nope.”

“And yet you thought you could pull it off?” she said.

“I thought since I had age and this pretty face going for me, it might work.”

Sahara shook her head. “Nope. It’s a no go from me, too.”

“Well, it never hurts to try,” he said with a smile, and began packing up his bag. “As usual, I’m on the way to somewhere else. Take care, Miss Travis. I’ll check back in on you in another couple of days.”

“When can I get it wet?” she asked.

“When the skin isn’t so new and tender. Probably still a few days.”

She sighed again. “Not ideal, but thank you.”

Lucy appeared in the doorway as if by magic, just in time to see him out. She met Sahara on her way into the kitchen.

“Your timing is impeccable,” Sahara said.

Lucy shrugged. “I was eavesdropping in the hall.”

“At least you’re honest about it,” Sahara said with a grin.

“I didn’t sense a connection in the making. Was I wrong?” Lucy asked.

“No, you weren’t wrong at all,” Sahara said. “Do we have any shrimp left?”

“Yes. How does a shrimp cocktail sound?”

“Sounds delightful. And some iced tea. I don’t care what kind.”

Lucy nodded and began assembling plates and pulling food from the refrigerator.

“So, what did the doctor say about your foot?”

Sahara looked up and grinned. “You didn’t already overhear that, too?”

Lucy giggled. “No. Seriously, are you healing okay?”

“Yes, it’s just going to take time for the new skin to toughen up, but it will happen soon enough.”

“Okay, then,” Lucy said, and dug out the deli-made red sauce that Sahara liked and began assembling the tasty appetizers.

“Double up on that shrimp, please,” Sahara said. “This is lunch...not an appetizer.”

Lucy smiled and squeezed some more shrimp into place around the rim of the dish. She was digging in the pantry for poppy seed crackers when the house phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” Sahara said, and slid off the bar stool to pick up. “This is Sahara,” she said.

“Afternoon, Miss Travis. This is Adam. I have an envelope here for you from the studio.”

“Is the messenger still there?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m getting a little stir-crazy. How about I ride down to meet you at the elevator. You won’t have to leave your post, and I’ll pretend I just went on some lavish shopping spree.”

Adam laughed. “Yes, ma’am. That would be great. I’ll be there when the doors open.”

“On my way,” Sahara said.

“Pages already?” Lucy said.

“I think so. Tom certainly didn’t waste any time. I’ll be right back and I’ll let myself in.”

“Okay,” Lucy said, and continued assembling lunch as Sahara grabbed her keys and left the penthouse.

Just getting out into the hall between her apartment and the elevator felt like she was escaping. It angered her that she’d let some faceless coward run her to ground, hiding like a criminal. She punched in the code on the keypad. The doors opened. She walked in and rode down. Adam was waiting with the envelope as promised.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said.

“My pleasure, Miss Travis. How’s your foot?”

“Slowly healing, and thank you again for being my knight in shining armor and getting a doctor to make a house call.”

He beamed. “Yes, ma’am. My pleasure. Have a nice day.”

“You, too,” Sahara said, and rode back up and let herself in.

She laid her keys on the table by the door and headed for the kitchen, opening the envelope as she went. Sure enough, it contained pages of the script with all of the dialogue and costume changes marked.

“We’re back in business, I guess,” Sahara said, as she laid the pages near her place setting and slid back onto the bar stool.

She scanned the memo on top and then leaned back with a sigh.

“It’s an early call tomorrow, and they’re sending a car for me, so you can just meet me on set.”

Lucy carried the food to the island.

“Sure thing,” she said. “I’ll stop by that little French pastry shop that you like and pick up some croissants, and I’ll also pick up your lunch. No need taking a chance on someone getting to your food again. It’s going from my hands to yours.”

“I appreciate that,” Sahara said.

“And I am happy to do it,” Lucy said. “So, what’s going on in the new scenes that required wardrobe changes?”

“I don’t know. Let me see,” Sahara said, and she plucked a cold peeled shrimp from the bowl and dredged it in the spicy cocktail sauce before popping it in her mouth.

* * *

After waiting to see if Sahara Travis would ever come back out of that penthouse, Bubba was getting antsy. Right after he learned that the wrong woman died eating the poisoned food, he’d begun preparing the next wave of attack. His plan? Bomb the elevator. It had to work because it was the only way she could leave her apartment.

He got the name of the company The Magnolia used for mechanical repairs and set the next step in motion. That meant finding someone to build and place the bomb. Once that happened, there was nothing he could do but wait.

It was midafternoon a few days later when he learned Sahara would be leaving the penthouse the next day. He contacted the bomber he’d arranged for with one text message.

Go fix the elevator. It needs to be in place this evening. She’ll be leaving the penthouse by 5:00 a.m.

The bomber reacted calmly. Everything was ready. He put on the disguise, slipped the bomb into a big yellow toolbox and then carefully covered it with tools and headed to The Magnolia. He circled the building several times before he saw a service vehicle pull around to the back. He waited until the vehicle left, then parked, grabbed his toolbox and headed inside.

There was a small hallway that led to a check-in window. He walked up, quickly eyeing the security camera in the far corner of the room behind the receptionist’s desk. He tapped on the counter to get her attention.

She looked up, recognized the uniform, saw a company ID tag from where she was sitting and smiled.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“Got a call to check brakes and cables on the penthouse elevator.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“I go where they send me,” he said with a shrug.

The receptionist was hesitant. It was Magnolia policy to never bother the residents. Their job was to make life as private and luxurious as possible, so calling to confirm a repairman who wasn’t going anywhere near the penthouse itself could mean a black mark against her work record.

“Well, I guess it’s all right. Sign in on the clipboard and sign back out when you leave.”

He signed in, then tapped the counter once more.

“Which way from here?”

“Down the stairwell to the basement. The residential elevators are on the west wall. The single one on the south is the penthouse.”

The bomber nodded, picked up his toolbox and shuffled off.

Once in the basement, he went straight to work. Someone had obviously come down in the elevator earlier, because the car was on the first floor, and it didn’t take long for him to get to the controls to bring it one floor farther down. At least he didn’t have to climb up the ladder inside the shaft to get to the car, although he’d been prepared to do so, if needed.

After a quick glance around, he climbed up on top of the car to set the bomb, fastening it right against the cables, then set a small camera on top of the emergency exit in the ceiling, aiming it down into the car so that when the Travis woman got in, he could see her and detonate. If she didn’t die in the blast, she certainly would when the car crashed into the basement.

Once he was done, he gathered up his tools and headed for the stairwell. Now that this was done, he needed to disappear. His only witness was the woman in the office, which concerned him some. However, when he got back to the office to check out, there was a sign on the window.

Back in Fifteen Minutes.

He signed out and left. A simple trip to the bathroom had saved the woman’s life.

Four

By the time Sahara went to bed that night, she was comfortable with the new lines and mentally immersing herself back into the role. She was a little sad, a little bit afraid and definitely uncertain what tomorrow would bring, but it felt good to be resuming normal activities.

When her alarm went off the next morning at four o’clock, she had just enough time to shower and dress for the day before the car would arrive to take her to the set.

While she was getting ready to leave, the bomber was in the parking lot of The Magnolia watching the video feed inside the elevator car from a remote control camera, waiting to hit a button and blow her to kingdom come.

Oblivious to the impending danger, Sahara moved through the penthouse with comparative ease, opting to wear some loose terry-cloth slippers to work. Adam had just called to let her know her car arrived, so she headed out the door wearing gym clothes and a lightweight zip-front hoodie. She was carrying a small purse barely big enough for credit cards, her phone in one hand and her coffee in the other as she punched in the code to send for the elevator.

And up it went.

When the bomber saw the doors open and his target step onto the elevator, he grinned. He didn’t waste any time. He took a quick breath and detonated the bomb.

But Sahara had realized she’d forgotten the pages with all of her notes and comments for the day’s shoot and had jumped out of the elevator with her key card in hand before the doors had closed. She was already running back across the hall to get them.

She was three steps from her door when the bomb went off. It blew the elevator doors into the hall only feet from where she was standing, immediately filling the hall with flying debris and a cloud of white billowing dust.

The impact knocked her to her knees and sent the key card sailing out of her hand. She was down on all fours screaming and crying for help when she heard the elevator car fall. It slid down the shaft in a horrible screech of metal against metal, and the faster it fell, the louder the screech until it was a constant, unending scream.

Sahara had lost her sense of direction in the thick, billowing dust and smoke, and all she could hear was that shriek as she frantically crawled from one side of the hall to the other, screaming for help, trying to orient herself with where she was. When she finally felt the ornate carving on her front door, she scrambled to her feet.

The light in the hall was off, leaving her in solid darkness. When she finally felt the keypad, she sobbed with relief as she began trying to key in her code. But the feeling was short-lived, because the floor began shaking beneath her feet. The car had become its own missile, rocketing down the shaft until it passed the ground floor and smashed into the basement in a second explosive blast, filling the shaft with even more smoke and debris.

Out in the parking lot, the bomber drove away convinced he had succeeded, and while most of the other tenants thought it was an earthquake, Sahara feared it was no accident. She was ninety-nine percent sure that a second attempt had just been made on her life.

When she finally made it back into the penthouse, she locked herself inside and then sank to her knees, sobbing. Too weak to stand, she fumbled for her phone, then groaned when she realized it was somewhere in the hall, and she wasn’t going back into that choking smoke.

Slowly, she struggled back to her feet and then stumbled to the nearest bathroom, desperate to get the grit and dust from her face and eyes. Once she could see, she ran through the rooms to get to her bedroom suite, locked the door and then ran for the house phone at the end of the wet bar.

Her heart was hammering so loud she could barely think, and her hands were shaking as she called the lobby, waiting for the dear and familiar sound of Adam’s voice.

* * *

The lobby downstairs was in chaos.

Certain Sahara had gone down with that elevator car, Adam was already in tears as he dialed 911.

The driver who’d been waiting for her heard the commotion and ran inside, only to find out the woman he was supposed to pick up was inside the elevator that had crashed. In a panic, he called his boss, who immediately called Harold Warner.

* * *

Harold had business to tend to all over the city this morning and had hired a car so he could work as he traveled from appointment to appointment.

He was making a notation of a dinner meeting the day after tomorrow when his cell phone rang. He hit Save to his Notes and answered the call.

“Harold Warner.”

“Mr. Warner, this is Lou from Hollywood Limo.”

“Yeah, hello, Lou. What’s up? No problem picking up Miss Travis, I presume?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but my driver just called and said that while he was waiting for Miss Travis to come down, there was an explosion inside The Magnolia, and that the penthouse elevator came down and...crashed with her in it. I knew you needed to know. I’m so sorry to be the bearer of such news.”

Harold froze. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“No! Oh my God, no!” he cried, then hung up on the limo service and called the phone in the lobby of Sahara’s building. It rang and rang, but no one answered. He hit the intercom and buzzed the driver.

“Get me to The Magnolia as fast as you can.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, and immediately turned them around and headed in the direction of the well-known building.

Harold was in shock. For a few moments, he couldn’t think what to do or who to call and then realized he needed to let the director know his star wasn’t going to make it to the set this morning—or any morning.

* * *

Adam had Fire and Rescue coming in the front door and the Hollywood PD outside directing traffic, plus he was fielding calls from all of the other residents of the building while trying not to break down completely at the loss of one of his favorite residents. He was a grown man who wore a weapon to work every day. He had been hired to do a job—keeping the residents of The Magnolia safe and seeing that their privacy stayed intact. But he’d known Sahara Travis for years and liked her as a person. Knowing that she’d died on his watch was tearing him up. He’d just watched a team of firefighters heading up the stairs floor by floor to escort any reluctant residents down while another crew was making its way down to the basement.

Behind him, the phone began to ring again. He sighed, blinking back tears as he reached to answer, then froze.

Seeing her name on the caller ID was like a message from the grave. His hands were shaking as he lifted the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Adam, it’s me.”

Adam let out a shriek. “Lord have mercy! Oh sweet Jesus! Sweet Jesus! You are alive!”

She started crying all over again. “Yes, but by the grace of God. I forgot something and went back to get it. The elevator is empty. Tell rescue I’m alive but stranded up here. And please call the LAPD and ask for Detective Shaw. Tell him someone just tried to kill me again. I need to find a way to get out of here. I can smell smoke, and I don’t want to survive all this to end up dying in a fire.”

* * *

Harold Warner’s driver pulled up a full block away from The Magnolia.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Warner, but police have the streets blocked off down there. I can’t get you any closer.”

Harold’s heart was pounding. He was about to walk into a truth he didn’t want to face.

“Yes, okay. Just pull into this parking lot and wait. I have to get down there.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, and turned into the parking lot and killed the engine.

Harold got out, mopping the sweat from his face as he started down the street at a swift pace. He’d been thinking about Sahara ever since he’d gotten the call, remembering the first time he’d seen her. She’d come into his office, a little-known actress with two indie movies to her credit and seeking a manager. Before the meeting was over, he’d not only taken her on but felt like he’d been the one applying for representation. She’d grilled him about his education and even asked to see his résumé—she’d wanted to know what he could do for her that she couldn’t do for herself. He’d initially laughed at her audacity and then realized she was serious and he needed to be. Twelve years later, their story and the success of their working relationship was an industry fairy tale.

A police car came rolling up on the street beside him and honked at him to move over, yanking him back to reality. He turned and glared at the cop who was driving, then kept on moving. He was already walking on the sidewalk. The cop could keep his ass and the cruiser in the street.

Harold swiped his handkerchief across his cheeks to dry the tears that were streaming down his face. His chest hurt. He couldn’t believe she was gone.

Police were everywhere, rescue and fire trucks maneuvered their way closer to the building as residents were slowly being ushered out. The crowd was already gathering, most curious gossip-seekers uncertain about what was happening, but wanting to be in on whatever bloody details they could see.

He got stopped at one checkpoint, identified himself to the cops as Sahara Travis’s manager and was allowed to pass. Once he got closer, another cop escorted him into the lobby.

He choked up again when he saw Adam, and then all of a sudden the ex-linebacker picked him up in his arms, laughing.

“She’s alive, man! She’s alive!”

Harold gasped. “What are you saying?” he asked, as Adam put him back down.

“She just called down here! She was in the elevator, then realized she forgot something and jumped out at the last minute to go get it. The elevator fell without her in it! She’s trapped in the penthouse, though. Police are organizing a rooftop rescue right now.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God,” Harold muttered. “You talked to her? This is for sure?”

“Yes, I said—she just called! What’s happening right now?”

“Detective Shaw is outside somewhere. You’ll have to talk to him. That’s all I know.”

Harold couldn’t believe what was happening. He’d already buried her in his mind, but, just like in the movies, she was alive again.

* * *

Sahara stayed on the landline inside the penthouse until Fire and Rescue had given her instructions on how her removal from the scene would go, and all the while her apartment continued to fill with smoke. She didn’t know if the fire was spreading or contained for now within the elevator shaft, but she wasn’t waiting around to find out. Following the orders she’d been given, she ran through the penthouse and took the stairs leading up to the roof.

The sun was a blast of white heat as she pushed the door open. It was like running out into a natural spotlight she could have done without. The streets below were gridlocked from the crowd and the rescue vehicles. The wind whipped her hair into her face and tugged at her clothing as she ran toward the helipad at the far end of the roof.

Seen from the crowd below, her rescue was like a scene from one of her movies, and the crowd was riveted by the sight of the famous actress running through the billowing smoke coming through the roof vents toward a landing helicopter.

The second the skids touched down, a man leaned out, grabbed her outstretched arms and swooped her up into the chopper. A cheer went up from the crowd as the helicopter lifted off and quickly flew away.

Sahara looked back once and then covered her face with her hands, her body trembling uncontrollably. One man threw a blanket around her shoulders while another handed her a bottle of water. She took a big drink and then used part of it on her face. The heat and smoke were still burning her eyes.

An EMT was taking her blood pressure and pulse while the other EMT, who happened to be a female, reached out and took Sahara’s hands and just held them.

It took Sahara a few minutes to get past the noise inside the open cabin to realize the danger was over, but when she took a breath, she choked from emotion and relief. Someone squeezed her fingers. Sahara looked up into the darkest, kindest eyes she’d ever seen and took comfort in the woman’s calm, steady gaze. Slowly, slowly, the shaking stopped. She began to realize she had these people to thank for her life, and did so, one by one.

They smiled as they gave her a thumbs-up, then one of them pulled the blanket tighter around her chin and scooted her up against his chest for more stability. It was like being buckled into a car seat, and the security she felt in the EMT’s arms lulled her into a sense of safety that abruptly ended when the chopper landed and he released his hold on her.

Once more, she was transferred to another set of strangers. And again, she had to trust they had her best interests at heart.

* * *

Bubba was furious, then frustrated, then in disbelief when he learned Sahara Travis was still alive. But he knew something she didn’t know. She was going to be on her way to New Orleans soon, which would complicate everything. So he paced the room, cursing his failures until he’d given himself a headache, then sat down and made himself focus. He wanted to take her out before she left LA, but how could he make that happen?

And then it hit him. Her plane. The private jet. It would mean one more bomb to build, but this time they’d be in the air before it went off and she’d have nowhere to go to escape.

He called the bomber, relayed his displeasure with the failure and then gave him further instructions.

“And don’t fucking fail me this time! Do you hear?”

“I hear you, but I didn’t fail. She got on that elevator, and I pushed the button. Who the hell could have predicted that she’d jump out at the last second?”

“Whatever, I don’t need your excuses. This time, do what you have to do. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

* * *

Sahara was in the ER when Harold arrived. He pushed past a nurse in the doorway and went straight to the bed where Sahara was lying and took her in his arms.

“I thought you were dead. The entire drive over to The Magnolia I thought you were dead. Sweet Mother Mary, Jesus and Joseph...you are a miracle,” he said, hugging her and patting her over and over again.

“What are you saying? You’re Jewish,” she muttered, wrapped her arms around his neck and burst into tears.

“Well, you’re not, and I thought it best to thank your people first,” Harold said, and blew his nose.

“Excuse me, sir,” the nurse said, as she moved him aside.

“I won’t leave you alone,” Harold said when Sahara began to look anxious again.

“I’m not hurt,” Sahara said. “All of this is just dust from the explosion in the shaft. Nothing actually hit me.”

“You’re still getting the whole run-through, so settle back and deal with it,” he said.

“I have no place to live. I don’t know who wants me dead. I feel like a target on a gun range. What’s happening, Harold? Why is this happening?”

“Don’t know yet, honey, but we will. You will not spend another day alone until this danger is behind you.”

“I’m not moving in with you,” she muttered.

“Of course you’re not. But I have a bodyguard on the way over here. He’s an ex‒Army Ranger, and he’ll make sure you’re safe until we get this lunatic behind bars.”

“A bodyguard?”

The whine in her voice made him frown.

“After all of this, what did you expect?”

“I didn’t think it through,” she said, fiddling at the dust that kept falling out of her hair and onto the hospital gown and trying to brush it away.

Harold eyed the nurse who was trying to dodge Sahara’s fidgets as she struggled to get her blood pressure taken.

“Sahara, just be still and let the nurse do her job. I’m going to sit in that chair. Trust that I will not let anyone get close enough to hurt you again.”

She leaned back and gave in to the prodding and pulling, the lab tech taking blood, the X-ray machine that came and went.

“What happened to your foot?” a nurse asked, as she removed the dirty gauze around it, cleaned the burn and replaced the bandages.

“Burned it with hot coffee,” she said. “I’ve had a doctor—Chris Barrett—who’s been treating it.”

“Good man,” the nurse said, tossing the gauze in the trash, then cleaning Sahara’s foot and replacing the bandage.

An hour passed and then another. They were well into the third hour, and Sahara had finally calmed down enough that she was dozing and waiting to be discharged when she heard Harold shuffling around and then talking. Eyes still closed, she assumed he was on the phone thanking someone for taking the job on short notice, until she heard a man’s deep rumbling voice in reply.

“Happy to help,” he said.

She opened her eyes to see a giant of a man standing between her and the door, and she blinked again. Was he real?

As if sensing he was being watched, he turned toward her. She flashed on warm tan skin, thick dark hair and eyes the color of coal before he nodded politely and resumed his conversation with Harold.

Well...hello to you, too, whatever your name is.

Harold promptly filled in that blank.

“Sahara, this is Brendan McQueen. He will be your bodyguard until the person responsible for trying to kill you is caught. Brendan, meet Sahara Travis. I’m depending on you to keep her safe.”

As Brendan moved to the side of her bed, Sahara felt his gaze take note of everything about her within two or three seconds, including her filthy hair, the hospital gown and the bandaged foot, before he shifted it straight to her face.

“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Miss Travis. Know that from this moment until I am released from duty, I will be standing between you and trouble. I am pledging my life to keep you safe, so I ask only a few small things from you in return.”

“And those are?” she asked.

“That you never lie to me about anything and never leave my sight.”

She frowned. “You’re not coming into a bathroom with me, buddy.”

“I don’t have buddies, but you can call me Brendan. If you don’t want me in a bathroom with you, then I’ll make sure you’re the only one in it, because if you go into a public bathroom with multiple stalls, rest assured I will be standing inside that room until you are ready to exit.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she knew this was for her own good.

“Deal. Do we sleep together, too?”

His face remained stoic, ignoring her attitude.

“No, Miss Travis. I’m good with the floor.”

“You can call me Sahara,” she said, and then shifted her focus to her manager. “Harold, we need to talk.”

“What about?”

“The movie. I need you to get me out of the role. There’s no way to keep other people safe while someone’s after me, and I don’t want another Moira on my conscience. If I hadn’t told Lucy to meet me on set this morning, she would have made sure I had my pages when she picked me up, and we would have been in the elevator together—and on adjoining tables in the morgue by now.”

Harold flinched. “You’re going to lose a lot of money.”

Sahara glared. “I already have too much money, and none of it is worth a life, so I’m going to pretend I did not hear you say that.”

Harold flushed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was the businessman in me. I’ll tend to it immediately. But what are you going to do? Where do you intend to go?”

She pointed at the bodyguard. “Ask him where a safe place would be. I’m open to anything.”

Brendan frowned. “Let’s backtrack. Who’s Lucy?”

“My personal assistant,” Sahara said.

“Where is she? Why isn’t she here?” he asked.

As if on cue, Lucy came flying into the exam room, her hair in tangles, a coffee stain on the front of her blouse, a bloodstain on her elbow, another on the knee of her pants, and her purse clutched beneath her chin.

“Oh my God,” she wailed, heading straight for Sahara’s bedside when someone grabbed her by the back of her pants and stopped her in place. “Let me go!” she screamed.

“Who are you?” Brendan demanded.

“That’s Lucy! Turn her loose,” Sahara said.

Lucy lunged to Sahara’s side and began apologizing as she put her belongings onto the chair beside the bed.

“I was on set when word came that you were dead. All hell broke loose. Look at me. I look like I was run over by a pack of wolves. People were running amok, heading for their phones, turning on televisions, watching the director losing his mind. I ran to your trailer to get my stuff. I just couldn’t believe it was true and was going to go to The Magnolia to see for myself when someone knocked me down as he came running out of the trailer carrying one of your silk nightgowns. It’s probably for sale on eBay right now.”

Harold couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Why was there so much chaos?” Sahara asked.

Lucy shrugged. “Oh, you know. Everyone figured they’d try to sell their story about working with you on your last movie to the media. I heard some idiot on the phone with TMZ, another was calling Entertainment Tonight...someone was calling the National Enquirer. Those money-hungry bastards.”

Sahara hid her shock and was glad she’d already made the decision to quit the movie. She wouldn’t be able to go back without wondering who had tried to profit from news of her death.

“Are you okay?” Sahara asked. “Your elbow is bleeding a little and so is your knee. Sit down and I’ll call a nurse. You need some first aid.”

“I’m all right. I just can’t get over all this. First the poisoned food and now this! It’s for sure God’s will that you are still alive,” Lucy said.

Harold belatedly introduced Lucy and Brendan.

“Lucy, this is Brendan McQueen. He’s Sahara’s new bodyguard. Brendan, Lucy Benton, Sahara’s personal assistant.”

“We’ve met,” Lucy snapped.

Brendan didn’t respond.

Sahara rang for a nurse, who soon had Lucy’s scrapes cleaned just minutes before Sahara’s discharge papers arrived.

“So you really can’t get back into the penthouse?” Lucy asked.

Sahara shook her head and turned away, not wanting any of them to see her tears. But Brendan saw them and filed away the knowledge that she wasn’t nearly as tough as she pretended to be.

“You’ll need clothes,” Lucy said. “Give me an address, and I’ll go get the essentials and have them to you before dinner.”

“I don’t have an address,” Sahara said.

Brendan handed Lucy his card. “You go shop and text me when you’re finished. I’ll send you an address, which I trust you will not share.”

Lucy took the card and turned her back to him. She didn’t like him—she was used to being the person who took care of Sahara, whom she relied on, and this guy had jumped in and taken her place. She put a hand on Sahara’s shoulder.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Lucy asked.

“There’s no need,” Brendan said.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Sahara said, ignoring her new bodyguard. “If I keep you close, then I’ll know you aren’t being targeted in an effort to get to me.”

“I’ll bring a suitcase when I come,” Lucy said.

“You’ll have to buy new luggage for me, too. Everything I own is in that death trap,” Sahara muttered.

“I’ll take care of it. And I’m going to assume you want comfort and low-key in your wardrobe?”

“You know me.”

“Then I’m out of here, and thank you for the first aid.” Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed Sahara’s forehead. “I’m so grateful you are alive.” The affection surprised both of them, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

She gathered up her purse and left, limping as she went.

Brendan gave Sahara a wary look but stepped aside as a nurse came in with discharge papers. Twenty minutes later Sahara was buckled up in the front seat of his black Hummer, waving goodbye to Harold as they drove away from the ER entrance.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“A hotel for tonight. I have access to a remote cabin up in the mountains. Easy to see if anyone comes or goes, and it’s teched out with radar and satellite security systems. It has an indoor pool, a full gym in the basement and a screening room for movies should the urge occur. We’ll go there tomorrow.”

Sahara sighed. One place was as good as another until the police figured out who was doing this. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.

Brendan navigated traffic smoothly while keeping an eye on his passenger, who seemed to have fallen asleep. So when she suddenly spoke, it startled him.

“This is so awful,” she said quietly.

He heard so much in her voice, but most of all regret.

“Have you ever been stalked before?” he asked.

“Sort of. But no one was ever hurt like this. I can’t quit thinking about Moira.”

“Was she the woman who died on set?”

Sahara nodded. “In my trailer. She was twenty-four years old—worked in wardrobe and had a crush on one of the grips. He didn’t even know it.”

He glanced at her again as he braked for a red light. She was crying—a quiet grief he would not have expected from someone with a diva reputation. He was beginning to wonder if that reputation was all hype.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Do you have any tissues?” she asked.

He pointed to the glove box.

She found some individual tissue packs, pulled one from the packet to wipe her eyes and then blow her nose. A few minutes later he moved into an exit lane and turned off the street and up the drive into a chain motel.

“A Motel 6? Are you serious?” she asked.

“It is not Motel 6, but it is the last place anyone would expect a star like you to be in, and it’s only for one night. Sit tight and don’t move. No one can see inside, so they won’t know you’re here.”

“Don’t forget to get an adjoining room for Lucy,” she said.

“I forget nothing,” he said. “I’ll be locking you in, so don’t fiddle with anything or you’ll set off the security alarm.”

He got out without waiting for an answer and strode toward the office.

Sahara watched in spite of herself. He had a nice tan and was certainly good-looking, which meant nothing in a city full of pretty people, but she liked the set of his jaw and the straight line of his nose. And his eyes. Despite the gruff tone in his voice, he had kind eyes. His head was bare, as were his arms in deference to the heat of a California summer. His stride was long and his shoulders almost as wide as the door he entered.

Once he disappeared inside, she glanced at the interior of the Hummer and crossed her arms across her breasts, making sure she didn’t bump anything that would earn his ire, and swallowed past the lump in her throat.

Five

Lucy was properly horrified at the bodyguard’s choice when she reached the motel, but said nothing. She brought in all the purchases she’d made, and after Sahara’s bath and shampoo, they spent the next hour in Lucy’s room trying on everything, removing the tags and then packing the suitcases.

The door was ajar, and they were still folding clothes into the new luggage when Brendan knocked once, then walked in with his phone in his hand. He made no apology that he’d walked in on her while she was dressed only in a bra and a pair of shorts, her still wet hair already tangling into curls, but his conscience pinged when she reached for a blouse and held it in front of her.

“Your manager is on the phone. He needs to talk to you,” he said.

Sahara was reaching for the phone when she caught a look of pity on his face. It scared her.

“You already know what he means to tell me, don’t you?”

He laid the phone in her hand.

Her fingers were shaking as she put the phone to her ear.

“Hello? Harold?”

“Sahara! Sweetheart...” He hesitated. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Tell me what, Harold? My God! Spit it out. You’re scaring me.”

“The New Orleans Police Department has been trying to locate you all day. Your mother... Sahara, I’m so sorry. She’s dead. They found her in the garden of your parents’ home this morning. She’s been murdered and your father is missing.”

The phone dropped from her grasp as Sahara fainted into Brendan’s outstretched arms.

Lucy gasped. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” She lunged at the phone Sahara had dropped. “Harold, what the hell! She fainted! What did you tell her?”

“The truth. Her mother has been murdered and her father is missing. I think your next stop is going to be New Orleans.”

* * *

The shock of the news took the edge off spending the night in a low-brow motel with a bodyguard sleeping in a sleeping bag at the foot of her bed, but the morning had barely begun when the first argument between Brendan and Sahara erupted.

She was standing in front of the single bathroom mirror in scraps of nylon passing for underwear and an oversize T-shirt elongating her already long, slender legs. She was brushing her teeth as she argued with him, and Brendan was having a serious problem remaining objective.

He’d never had a client like her before. He was used to demanding divas in silk and satin, or male actors with massive entourages and even bigger ego problems. And then there was Sahara Travis in a basic T-shirt, slinging toothpaste and icy glares without caution and managing to look damn sexy while she was at it.

She spit, rinsed her mouth and then pointed the bubbly bristles of her toothbrush at him.

“I don’t want to fly commercial. Harold has already notified my pilot. I have my private jet fueled and ready. It’s the one I always use.”

“How many people know you have a private jet?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It’s probably common knowledge.”

“Then you’re flying commercial, which is what no one would expect.”

“Surely you don’t think—”

He waited for her to finish the sentence, then saw the moment it clicked. If someone would go to the lengths required to bomb her private elevator, why wouldn’t they also try to destroy her jet? She stopped talking, rinsed out her mouth and toothbrush, and put the toothbrush away.

“We don’t have tickets,” Lucy said.

“Yes, we do,” Brendan said. “All three in first class.”

“This is going to be a nightmare,” Lucy muttered from the bedroom, having overheard their new plans.

“It’s already a nightmare,” Sahara said, now fully on board with Brendan’s plan. “Don’t argue. Brendan, I’m going to get dressed, so look away.”

“What time is the flight?” Lucy asked.

“It boards in a couple of hours. We have time. Trust me,” he said, and then stood in the doorway between the two rooms with his back to theirs while Sahara dressed.

When she was finished, he loaded them and the bags into the Hummer before sliding into the driver’s seat to buckle up. Sahara looked years younger than her thirty-three years. Her hair was dry, and she’d piled a fierce tangle of dark curls on her head. The expression on her face was somewhere between anger and despair. He hated to see the usual fire in her tamped down so early in the morning.

“Hey.”

Sahara looked up, thinking not for the first time that her bodyguard looked like a giant-size version of Channing Tatum. Then she realized he was asking her a question and tuned back in to what he was saying.

“Breakfast will be compliments of a McDonald’s drive-thru. What’s your poison? Biscuits and gravy, or breakfast burritos?”

“She doesn’t eat that greasy fast food,” Lucy snapped.

“Yes, I do,” Sahara said. “My trainer doesn’t like it, but yes, I do. I’ll take a sausage-and-egg burrito with hot sauce and a Diet Dr Pepper.”

Brendan stifled a smile. Dr Pepper for breakfast was not something he’d imagined a woman like Sahara would order.

“How about you, Miss Lucy?”

Lucy sighed. “A bacon-and-egg biscuit and orange juice.”

“Harold sent me new ID and credit cards. Use mine to pay,” Sahara said, as she dug them out of her new purse.

“No, ma’am. Too easy to find you that way,” Brendan said.

Sahara blinked. “Oh. I didn’t think...” she mumbled, and dropped them back into the purse.

“Don’t worry. It’s all covered and often part of the job,” he said.

Sahara glanced at his profile and the size of his hands on the steering wheel and wondered if everything about him was supersize, then looked away and closed her eyes and chided herself for thinking it. No one knew the toll it was taking for her to go home. The only plus side to any of this was that her mother was no longer able to hurt her. Maybe she should feel guilty for thinking that, but she didn’t. It was the truth.

Brendan parked his Hummer in airport parking, which meant they were now carrying their own bags into the terminal to check-in. Sahara was pulling her carry-on and often running a couple of steps to keep up with his pace.

When they reached check-in and then the security checkpoint, she was recognized almost instantly, and they were forced to rush through the process to beat the chaos that followed.

Once they were headed for their gate, Brendan took her carry-on as well as Lucy’s. People began calling out Sahara’s name and taking pictures at random, even trying to stop her for autographs. It was all business as usual for Sahara, but this was why she preferred to take her private jet when she traveled.

Word spread to the usual paparazzi, who were always present at Los Angeles International, that Sahara Travis was in the building and on the move. But it didn’t stop Lucy’s intent when she held up progress long enough to get water and magazines before they were off again.

Brendan saw them first, but when Sahara noticed the paparazzi coming toward her like rats escaping the sewers to feed, she moved closer to him. He glanced at her face and saw panic.

“Sahara, you just keep moving. I’ve got this. Lucy! Flank her and don’t stop walking.”

“Okay,” Lucy said, and moved even closer to her boss as they headed for their gate.

The first photographer made the mistake of getting too close and then wouldn’t give way. Brendan’s hands were full of carry-on luggage when he bumped into him, knocking him to the floor.

“He pushed me!” the photographer yelled, and in that moment, Sahara lost her cool.

She spun on the lot of them, shouting.

“His hands are full, so just get out of the way. He never touched you. You all know someone is after me, everyone’s heard. Is it one of you? Is it you?” she cried, looking down at the photographer who’d gotten dumped onto his ass. “You didn’t have to get that close to take a picture. What were you trying to do? Someone call the police! I want him arrested. He might be the man trying to kill me.”

A look of horror spread across the man’s face. This wasn’t going as he’d planned.

“No, no, it’s not me. Hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just wanted a good shot—”

But it was too little, too late. Airport security arrived and took him into custody as the other photographers quickly scattered.

Sahara grabbed her own carry-on and glanced up at Brendan.

“Okay to go now?”

He arched an eyebrow and grinned. “I believe so, and...thanks. I feel so much safer now.”

Sahara grimaced. “I’m tired, I’m scared, I really don’t want to set foot back in New Orleans, and I don’t have time for lawsuits, so I lost it, okay?”

He was shocked by her admission. He couldn’t hug her, so he took back her carry-on with his last two free fingers and curled them tight.

“Follow me, boss. We’re almost there,” he said.

Sahara followed, willing herself not to cry.

Lucy saw the flush of emotion on Sahara’s face and knew enough to stay silent.

They finally reached the gate, and when the people at check-in recognized her again, they hustled her little entourage through the line and boarded them early.

“Thank you,” Sahara said, as the flight attendant seated them.

“You’re welcome, Miss Travis. As soon as we get the passengers loaded, I’ll be back to take your drink orders.” Then she glanced at McQueen. “Sir, can I help you stow your luggage?”

“I’ve got it, but thanks,” Brendan said.

A calm settled over Sahara as she took the window seat and buckled herself up. Lucy was in the seat directly in front of her and Brendan was in the aisle seat beside her. For the first time in days, she felt safe.

Lucy got up on her knees and looked over the seat at Sahara, still intent on doing her job to keep her comfortable.

“I brought magazines. Do you want something to read?” she asked.

“Not right now,” Sahara said.

“Did you take your Dramamine? You know you have a tendency to get a little airsick.”

“Damn. I forgot,” Sahara said.

“I have some. Just a second,” Lucy said, and dug through her carry-on to find the little tube of pills. She shook one out in her hand and handed it to Sahara, then pulled a small bottle of water out of the same bag, opened it and handed it over the seat.

Sahara downed the pill, then put the lid on the water and set it in her drink holder.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me, Lucy.”

“You’re welcome,” Lucy said, then handed her a neck pillow.

Sahara put the pillow around her neck, thought of where they were going and closed her eyes. She’d promised herself she would never go back there again.

Broken promises. Broken dreams.

Her life was full of both.

She could hear tiny little clicks in her right ear and guessed Brendan was sending someone a text. First class was being seated now, and it didn’t take but seconds for Sahara to be recognized.

A well-dressed fortysomething woman had the seat beside Lucy, and when she paused to put her bag in the overhead bin and recognized Sahara Travis, Brendan saw the look of the hunt in her eyes. She was going to be pushy enough to try to introduce herself, he knew, so as her gaze went to Sahara’s face and her lips were parting, Brendan shook his head.

“No, ma’am,” he said quietly.

The woman blinked, then quickly sat, intimidated by his size and the deep rumble of his voice.

More people were filing past them now, but Sahara kept her eyes closed. She wanted this day to be over, and they still hadn’t left the ground.

Her name was on everyone’s lips. She could hear the whispers and excited undertones of people thrilled to be on the same flight as a star like Sahara Travis.

The rumble of voices grew like the wild kudzu vines from home, choking out everything in its path and taking all the air and energy out of the cabin. She wanted to hide, but damn it all to hell she was stuck on this commercial flight just to stay alive.

She was under no misapprehension that her mother’s murder and the attacks on her life weren’t connected. She thought there was surely a law of coincidence in the universe, and this hell she was living in no way came from serendipity.

Thankfully, by the time the passengers were seated and the flight attendants were stowing last-minute luggage and urging people to buckle up, the Dramamine tablet had put her to sleep.

Brendan glanced at her. She was buckled in and safe. So far, so good. The plane began to taxi. As it did, Sahara’s head rolled toward his arm, coming to rest just below his shoulder. He could smell the motel shampoo in her hair. When the plane finally left the runway, he was holding her hand.

* * *

When Bubba saw a news flash about a movie star on her way to New Orleans because her mother had been murdered, accompanied by a brief video clip of her, her assistant and one great big man he took to be a bodyguard moving through the airport, his heart skipped a beat. It was also apparent that Sahara had flown commercial. Once again, through no fault of his own, his plans had failed. But it was just as well. She was coming to him. He’d get her on his own turf.

* * *

Sahara woke up hours into the flight and took the cold soda she was offered, sipping it slowly while ever conscious of the looming presence of the man beside her. He was remarkably quiet. The only time he spoke was to dissuade passengers from stopping to talk or to ask for autographs. Another hour passed before Sahara finally tapped his arm.

“I need to use the restroom,” she whispered.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and stepped into the aisle to let her pass, then followed her to the front of the plane.

He looked inside the cramped bathroom cubicle before he let her in, then turned around to face the people in the plane with an emotionless expression. Within a few minutes he felt a hand on his back. He glanced over his shoulder to nod at her and then led the way back to their seats.

“Everything okay?” Brendan asked once they were seated.

She saw the genuine concern on his face and nodded, grateful that Harold had the foresight to choose a man like this.

Another hour passed, and the closer they got to New Orleans, the more anxious Sahara became. By the time they began preparing for landing, she was so tense it felt like she was vibrating from the inside out.

Fifteen years.

She hadn’t been here in fifteen years and had never planned to come to this city again. Now she would have to play the role of her life by pretending to be the grieving daughter. It wasn’t going to be easy. How did you grieve for someone who’d never loved you—never wanted you in her life? And the fact that her father was missing made her extra anxious. If he showed up and she was forced to face him down again, she didn’t know if she would survive it.

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