Everything to Me. Simona Taylor

affairs, and she’d start poking around for stories and keeping the appointments she’d made. “Um, well, thank you.”

      He regarded her quizzically. “For…?”

      “For giving me a place to stay last night. You didn’t have to do that.”

      He dismissed the thought with a gesture. “Anyone would have.”

      Not anyone. She wasn’t sure she’d have been as noble if she’d been in his position. She pressed on anyhow. “Well, I was in touch with my assistant this morning.”

      “So your phone decided to give you a break?”

      “I gave it a very stern talking to.”

      The twitch of a smile around his mouth surprised her. “And does your assistant still have a job?”

      She couldn’t stop her wry laugh. “For the time being. She got me a place she found on the internet. It’s just outside Scarborough, so I’ll be going over there when I’m done here.” She fished a bit of notepaper out of her bag and waved it at him as proof. “The Sugar Apple Inn, and I am confirmed this time.”

      “Sounds quaint.”

      By quaint, she guessed, he meant basic. She’d thought so, too. “So long as the bed’s clean and dry,” she said with a shrug. “I’m not picky.”

      “Glad you got that sorted out. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable on your own.”

      His unspoken words, far away from me, rang loud and clear. She glanced at the trunk. “If I can just have my bags…?”

      He cocked his head to one side. “Where’re you going to store them? How are you getting to the hotel?”

      “I’ll call a cab. The bags aren’t that heavy. I could probably…” She trailed off. Probably what? Drag them behind her from interview to interview?

      He pointed the key fob at the car and locked the doors with a decisive click. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your bags are safe here. I’ll drive you over when you’re ready.”

      She opened her mouth to protest, and then common sense made her shut it again. He was right. They weren’t in Santa Amata. Hailing a cab wouldn’t be the easiest of tasks. She accepted his offer with grace. “Thank you.”

      “No problem.” With a sweep of his arm, he invited her to walk with him. They picked their way through the crowd of workers, ducking to avoid two men carrying a sheet of plyboard on their shoulders. Near the entrance, a huddle of six or eight young boys gaped at the goings-on, enthralled by the excitement. They were dressed in ragged shorts, most of them barefoot and shirtless. A few of them clutched jam jars with small brown fish, obviously the bounty from a fishing expedition in a nearby stream.

      As they passed the boys, the youngest, who couldn’t have been more than four or so, waved at Dakota. He had a single, cheeky dimple. As she lifted her hand to wave back, a bull-necked man in a security guard’s uniform charged out of the gate, yelling and cursing. The boys scampered off, laughing, the water sloshing out of the jars, imperiling the fish.

      Dakota watched in astonishment as the man continued to hurl a barrage of obscene language at the kids. He waved his arms, threatening them with dire consequences if they came back to his park. Trent stopped beside Dakota, folded his arms and caught the guard’s eye, putting an immediate end to the vituperative stream with a hard, unflinching glare.

      The security guard looked momentarily embarrassed. “Nasty little good-for-nuttens,” he muttered, as if that excused his abuse. “Bothering decent people.”

      The boys were standing a safe distance from the guard, and seemed to have caught on to the fact that with Trent and Dakota there, they weren’t likely to get the threatened licking. They laughed and jeered. The littlest one waved at Dakota again, and this time, she waved back.

      The guard huffed off, and Trent got Dakota walking again. She looked over her shoulder to catch one last look at the boys, who seemed no worse for wear. “So young,” she murmured. “The little one… What’s a kid like that doing out unsupervised?”

      “His mom probably works, and one of the others has to watch him.”

      “There’s nobody in the group over ten,” she responded. “Who’s watching them?”

      He stopped, his face serious, his eyes searching out something in hers. She wasn’t sure what that was, or whether he’d found it. “It’s their way, Dakota,” he said mildly.

      She nodded, and didn’t argue any further. As they ventured deeper into the chaos, he put one hand at her elbow, as if they were, if not friends, at least companions. She wondered why she didn’t draw away from his touch.

      They stopped at the main stage. This was where they would part company.

      “Busy day?” he asked.

      “Lots of interviews lined up. Gonna case the joint, too, chat a bit with the stagehands…” Stagehands were a goldmine of celebrity gossip. Of course, it was the kind of gossip that got people like Trent, and his clients, into deep trouble, should a writer have a mind to use it. She was definitely not comfortable discussing the details of her job with him.

      “Writing up our little interview last night, too?” he probed.

      She wasn’t sure if he really cared or if he was just trying to needle her. “You didn’t give me much to go on. Not enough for a responsible journalistic story, anyway.” Take that, she thought.

      He didn’t seem in the least disturbed. Or, if he was, he didn’t show it. “When will you be through?”