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