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
