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
