Life Of Lies

“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 (#u3b9f11f1-f3b3-5b55-bda9-e314f1e15baa)

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.”