by Sharon Sala
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 my God,” she wailed, heading straight for Sahara’s bedside when someone grabbed her by the back of her pants and stopped her in place. “Let me go!” she screamed.
“Who are you?” Brendan demanded.
“That’s Lucy! Turn her loose,” Sahara said.
Lucy lunged to Sahara’s side and began apologizing as she put her belongings onto the chair beside the bed.
“I was on set when word came that you were dead. All hell broke loose. Look at me. I look like I was run over by a pack of wolves. People were running amok, heading for their phones, turning on televisions, watching the director losing his mind. I ran to your trailer to get my stuff. I just couldn’t believe it was true and was going to go to The Magnolia to see for myself when someone knocked me down as he came running out of the trailer carrying one of your silk nightgowns. It’s probably for sale on eBay right now.”
Harold couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Why was there so much chaos?” Sahara asked.
Lucy shrugged. “Oh, you know. Everyone figured they’d try to sell their story about working with you on your last movie to the media. I heard some idiot on the phone with TMZ, another was calling Entertainment Tonight…someone was calling the National Enquirer. Those money-hungry bastards.”
Sahara hid her shock and was glad she’d already made the decision to quit the movie. She wouldn’t be able to go back without wondering who had tried to profit from news of her death.
“Are you okay?” Sahara asked. “Your elbow is bleeding a little and so is your knee. Sit down and I’ll call a nurse. You need some first aid.”
“I’m all right. I just can’t get over all this. First the poisoned food and now this! It’s for sure God’s will that you are still alive,” Lucy said.
Harold belatedly introduced Lucy and Brendan.
“Lucy, this is Brendan McQueen. He’s Sahara’s new bodyguard. Brendan, Lucy Benton, Sahara’s personal assistant.”
“We’ve met,” Lucy snapped.
Brendan didn’t respond.
Sahara rang for a nurse, who soon had Lucy’s scrapes cleaned just minutes before Sahara’s discharge papers arrived.
“So you really can’t get back into the penthouse?” Lucy asked.
Sahara shook her head and turned away, not wanting any of them to see her tears. But Brendan saw them and filed away the knowledge that she wasn’t nearly as tough as she pretended to be.
“You’ll need clothes,” Lucy said. “Give me an address, and I’ll go get the essentials and have them to you before dinner.”
“I don’t have an address,” Sahara said.
Brendan handed Lucy his card. “You go shop and text me when you’re finished. I’ll send you an address, which I trust you will not share.”
Lucy took the card and turned her back to him. She didn’t like him—she was used to being the person who took care of Sahara, whom she relied on, and this guy had jumped in and taken her place. She put a hand on Sahara’s shoulder.
“Do you want me to stay with you?” Lucy asked.
“There’s no need,” Brendan said.
“Yes, I’d like that,” Sahara said, ignoring her new bodyguard. “If I keep you close, then I’ll know you aren’t being targeted in an effort to get to me.”
“I’ll bring a suitcase when I come,” Lucy said.
“You’ll have to buy new luggage for me, too. Everything I own is in that death trap,” Sahara muttered.
“I’ll take care of it. And I’m going to assume you want comfort and low-key in your wardrobe?”
“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
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.”
“Surely you don’t think—”
He waited for her to finish the sentence, then saw the moment it clicked. If someone would go to the lengths required to bomb her private elevator, why wouldn’t they also try to destroy her jet? She stopped talking, rinsed out her mouth and toothbrush, and put the toothbrush away.
“We don’t have tickets,” Lucy said.
“Yes, we do,” Brendan said. “All three in first class.”
“This is going to be a nightmare,” Lucy muttered from the bedroom, having overheard their new plans.
“It’s already a nightmare,” Sahara said, now fully on board with Brendan’s plan. “Don’t argue. Brendan, I’m going to get dressed, so look away.”
“What time is the flight?” Lucy asked.
“It boards in a couple of hours. We have time. Trust me,” he said, and then stood in the doorway between the two rooms with his back to theirs while Sahara dressed.
When she was finished, he loaded them and the bags into the Hummer before sliding into the driver’s seat to buckle up. Sahara looked years younger than her thirty-three years. Her hair was dry, and she’d piled a fierce tangle of dark curls on her head. The expression on her face was somewhere between anger and despair. He hated to see the usual fire in her tamped down so early in the morning.
“Hey.”
Sahara looked up, thinking not for the first time that her bodyguard looked like a giant-size version of Channing Tatum. Then she realized he was asking her a question and tuned back in to what he was saying.
“Breakfast will be compliments of a McDonald’s drive-thru. What’s your poison? Biscuits and gravy, or breakfast burritos?”
“She doesn’t eat that greasy fast food,” Lucy snapped.
<
br /> “Yes, I do,” Sahara said. “My trainer doesn’t like it, but yes, I do. I’ll take a sausage-and-egg burrito with hot sauce and a Diet Dr Pepper.”
Brendan stifled a smile. Dr Pepper for breakfast was not something he’d imagined a woman like Sahara would order.
“How about you, Miss Lucy?”
Lucy sighed. “A bacon-and-egg biscuit and orange juice.”
“Harold sent me new ID and credit cards. Use mine to pay,” Sahara said, as she dug them out of her new purse.
“No, ma’am. Too easy to find you that way,” Brendan said.
Sahara blinked. “Oh. I didn’t think…” she mumbled, and dropped them back into the purse.
“Don’t worry. It’s all covered and often part of the job,” he said.
Sahara glanced at his profile and the size of his hands on the steering wheel and wondered if everything about him was supersize, then looked away and closed her eyes and chided herself for thinking it. No one knew the toll it was taking for her to go home. The only plus side to any of this was that her mother was no longer able to hurt her. Maybe she should feel guilty for thinking that, but she didn’t. It was the truth.
Brendan parked his Hummer in airport parking, which meant they were now carrying their own bags into the terminal to checkin. Sahara was pulling her carry-on and often running a couple of steps to keep up with his pace.
When they reached checkin and then the security checkpoint, she was recognized almost instantly, and they were forced to rush through the process to beat the chaos that followed.
Once they were headed for their gate, Brendan took her carry-on as well as Lucy’s. People began calling out Sahara’s name and taking pictures at random, even trying to stop her for autographs. It was all business as usual for Sahara, but this was why she preferred to take her private jet when she traveled.
Word spread to the usual paparazzi, who were always present at Los Angeles International, that Sahara Travis was in the building and on the move. But it didn’t stop Lucy’s intent when she held up progress long enough to get water and magazines before they were off again.
