Murder A'la Mode. G. A. McKevett

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      The two measly pizzas that Tess’s assistant had ordered earlier in the evening hadn’t gone far with the famished girls and crew. One and a half slices of a thin-crust pepperoni pie wasn’t Savannah’s idea of a meal…not unless it was chased by a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.

      She threw back the lace-trimmed sheet and the pink satin duvet and got out of bed. After fishing around in the dark for her slippers, she stubbed her toe on an accent table and decided to turn on a light. It took her a while to remember that she hadn’t yet unpacked her robe. Pulling it out of her suitcase, she again congratulated herself for having at least a few nice pieces of sleepwear.

      Although she operated on a cotton and rayon budget, she had treated herself to a few silk gowns and matching robes. This set was a particularly becoming shade of sapphire, a rich brocade that set off her dark hair and accented her blue eyes.

      She didn’t really think she would happen to see Lance Roman during this next two weeks when she was dressed in her nightclothes, but it never hurt to be prepared.

      Slipping the robe on over her gown, she tied the sash with its satin fringed end and glanced at her reflection in the dresser mirror.

      “You look fine, darlin’,” she told the woman looking back at her with soft eyes and hair that was just bed-tousled enough to be moderately sexy. “Yep, just fine and dandy. That’s you!”

      Her morale bolstered, but her stomach still empty, she left the bedroom.

      Although she generally had a keen sense of direction, Savannah wandered around the dark halls of the keep’s third floor quite a while before she finally located the staircase that led to the lower levels. And, although she didn’t usually spook easily, she had to keep a tight rein on her imagination as she passed the castle’s creepy props. A suit of armor made her jump as she hurried by it on the stair landing, and a panther’s skin stretched on the wall of the second set of stairs gave her the shivers.

      “I wouldn’t want to try to shove a pill between your teeth,” she told the trophy as she stared at the bared yellow fangs and golden taxidermy eyes.

      As well as its eccentric décor, the keep had a thick, heavy silence about it that was broken only by the occasional creak of Savannah’s footsteps on the wooden stairs and the far-off yelping of some coyotes in the distant hills.

      But that was fine with Savannah, who wanted complete solitude on this little excursion. If she could just find her way to the kitchen, score a triple-decker sandwich and a dessert of some sort, and return to her room undetected, she would be a happy wench, indeed. The last thing she needed right now was to run into one of those other—

      “Roxy!” she said as she reached the bottom of the staircase and nearly ran headlong into the blonde, who was headed up, an apple in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

      Like Savannah, Roxy was in her nightclothes, but as Savannah might have expected of a professional lingerie model, her gown and robe were a cut above anything in Savannah’s wardrobe. Upon closer inspection of Roxy’s plunging neckline, Savannah decided that the black silk gown with its strategically placed lace inserts was definitely a few cuts below anything she would wear…even on a hooker stakeout.

      For a moment Roxy looked flustered to be running into anyone, even a bit guilty as she stammered out an explanation. “I, um, was still a little hungry, and I’m on this ten-day, apple-and-water-only diet and didn’t eat any of the pizza tonight and….”

      Savannah shook her head in disgust. “Shoot, girl, you don’t have to apologize to me for what you eat. If you want an apple, have one. But you need a big hunk of cheese and a glass of wine to go with it, and maybe a handful of cashews, too.”

      Roxy’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped, as though she had just heard a string of blasphemy. “Why…why…no! I couldn’t. I…oh….” Then Roxy took a long look up and down Savannah’s figure and a nasty smirk appeared on her face. “But, I guess you could,” she said, “and do…quite often.”

      Savannah gave her a too-sweet smile in return. “I do,” she said, “and I highly recommend it. How do you think I got this divine cleavage? It sure wasn’t from eating apples and drinking water. I have better things to do than spend my life in a bathroom.”

      Leaving Roxy to ponder the possible disadvantages of her apple diet, Savannah made her way through the dark maze of the downstairs hallways to the back of the building, where she had caught a glimpse of a kitchen during their brief tour.

      As she approached the kitchen’s open door, she heard the murmur of lowered voices coming from inside. And her heart skipped a beat as she got closer because, even though she couldn’t hear their distinct words, she recognized the male voice as his.

      Apparently Lance himself couldn’t sleep tonight either.

      When she entered the room, she saw Lance and Mary Branigan sitting on high stools at the center island. A large stained glass lamp shade, suspended over the marble-topped counter, lit Lance’s dark hair and bronzed skin, giving him an aura that was almost other-worldly. Savannah had to fight the urge to just stop dead in her tracks and stare at him for an hour or two.

      The fact that he was wearing a simple gray UCLA sweatshirt and a pair of well-worn jeans did nothing to detract from his appeal. In fact, Savannah considered it all the more amazing that this Grecian god of gorgeousness would deign to walk among them, dressed like a mere mortal.

      He and Mary didn’t seem to notice her at first, so intent were they on their conversation. When, finally, Mary looked her way, she jumped and said, “Oh, hi.” She nudged Lance’s forearm. “Look, Lance; it’s Savannah.”

      He turned his head and locked eyes with Savannah. Again, her knees weakened, and the thought passed through her head that if she were to just fall down on the floor for no apparent reason, it would be most embarrassing, indeed. How could you gracefully explain how you tripped over your own feet when you weren’t even walking? It was about as difficult as trying to look cool while choking on your own spit during an important and tense conversation—something she had done more often than she cared to admit.

      Legs, don’t fail me now, she thought as she walked across the flagstone floor to the island where they sat. She noticed that Mary was also in her nightclothes, a simple white gown with a cheap purple velour robe. Her hair was mussed, as though she, too, had just rolled out of bed.

      A heavy silence hung in the air, along with a whiff of tension. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” she said, looking from one to the other.

      Mary and Lance glanced at each other, then Mary giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. “Just some gossip,” she said.

      “Something juicy?” Savannah asked.

      Lance shrugged. “Just your standard, on-set rumor mongering.”

      More interested in food than gossip, Savannah looked around the kitchen with single-minded purpose. Ordinarily she might have taken time to admire the rustic ambiance: the giant, stone fireplace with its iron spit, the stained glass-fronted cabinets, the marble counters and copper sinks. But not with her stomach growling and her blood sugar level dropping by the moment.

      It was only when she had stuck her head into the double-wide refrigerator that she realized—this was the perfect moment to score some contest points.

      She looked over her shoulder СКАЧАТЬ