Murder à la Mode

by G. A. McKevett

  Savannah grinned. “Now that sounds like John.”

  “Of course, we all know what that means. It’s like ‘plump’ and ‘chubby.’ It’s just a nice way of saying ‘fat.’ And I should know; I’m not exactly a toothpick myself.”

  Savannah placed her hands on her waist and struck a Mae West pose. “Who wants to be a toothpick?” she said. “I’d rather think of myself as overly blessed with an abundance of feminine fascinations.”

  Tess thought for a moment, then smiled and nodded. “Not bad. I can see why John recommended you. And Lance will like you, too. He likes feisty women with a little extra meat on their bones.”

  Lance will like you. The words shot through Savannah’s brain, making her knees wobbly and causing other, more intimate, parts of her anatomy to feel warm and tingly. A dozen pirate/ knight/ fireman fantasies flashed across the screen of her imagination.

  “Take Lady Savannah upstairs to her…ah…bedchamber, Mary,” Tess said. “Get her settled in.” She turned to Savannah. “You’d better rest while you can. We’re going to start taping about six this evening, and for the next couple of weeks, you won’t have time to breathe.”

  Breathe? Breathe? Savannah thought as she and Tammy followed Mary Branigan out of the dining hall, past the banners and tapestries, past the family crests, stained glass windows and suits of armor. Who can breathe and think about Lance Roman at the same time? she thought. Hell, I’m not even sure I’ve got a measurable pulse.

  Chapter

  3

  After spending only three hours in the “Middle Ages,” Savannah had already reached a conclusion: The good old days weren’t all they were cracked up to be. In fact, the romantic era of knights and ladies pretty much stunk.

  Standing in her costume, an ensemble that she wouldn’t wear to a dog fight—or, as the case might be, a cat fight—she cursed the man who invented laced bodices. No woman would have dreamed up such a torture device; she was certain of that.

  When the make-up/wardrobe woman, a cute young thing named Kit Eckert, had laced her into it, Savannah had complained bitterly, only to be told that she’d better get used to it. She’d be wearing a medieval costume for the next two weeks. Then Kit had put a silly-looking hair net thing that she’d called a snood on the back of Savannah’s head and slapped an obscene amount of make-up on her face before sending her on her merry way.

  Many times, Savannah had fantasized about meeting Lance Roman. But in none of those erotic scenarios had she been looking like a gothic hooker with a fishnet on her head.

  The only upside to the outfit was the cleavage. Looking down at her uplifted and overflowing bosom, she had to admit that the costume made the most of her womanly charms. And Tess’s words, “Lance will like you,” kept running through her mind, making the need to breathe seem a little less important. What sacrifice for love? she kept telling herself. Not to mention a diamond tiara.

  But that was before she had been told to go stand in the courtyard and wait. That was before she had seen the horse that Ryan had led out of the stable—a horse as tall as a building with a stupid contraption called a sidesaddle on its broad back. And Ryan was holding its bridle and telling Savannah she was supposed to climb aboard.

  “Yeah, right,” she whispered, trying to avoid having her words picked up by the tiny microphone they had clipped to the inside of her blouse. “Like there’s a chance I’m going to get on that beast. No way.”

  She fought the urge to glance right, toward the big, shaggy guy who had a camera trained on her. Tess had warned her a dozen times that she wasn’t to look at the camera. She had to pretend that woolly Leonard with the mop of long, curly hair and the scraggly beard wasn’t even there, pointing a lens at her.

  Also, she had been told to ignore Pete the soundman, who could appear at any minute carrying a long boom with a fuzzy “sock” on the end of it. Even if the wind sock was practically hitting her on the head or if Pete was shoving it up her nose, she was supposed to pretend it didn’t exist.

  Pasting a phony smile on her face, she leaned closer to Ryan and whispered, “I can’t do it. I’m afraid…I mean…I’m not big on horses. One bit a plug out of me when I was a kid.”

  Ryan smiled down at her, reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. His expression was that of a supportive, caring, older brother. But it wasn’t nearly enough to convince her to start playing Annie Oakley at her age.

  “John told Tess you could ride,” he said. “You can’t?”

  “Sh-h-h-h,” she said, nodding toward the microphone clipped to his tunic front.

  “They aren’t recording us,” he told her. “This scene is just visual. They’ll play some schmaltzy music in the background when and if they show it.”

  “How’s it going over there?” Tess shouted across the courtyard. She was standing near the front door of the keep, waiting for Savannah to ride over to her.

  “Fine,” Ryan called back. “I just have to adjust the saddle.” He pretended to busy himself with a strap beneath the horse’s belly.

  “No, I can’t ride,” she said, nearly choking on the admission.

  “Have you ever been on a horse?”

  Ever been on a horse? Her mind flashed back to a summer day back in Georgia when she was thirteen. Trying to impress a boy she liked, she had attempted to ride his father’s farm horse. After two unsuccessful attempts to launch herself onto the enormous animal’s back, she had given it a mighty third effort. She had sailed over the horse and promptly fallen off the other side. And then the horse had reached around and bitten her on the rear end.

  But…for half a second, she had technically been on the horse.

  “Of course I’ve been on a horse,” she replied with what she hoped was just the right touch of righteous indignation. “I just don’t particularly like riding them. They smell and attract flies.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Ryan said, again flashing her a sweet, big-brother smile. “I’ll give you a boost up onto the saddle, and you’ll be on your way over there to meet Lance.”

  Savannah looked across the courtyard at the keep where Tess, Mary, and John waited. The directions had been simple enough. “Get on the horse, ride straight toward us and wait on your horse. Lance will ride through the gate and across the courtyard to greet you.”

  Only one ride on a flea-bitten mule stands between you and your prince, she told herself. Then she took another look at the exquisite black horse in front of her, odor free, fly-less, and dignified. She chided herself for her cowardice. Since when did you sprout wings and start clucking, Savannah girl? asked a voice in her head that sounded a lot like her Granny Reid’s. Get up on that horse before you’re a minute older!

  “Let’s do it,” she told Ryan. “Daylight’s a’burnin’.”

  Ryan placed his hands on her waist, and much more smoothly than she had expected, lifted her onto the horse. From her seat, which felt at least ten stories aboveground, she said, “I can’t tell you how stupid it feels to be sitting sideways on a horse.”

  “But that’s the way fair ladies sat in days of yore,” Ryan told her.

  “Yeah, well, if straddle was good enough for Dale Evans, it should be okay for me. I’m afraid I’m going to slide off.”

  “I’ll walk beside you, and if you do, I’ll catch you.”

  At any other time, Savannah might have been tempted to fall off intentionally, just for the chance to land in Ryan’s arms. But the prospect of meeting Lance Roman was even more enticing. Realizing that those were her two worst possible scenarios, she decided she might just be the luckiest woman on earth, sidesaddle or not.

  Her only scare was when the horse first began to move, but before she knew it, she was across the courtyard and standing near Tess, who was hidden from the camera’s view behind a hedge.

  “That’s it,” Tess was saying. “Just wait right there. Leonard—the gate! Lance should be coming through it right about…now!”

  The cameraman and everyone else turned toward the cast
le wall’s arched gateway. Anticipation built by the second, until Savannah felt as though she would pass out cold, then and there. Then she realized she wasn’t breathing, and she knew it wasn’t because of the bodice.

  She was about to see him. Lance Roman himself. And if she didn’t stop shaking she was going to fall off the horse and onto her face. And having that happen twice in a lifetime—in front of a male she was in lust with—would simply be more than a body could bear. She’d wind up shopping on eBay for a hara-kiri knife.

  Fortunately, the suspense was quickly broken by the sound of a galloping horse, coming toward the castle entrance. She heard the thundering of its hooves on the wooden drawbridge, then suddenly, a white horse and its rider burst through the gate and into the courtyard.

  It was Lance all right, dressed in blue and black medieval garb, racing toward her, his dark hair streaming out behind him, wearing thigh-high leather boots, leggings that hugged his famous muscular thighs, a blue suede doublet that accented his broad shoulders and narrow waist, a white cavalier’s shirt that was open just enough to reveal a sprinkling of hair on a deeply tanned chest. He was the living embodiment of Savannah’s favorite highwayman fantasy. And he was riding straight to her.

  The next few minutes were a hazy pink blur for Savannah as he pulled his horse to a halt beside hers and jumped down from his mount. In a couple of strides, he was standing beneath her, looking up at her with the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

  “Lady Savannah,” he said, extending his hands to her, “what a pleasure to meet you. May I help you down from your horse?”

  “Ye-es, please,” she managed to croak.

  She was going to place her hands in his, but he reached for her waist instead, and a moment later she was on the ground in front of him, her hands on his broad shoulders, gazing up into those amazing eyes.

  He smiled at her, and she felt herself melting into a puddle at his feet. “You’re just as lovely as they said,” he told her. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you.”

  Know me? she thought. Know me intimately? Know me in the biblical sense of the word? Her eyes traveled over his face, taking in the high cheekbones, the patrician nose, the strong jaw and chin line that would have been perfect for a shaving commercial. Oh, yes…know me, darlin’! Know me good!

  But Granny Reid had raised her to be a lady…or at least to act like one when being filmed for a television show, so she batted her eyelashes, smiled demurely and said, “Why, kind sir, it will be my pleasure, I’m sure.”

  He offered her his arm. “Would you join me this evening at my banqueting table?”

  “I would be delighted.” She laced her arm through his, and together they strolled through the front door of the keep.

  As they walked together she momentarily forgot everyone and everything around her: grungy Leonard with his camera in her face, Pete the soundman with his fuzzy microphone over her shoulder, even Tess and Mary…they all faded into oblivion as she savored the touch of her hand on his arm, the warmth that radiated through his shirt, the hard, rounded muscles just below the cloth.

  And the way he looked down at her, his sapphire eyes aglow, locked with hers as though they were the only two people in the wor—

  “Cut!” Tess yelled. “That should do it.”

  Do it? Do what? What do you mean, “Cut”? Savannah thought.

  “Let’s go get the other girls. We’ve got a lot to do this afternoon before we lose the light,” Tess said, motioning to Lance.

  Other girls? What other girls? He was looking at me like I was the only woman on earth.

  Instantly, Lance dropped her arm and walked away from her without a backward glance, let alone a lovelorn gaze.

  The spell had been so abruptly broken that Savannah felt a bit like a princess who had been changed into a frog. And Tess was the wicked fairy godmother who had given her warts.

  “Well, if that ain’t a fine how-do-you-do,” she muttered.

  She sensed someone standing behind her and turned to see Mary Branigan watching her, a sympathetic look on her face. “You did that well,” she said, “for someone without acting experience.”

  “Who was acting?” Savannah said. “I mean, he’s so gorgeous.”

  Mary looked over Savannah’s shoulder at the retreating figure and sighed. “How true! Every woman between the ages of eight and eighty must fall in love with Lance at first glance,” she said dreamily. Then she shook her head as though coming out of a trance. “You’d better go upstairs and get some rest while you can. It’s going to be a long, long night for all of us.”

  “No more horseback riding, I hope.”

  Mary shook her head. “No. Tonight’s the royal banquet.”

  Savannah brightened at the thought of food. “A medieval feast? Warm, honeyed mead, roasted venison, and all that?”

  “Well…” Mary gave her a quick, sideways glance that didn’t inspire confidence. “I don’t know how much eating and drinking anybody will actually do, but that’s the impression we’re supposed to give…for the camera, that is. And you’ll get to meet the other girls.”

  “Ah, yes, my competition.” Savannah looked around and leaned closer to her. “What do you think of them?”

  For just a second, Savannah was certain she saw a flicker of disgust cross Mary’s face, but it disappeared just as quickly. The young woman shrugged her thin shoulders. “They’re okay, I guess. A diverse group. A little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see tonight. Like I said, you’d better get some rest. Knowing Tess and Alex, they’ll work our butts off this evening.”

  Work? Savannah thought as she climbed the stairs to the third story, where her assigned bedroom was located. Feasting, drinking, making merry, and looking at Lance Roman’s face. How much work can that be?

  “I’ve gotta tell you,” Savannah whispered to her nearest competitor, a petite redhead named Brandy, “I don’t recall when I’ve been so aggravated, tired and hungry.”

  Brandy sat to Savannah’s right, and a pretty Asian woman named Leila sat to her left at the banqueting table—a table where not a lot of banqueting had been going on. At least, not nearly enough to suit Savannah, who hadn’t had a decent meal since breakfast, and that seemed like years ago.

  Platters of bread, cheese, and all sorts of fruit had been placed before her, the other four ladies who were vying for Lance Roman’s attention, and the lord of the manor himself. Ryan, John, and Mary, dressed in medieval garb, had also poured great mugs of golden and dark red liquids that looked like rich ale and wine and placed a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth in the middle of the table.

  While Savannah was a bit turned off to the head—never having been fond of letting her food watch her while she ate it—she was ready to devour the wee-wee piggy, even if he was still oinking.

  But then she had realized that all the “food” was fake, plastic stuff, like one might see displayed in the window of a really bad deli, which explained why the sumptuous fare had no aroma, sumptuous or otherwise.

  Even the beverages were nothing more than kiddy fruit punches of the powdered variety.

  “I know what you mean,” Leila said, tugging at the bottom edge of her laced bodice. “I’m tired of doing this same old scene over and over again, and I’m sick to death of this stupid corset thing!”

  From the other side of the room, Pete Woznick, the soundman, motioned to them, then laid his finger across his lips. Apparently, the sensitive microphones clipped to the necklines of their blouses were picking up their whispers. He looked as irritated as Savannah felt.

  So much for a romantic dinner with Lance Roman. He sat at the opposite end of the table, flanked by a blond sexpot called Roxy Strauss to his right and a lean black beauty named Carisa Middleton to his left. Both women had dominated his attention and the conversation since the taping began. Savannah had heard far more about Roxy’s lingerie modeling career and Carisa’s television commerc
ial auditions than she would ever want to know.

  Tess Jarvis had been standing on the sidelines for a change, allowing her husband to run the show. A stout, bald fellow in a gaudy tropical shirt and baggy Bermuda shorts, Alexander Jarvis looked at least ten years older than his wife. But he was as energetic and nervous as she. His voice was high and nasal with a whining quality that gave Savannah the jitters.

  “Cut, cut, cut!” he shouted, waving his arms wildly. “This isn’t anything we can use—a total waste of tape. Start over. And this time could we have some scintillating conversation, please? I’m not seeing any chemistry here, Lance. Wake up, man. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on us.”

  Tess stepped forward and added her bit. “Roxy, enough about the underwear modeling already. Carisa, deodorant commercials are not the stuff great TV is made of, okay?”

  Roxy’s lower lip stuck out in a pout, and she turned to Alex with a plaintive expression that clearly asked him to intervene. He pretended not to see, but Tess shot her a hateful look so intense that Savannah was startled. Apparently, there was bad blood between the two women.

  Carisa bristled, too, and said, “Yeah, well, you try to think of something cutesy to say when you’ve been at this for five hours and haven’t had anything to eat all day. And these stupid costumes suck! Nobody told us we’d have to wear these tight girdles that—”

  “Corsets,” Roxy interjected. “They’re corsets. Don’t you actresses know anything?”

  “Actually, they’re bodices,” Kit, the make-up and wardrobe woman, said from her position behind the cameraman. “And—”

  “I don’t care what they’re called!” Carisa shouted. “I’m not going to wear this thing for two weeks. It’s so damned tight it’s choking me.”

  “Too bad it’s not around your neck,” Roxy muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Savannah gouged Brandy and Leila in the ribs. “Okay, girls, that’s our cue. Enough of this crap already. Come on.”