Murder A'la Mode. G. A. McKevett

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 commercial 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.”

      She stood, pulling Brandy out of her chair, then hurried around the table to the other side where Lance sat. With not-so-gentle pressure, she placed one hand around Roxy’s upper arm and pulled her to her feet. “You’re outta here,” she told her. “Our turn. Same with you, Carina or Catrisa or whatever your name is. You’ve been hogging the spotlight long enough. Brandy, sit down there in her place. Leila, scootch closer over here, and let’s get this show on the road.”

      Other than a couple of soft gasps, nobody objected. Even Carisa and Roxy cooperated, surrendering their chairs and retreating to the other end of the table.

      Savannah patted her hair, adjusted her bodice and its contents for the maximum effect, licked her lips and turned to the cameraman. “Let her roll, Leonard.”

      Leonard looked at Tess and Alex; they nodded. The camera started to purr.

      Savannah scooted her chair next to Lance’s and leaned against him, making sure he had an unobstructed view of her décolletage. Placing one hand on his sleeve, she ran her fingertips over his world-famous biceps and said in a hushed, breathy voice, “So, Lance…I have a lot of fantasies about you, but my favorite is from Pirate of Wolf Cove…that steamy scene in the lighthouse where you…ah…pillage the heroine’s treasure chest.”

      Lance’s blue eyes widened, then he gave her a suggestive smile.

      Our cover boy’s wide awake now, she thought a moment later when she glanced down at his lap.

      From the corner of her eye, she could see Alex and Tess Jarvis cheer up instantly. Even Kit and Pete the soundman looked acutely interested.

      So far, so good. She trailed her hand up to Lance’s throat, where the deep vee of his shirt revealed a sprinkling of dark chest hair. “Tell me, darlin’,” she breathed, “what’s your favorite fantasy?”

      When Savannah woke at one-thirty in the morning, she wasn’t sure where she was. The canopy hanging over the bed confused her, as did the unfamiliar shadows cast by the moonlight shining through a stained glass window to her left. The mattress beneath her felt like wooden planking compared to her cushy feather bed at home—courtesy of Granny Reid. And the pillow under her head was twice the size of her usual one, causing a major knot in her neck muscles.

      But those were only small discomforts compared to the major rumblings and grumblings of her near-empty stomach. Although she was known for her larger-than-life appetite, she couldn’t recall when she had been so ravenously hungry.

      I wonder if there’s the makings of a bologna sandwich in that kitchen downstairs, she thought. Or maybe a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich, some macaroni and cheese, and a big bowl of ice cream and some chocolate chip cookies.

      Just a little something to take the edge off her hunger—that was all she asked.

      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