Murder A'la Mode. G. A. McKevett

surmised she might have passed Jarvis muster.

      Then Tess frowned as though reconsidering. “How old are you?” she asked brusquely.

      Savannah lifted one eyebrow and chuckled. “My Granny Reid taught me that a lady never answers a question with a number—you know…age, weight, income….”

      She bit back the rest of Gran’s quote: “Or asks a question requiring a number.”

      “You’re over forty, though, I’ll bet,” Tess persisted.

      “A bit.”

      “I guess that’s okay, but I wish John Gibson had told me that. He was right, though, when he said you’re fat.”

      Savannah bristled. Yes, she was thoroughly sick of Tess Jarvis. Sick enough to smack her silly.

      She lifted her chin a couple of notches and fixed Tess with an icy blue stare. In a low but chilly voice she said, “I’ve known John Gibson for years now, and he is the quintessential gentleman. I’m absolutely certain he would never refer to me or any other woman as ‘fat.’”

      Tess looked a bit taken aback by Savannah’s tone. Apparently, she wasn’t accustomed to being contradicted. After a long and awkward pause, she shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. “Well, maybe he didn’t use that exact word. He might have described you as something like…deliciously voluptuous or delectably bodacious.”

      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