“He wore a casual jacket and a broad brimmed hat. Seen from a distance, I thought both were leather. Then...jeans, I think.” Sarcha’s tone expressed profound fashion disappointment.

Clarice nodded at him. “Right.”

“But what did he look like, Clarice?” Adam asked again. “This man in a jacket.”

“Solid. Well-built.”

“Skin tone. Pale? Tanned? Dark?” Adam insisted.

“Tanned. I couldn’t see his features, though. His hat protected his face.”

“Age?” When Clarice started to squirm, Adam said, “Young? Middle-aged? Old?”

“The prime of life. His white shirt looked... Well, it was too far away for me to see.” Clarice met Adam’s severe gaze. “All right. It looked crisp, starched.”

Adam nodded, a thank-you that acknowledged Clarice’s acute observations. “Go on. What happened?”

“He was holding... I thought it must be a walking stick. He took off his jacket, fiddled with the stick, then put it to his shoulder. I realized... I realized what it was, a rifle. He aimed. He took his time. No hurry...and I thought it was pointed at me. I thought... I thought...he’s going to shoot me!” For the first time Clarice’s hands trembled, and her voice faltered.

Right, Elle thought. She’s famous, an actress. She might have been the target. Whoever did this might be her paparazzo.

Elle looked around. Where was he, anyway, this Bruno? What a suspicious time to be missing...

Sarcha took up the tale. “Clarice yelled, ‘Get down!’ and dropped like a rock, flat on the ground.”

Elle looked at Adam. Exactly as he had done.

“The gun blasted. I thought she’d been shot!” Gregoire had a decidedly French accent and a stammer, an almost imperceptible hesitation in his voice, and that took him down from a god to someone not quite good enough for the demanding profession of movie acting.

“They didn’t drop.” Incredulous, Clarice gestured to the two men.

“I didn’t think... Who would want me dead?” Gregoire gestured at Sarcha. “Then he fainted.”

“I can think of a lot of people who want me dead.” Sarcha wasn’t defending himself. He was stating what was for him a plain fact. “But you—you imagine yourself a hero!”

Gregoire advanced on Sarcha. “How dare you? Don’t slander me. I am no hero. I’m a voice coach!”

Elle hid her smile. She met Adam’s gaze. He had that twist of pain between his brows, but he was amused, too. These men were so dramatic.

“Gregoire and I crawled around on the floor,” Clarice said.

“Dragging his unconscious ass close to the wall,” Gregoire chimed in, “looking him over for bullet wounds—”

“Which is why I look so disheveled!” Sarcha flung a scornful hand toward Clarice and Gregoire.

“Disheveled?” Elle whispered to Adam. “That’s disheveled?”

His mouth quirked, but obviously he was adding Clarice’s story to the previous drama, and Elle knew that he was weighing events and coming to conclusions.