Elle knew Freya and her beliefs could hardly compare to the recent shocking events, and she had more important things to do, like finish helping Adam into his holster. With Adam’s left arm injured, he would shoot with the right, so for easy extraction she slid the holster around to the left side.

“Perfect. Thank you,” he murmured. “You are a marvel.”

She looked up into his face; he looked at her as if she was the lost soul he’d sought his whole life. The sounds, the light, the fears died away, and only the two of them existed, caught in a moment crafted from tragedy that had come too near and the promise of joy that hovered ever out of reach. He leaned toward her and—

They heard the thud of footsteps running down the stairs from the penthouse. Elle stood and swung to face the door, her fists up.

Adam touched her arm. “It’s all right. For the moment, we’re safe here.”

Elle felt foolish. Who did she think she was? Superwoman?

Clarice and a party of two men ran into the restaurant; Clarice held a short sword pointed toward the floor. In a low voice that projected throughout the room, she said, “I saw him. I saw him!”

Señor Alfonso stared at her, his eyes widening. “Who?”

“The shooter!”

34

AS ONE, THE PEOPLE faced Clarice.

The two men who followed Clarice were in disarray, their hair mussed, their clothing creased, and both looked like the kind of people who would normally take care with every aspect of their appearance.

One was basketball-player tall with shoulder-length black hair and brown eyes and lashes Elle coveted. His complexion was perfect, acquired with the help of a dermatologist, a tanning salon and expensive serums. His jeans fit him so perfectly Elle wondered if he’d had them altered, and his white starched shirt was open at the throat. His rolled cuffs displayed magnificently muscled forearms.

He was a god... He must be an actor.

“I was on the roof,” Clarice said. “Gregoire was coaching me on voice.”

The tall one bobbed his head. So, he was Gregoire.

The other fellow had wildly exuberant, brilliantly copper hair with black roots, a drooping black mustache, eyes of such a dark blue they were almost violet. Although he was a good five eleven and built like a rock wall, next to Gregoire he looked short.

These people had recently arrived in this bucolic town and unexpectedly faced a deadly situation. They were vibrating with horror—and excitement.

Clarice continued, “Sarcha was measuring me for costumes. I was holding the script out, looking over the wall, across the countryside, projecting my lines as Gregoire would have me say them, and I saw a man step out of the olive grove above town.” Clarice waved her hand toward the east.

“What did he look like?” Adam slid his hands in his pockets, a movement disguised to hide his pain.