Lucy swallowed. “I’d hardly say you were obese.” Temple still looked better than most of the tourists who got off the ferry. But that didn’t mean she was the lithe willow the public knew so well.

“No need to be polite,” Temple said.

Panda spoke up. “Temple had some personal difficulties over the spring that caused her to gain a little—”

“Don’t make excuses.” Her drill sergeant’s voice became a full-volume snarl. “I’m a fat slob.”

Lucy looked at him. “Where do you fit into this?” She paused. “And are you armed?”

“Temple hired me to help her get back in shape,” he said. “And none of your business.”

“You’re her trainer?”

“Not exactly.”

“I don’t need a trainer,” Temple snapped. “I need a disciplinarian.”

“Disciplinarian?” A series of images involving whips and paddles flashed through her head. Panda’s lip curled in an unpleasant smile, as if he were reading her mind. Lucy gave him her back. “Exactly what does this … discipline involve?”

“Panda and I have that worked out,” Temple said. “Fat Island starts taping in September, exactly three months from now. Since I’m clearly out of control, I’ve hired Panda to give me the structure I need to get back in shape.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw Temple’s “disciplinarian” inspecting the neatly organized bookshelves. With his index finger, he flipped a copy of Lighthouses of Lake Michigan onto its side, disturbing the arrangement.

“And you’re doing it here?” Lucy said.

“I can hardly check into a spa looking like this. I need complete privacy.” And then, bitterly, “My own Fat Island, if you will.”

With a flick of his thumb and a flash of an expensive stainless steel watch, Panda knocked over Field Guide to North American Birds. Lucy still couldn’t get used to his GQ appearance. It felt so wrong.

“Panda has worked security for me in the past,” Temple said. “When I remembered he had this house, I insisted we come here. It was all very Mission: Impossible. I flew in on a private plane. He met me at the airfield and smuggled me here in the back of his car.”

“I understand why the two of you are here,” Lucy said, although she didn’t entirely, “but what makes you think I’d stay?”

“Because I need you for cover.”

“Cover?”

“I’ll require special food,” she said. “Panda doesn’t exactly look like a man who’d go into town to buy digestive teas and wheatgrass.”

Lucy didn’t see herself as a woman who’d buy those things either, but she was beginning to get the point, however ludicrous it might be.

Panda nudged a floor lamp out of place with his shoe, a stylish pair of immaculately polished tasseled loafers she’d like to stomp on with her boots.