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knife.” He
probably should have attempted to suppress his sarcasm, but she was
annoying the hell out of him with her fancy airs and graces.
    “I’m sure your table manners are delightful,”
she said. It sounded to Charlie as if she’d chipped the words from
a block of ice. “Thank you. I should be happy to sit with Mr.
Tafft. And you.”
    Cold-hearted heifer. “We’re over there,”
Charlie muttered. And since he figured it would scandalize her, he
pointed with a jabbing finger.
    “Yes,” she said—and she was clearly
scandalized. “I see.” She began moving ahead of Charlie, as if she
hoped to lose him in the milling throng.
    Fat chance. Not only was Charlie taller than
almost everybody else in the tent, but he found himself resolving
to stick to her like a flea on a hound dog until she either
recognized him as a fellow human being on this green earth—well,
brown earth here in this lousy desert—or he nettled her so much
that she lost her temper and screamed at him. That would unnerve
her completely. He knew he was being childish and couldn’t seem to
help himself.
    She smiled at Martin as if she were relieved
to see a civilized human in a throng of wild savages.
    Martin stood, smiled a charming smile, and
held a chair out for her. “Here you go, Miss Wilkes. Nothing but
the best for our stars.”
    “Thank you,” she murmured. Then she sat as if
she were a queen and Martin a courtier. She ignored Charlie
absolutely, which grated on his self-image like a rusty file.
    Feeling unaccountably huffy—what did he care
about this female?—Charlie hauled a chair out for himself, making a
lot of noise about it, and straddled it, being sure his long legs
sprawled out on both sides. Let her deal with a real cowboy
and see how she liked it.

 
    Three
     
    Amy gazed at Charlie’s legs with some
perplexity. She should deplore his abysmal deportment, but couldn’t
seem to get past admiring his musculature.
    This was surely a bad sign. It probably
signified the beginning of a slide down the perilous slope of moral
rectitude into the swamp of sin and degradation. And all because
she’d agreed to do something not quite right for money. Filthy
lucre. Served her right. She should have stuck to what she knew.
The familiar. It was safe. Pasadena was safe. Vernon was safe. This
picture business was new and frightening and therefore, extremely
unsafe, and she was a silly fool to have agreed to do this job.
    She sighed and folded her hands in her lap,
unsure what to do now, but extremely glad that Vernon wasn’t there
to see the depths to which she’d sunk. Her heart thundered
sickeningly, and her craving for the security of her old life rose
up in her mind’s eye like a shining, golden star.
    Thank heavens for Martin Tafft, who seemed to
have an uncanny knack for sensing when she was in distress. He
smiled kindly and said, “The catering crew will be handing out
sandwiches, Miss Wilkes. Peerless tries to give its case and crew
only the best, but sometimes the conditions don’t allow for fancy
meals. We’ll probably be having sandwiches for lunch most
days.”
    “Of course.” She smiled at Martin and hoped
her expression conveyed even a fraction of her appreciation. If she
were made to deal with Charlie Fox and the whole new universe of
moviemaking without Martin Tafft to ease her way, she was sure
she’d fold up like a fan and run home to Pasadena, defeated and
depressed. Wouldn’t Vernon be happy then? Of course, she probably
would be, too. She decided not to think about it.
    “Here y’are,” a female voice said at her
back, and Amy started slightly when a waxed-paper-wrapped sandwich
hit the table with a soft plop in front of her.
    “Oh,” she whispered. With a little more pep
in her voice, she added, “Thank you.” She smiled up at the girl
who’d delivered the luncheon package and discovered herself being
completely ignored. The sandwich girl was all but drooling over
Charlie Fox. Amy quickly returned