Page 9 of Blue Moon

“From where?”

“Carlo’s Italian Restaurant.”

“You have the wrong apartment.”

“502?”

“That’s me, but I didn’t order anything.”

“I think a friend ordered it for you. A surprise after a difficult day.”

A friend? Luis, maybe? Or Paul? He’d practically given me the silent treatment, even though I’d said I was sorry for biting his head off, so perhaps he realised he’d been a little harsh?

“What was their name?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. Do you want the food or not?”

Microwave lasagne or restaurant Italian? There was no contest.

“I’ll be right down.”

Could Frank Serafini have sent me dinner? He was Italian, plus I’d overheard him telling one of the brutes who followed him around that I needed more junk in my trunk. Which was strangely complimentary. Most people seemed to think I was too heavy at the moment, although today’s unauthorised snaps hadn’t helped. They said the camera added ten pounds, but the camera and an unflattering angle added twenty.

I walked past the unmanned concierge desk—he finished work at six—and headed for the front door. It opened onto a landing framed by two stone columns, and wide steps led down to the street. Really, the apartment building started on the second floor because the first floor was taken up by the parking garage.

Outside on the landing, a delivery guy wearing a red motorcycle helmet with the restaurant’s logo on the side handed over a bag and then stood there. Waiting. Staring at me.

“What? Do you want an autograph?”

“Usually, people give me a tip now.”

Crap. “Right, of course. So I left my purse in my apartment, but I’ll be right back, okay?”

The guy was leaning against the wall with his arms folded when I huffed my way back down the stairs—the elevator took forever—but when I handed him a fifty, I got a mock salute and a “Thanks, ma’am.” Phew. That meant I’d tipped enough. Jubilee had always taken care of payments; my credit card was just for show. And now groceries. Caro was helping temporarily with the rest of the bills, thank goodness. The logistics, not giving me actual money. After I finished at the Palace, she’d promised to spend a week in Vegas so I could show her the Strip and she could show me how to balance a chequebook.

My apartment smelled funny when I walked back inside. Double crap. The lasagne was a smoking brick in the microwave, and I was even more grateful for the bruschetta, the perfectly cooked linguine carbonara, and the portion of tiramisu.

A receipt fell out of the bag, and I took a bite of bruschetta, then checked for clues as to who had bought me dinner. I paused mid-chew as I thought of a possible fourth candidate. Ryder. He liked to buy me food, plus he had some weird way of knowing me better than I knew myself, which meant he’d probably guessed I was craving carbs this evening.

But the truth was much, much worse.

The “Special Instructions” section had a whole freaking essay, and my appetite vanished entirely as I read it.

My Dearest Cleopatra,

I hope you’re feeling better after your unfortunate encounter with the asp. Your strength and resilience have always been an inspiration to me, and I have no doubt that they will aid you in overcoming this trauma. Someone should teach that photographer a lesson.

May this meal bring you the warmth and comfort you deserve, my queen. It is but a humble offering, but it carries all the affection and admiration I hold for you. As you dine, I hope you can feel my presence and know that I’m thinking of you.

Just as the stars once shone brightly above Ancient Egypt, they now shine upon you. I believe you carry the spirit of the great pharaoh within you, a timeless elegance and grace that hasn’t diminished through the ages. Your strength and beauty enchant me, and I feel honoured that I shall soon walk by your side.

Yours,

Mark A

I spat the mouthful of bruschetta back into the box and gagged. Sending earrings to the theatre was one thing, but sending dinner to my freaking apartment? What if he’d poisoned it? What if I was about to die? I’d typed out the nine from 911 when I remembered the food had come directly from the restaurant.

Cleopatra? Ancient Egypt? Mark Antony? Was Paul right and this guy was a total crackpot? He’d been stalking me online, that much was clear. What if he was watching my apartment too? Panic took over, and I dialled the same man I’d called the last time my knees had gone weak with fear.

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