Page 7 of Blue Moon

“You need a hand?”

“Could you just tell me if there are any steps?”

“No steps, but don’t walk into the bath.”

Yes, there was an actual bath, more like a small raised swimming pool really, and that bikini had better not go see-through. Four months ago, I would have freaked at the idea of getting into the water, but Ryder had helped me to conquer that fear. We’d spent hours floating in the Caribbean Sea, staring up at a star-flecked sky, talking about everything and nothing. I’d held his hand so I didn’t float away, all without realising that the tiny connection meant more to him than he’d ever let on.

Sheesh, I missed him.

I missed him, but I wasn’t sure I could forgive him for breaking my trust the way he had.

We sweated under the lights as the photographer posed us this way and that. When Frank Serafini showed up and wrapped a pudgy arm around me, I didn’t argue, just squirmed quietly. Frank was an old-school Italian American. He reminded me of Tony Soprano, which was another reason I felt safe in the hotel. If a stalker tried anything creepy at the Nile Palace, hopefully he’d end up starring in a remake of The Godfather. Anyhow, Frank Serafini was mostly a gentleman. His arm didn’t stray below my shoulders, and he kissed the back of my hand once his pictures were done.

“You were wonderful last night, mio angelo. Stupendo!”

Stupendo? Was that an insult? He was smiling, so I didn’t think so, but I made a mental note to ask Google later.

“Well, I’m happy you enjoyed the show. It was— Holy crap!”

I took several rapid paces backward as a man approached holding the snake. The really freaking big snake, and it looked terrifying as it flicked its tongue out, scenting for blood or whatever snakes did to find their prey.

The guy holding it laughed. “Relax, she’s real docile.”

He took a step forward, and I ducked behind Paul, who was holding his cobra mask under his arm in a way I hoped the actual snake would find intimidating. It fixed its beady black eyes on me, and I clutched at Paul’s dress. Respect to Britney—my heart would have given out if I had to wear a snake as a necklace the way she did.

“She’s probably also real poisonous,” I told the snake guy.

“Do you have antivenom?” Paul asked. “The original Cleopatra died from an asp bite, and we don’t want a repeat.”

What? “Are you kidding me? She got bit by a snake?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to be here if I did?”

Frank must have heard the panic in my voice because he held up a hand to stop the snake guy from coming any closer.

“We keep the snake away from Luna.”

“But—” the photographer started.

Frank spread his arms. “No closer than this.”

“You said you wanted close-ups.”

“You take the pictures of Luna, and then you take the pictures of the snake, and then you use the Photoshop. Capisce?”

The photographer must have heard of Frank’s reputation too, because he gulped. “I got it.”

Even with the snake five feet away, I still struggled to look anything but totally freaked out. The beast was always there on the edge of my vision, slithering and swaying. The photographer was getting exasperated, understandably so, but couldn’t he have the tiniest bit of empathy?

“Smile, darling. You look as if you’re going to a funeral.”

“And I might be if the snake has its way.”

“Clara,” the snake guy told me. “Her name is Clara.”

Good grief. “I don’t care if her name is Chocolate Fudge Sundae; I’m never going to like her.”

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