Page 120 of Late Harvest

“Of course,” Bash murmured, casting a worried glance at Arabella, who hadn’t said a word since her initial attempt to leave the car. Her skin was a chalky whitish gray and her breathing was erratic. Was she going to pass out?

Bash fought to recall what he’d learned about that when immersing himself in character development for the doctor-hostage role that had made him countless millions. Well, maybe his financial advisor counted. And the IRS.

Focus! Focusing was so much harder for him when he was stressed. And he was really fucking stressed.

“Unfortunately that left your home unprotected for about thirty minutes, until Lewis could determine there was no threat to Ms. Howes’s home. When they returned here, your home had already been vandalized.” Grayton paused. “Sir, ma’am, I am deeply sorry for this breach. Our firm is fully accountable and we will make this right.”

“You did try to talk me into moving to a more secure location.” Bash closed his eyes, hating himself for being lulled into a false sense of security in this small town, happily ensconced in his Arabella bubble.

“I should’ve pushed harder, sir.”

Bash waved a hand. “Can’t change the past. What do we do now?”

“We don’t know the threat level. Was this simple vandalism or is there more behind it. We’re reviewing camera footage now.”

Bash swallowed past a massive knot in his throat, made more difficult by the onset of the worst arid, dry mouth ever. “I—I had a stalker for years. She’s been in and out of treatment facilities. She’s brilliant, but essentially harmless.”

Grayton nodded, a tiny frown between his eyes. “Yes, your assistant divulged that in your intake form. We completed an assessment and Maddy Hitchings has been a resident of a long-term care psychiatric facility for several years. As of a few days ago—we check on a regular cadence—she was still there.”

Bash wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. Maddie Hitchings, who had to be in her mid-forties by now, had stalked him beginning with his first lead role. Initially, it was benign and mostly annoying. Later, it escalated. She’d been arrested numerous times for trying to breach his various homes and—once—after crashing the red carpet and almost making it to him. In fact, his premieres were often triggering for her and they’d learned to expect an uptick of stalkerish behavior after. However, things had been quiet for a couple years because, as Bash well knew, she’d been safely in place at the best of care facilities in rural Pennsylvania, near her elderly parents.

He knew…because he’d personally paid for it. Anonymously of course⁠—

“Sir?”

Grayton intruded on his thought ramble.

“Sorry. I just—I keep tabs on her. She’s not a bad person. And I truly don’t believe her to be dangerous.” He hoped. He fucking hoped. “She struggles with chronic mental illness. And when things are bad, she thinks we’re married and fixates on that delusion. It’s sad more than anything.”

Grayton gave a noncommittal hum. “We have a contact verifying with her care facility now. In the meantime, we need to get you both somewhere secure.”

Now Arabella turned her head—almost in slow motion—to face Grayton. “Chicane?”

“He and Ms. Howes are at your neighbor’s house right now. The police are still interviewing Ms. Howes, so your neighbor offered the privacy of her home.”

“Lila Somerville?” Bash had met her several times, and she was a member of Arabella’s terrifying, intriguing wine group of badass women.

“Affirmative. Listen, I’ve talked with Brinder Desai. He still owns the condo where he lived prior to his marriage to your sister. It’s currently vacant. I can attest to its security and we are bringing in more of the team for that location and for this house. As soon as the police collect their evidence—it’s a crime scene right now—we’ll ensure the wood siding is quickly replaced. But,” Grayton halted, steel in eyes that reminded Bash of the color of bourbon, “I strongly advise you don’t return to this place for the foreseeable future. It’s very difficult to protect.”

“Leave my house?” Arabella’s affect was flat, her lips colorless and barely moving when she spoke.

Grayton pursed his lips and Bash watched him visually assess his queen then quickly meet his eyes with a small frown before returning a sharp but kind gaze on Arabella. “Ma’am, how are you feeling?”

Arabella didn’t answer, just blinked a few times, a far-off look in her eyes.

But she was shaking, and her breathing remained erratic and labored. Bash reached for her hand. “Her skin is clammy.” His heart plummeted into his stomach. “And she’s shaking like a leaf.”

“I feel woozy,” she whispered, her lips barely moving.

Grayton turned to the agent who’d driven them, barking, “Blanket?”

“Trunk, sir.”

Grayton leapt out. Through the sealed doors, Bash heard the trunk rapidly open and close—along with a cacophony of increased sound from paps, bystanders, and media.

The ex-Ranger jumped back in the front seat, addressing the driver first. “Get us to Dr. Desai’s condo. Now.” Then he turned to Bash, tossing him the blanket. “Lie her flat and elevate her feet. Loosen any restrictive clothing. Try to have the seatbelt just around her hips and not too tight.”

The car lurched forward and, now unbuckled to assist his queen, Bash almost fell into the footwell. He stabilized himself, following the sharply issued instructions. Arabella put up no fight as he eased her back on the long leather seat, covered her, and lifted her legs over his lap. Bash got the sense that she’d slipped somewhere far away.