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the knife.”
    She nodded. “But there are as many of your prints on the knife as his. His lawyer claims that you two have history and simply got into an altercation on the street. He says the knife was yours.”
    “Well, shit, I never saw the bastard before in my life.”
    “I don’t suppose you can prove that? Or prove that he threatened you? Officer Johns has combed the neighborhood looking for witnesses but hasn’t found any. Did any cars drive by, do you remember?”
    He shook his head. “No. That’s such a steep side street, not many cars use it.” He tamped down the knot in his gut. “What does his lawyer mean about history? I walked up that street and the guy followed me. End of story.”
    “He maintains you and Fogarty knew each other previously. Fogarty says you saw him, attacked him, then called the police and made up the story.”
    “It’s just not true.”
    “Well, unless you can prove you didn’t know each other, it’s likely to end up a case of ‘he said, he said.’ You weren’t hurt. Barely even dirty, as I recall. So whatever happened, you got the best of it. For the moment we’ll leave it at that.” She rose.
    Ru stood as well. “What exactly were you expecting me to say?”
    “I simply wanted to know if you’d ever met Fogarty in the past. I have your answer. Thank you for coming in.” She didn’t smile.
    Neither did Ru.

Chapter Seven
     
     
    GRAY PULLED on a hoodie over his T-shirt and glanced in the closet mirror. Benson swore he was going to get shot as a gang member someday, but hell, he hated disguises, and arriving at Ru Maitland’s in a wig and phony mustache was too lame to contemplate. Hell, going anywhere near Ru Maitland on purpose was too dumb to contemplate, but Gray hadn’t lied. Somehow Ru made the story of Hamlet come alive for him. Maybe, just maybe, Ru could help him not suck totally at this ridiculous enterprise.
    “Darling, Mommy and Daddy really want to take us to dinner tonight.”
    Gray walked out of the closet and faced Penelope, who leaned back, decorating the king-size bed. Yes, she was beautiful and smart, but why the fuck did she pose her way through life? Look who’s talking. He shook his head. “Sorry, but I’ve got to do this. It’s important. I don’t want to bomb on this performance, seriously.”
    She held up a manicured finger. “A, you’re a great actor. B—” She popped up the second finger. “—who the fuck really cares about a prissy performance in a Podunk town? You’re Gray Anson, after all.”
    “Thanks for the vote, but this is important to me. There will be a lot of press there. I want to do good. Hell, even my folks are coming.”
    She frowned. “Your fans won’t care a whit.”
    “But I will.”
    “So you’ve hired a drama coach? Really?”
    “Uh, yeah.” No need to be too specific. He glanced at his watch. “And I have to get going. It’s not the only session. I’m at this until I get it right—or I have to show up for a shoot, whichever comes first. You might as well go home. I don’t want you wasting your important time here.”
    Her frown deepened. “Don’t you want me with you?”
    “Of course.” The lie tasted bitter. “But I don’t know how else to say this is something I have to do—for me. Please.”
    She smiled. “Okay. I want you to be happy. I’ll go home tonight and have dinner with Mommy and Daddy. That will settle them down. I’ll call you tomorrow, and you can let me know when to come back.”
    “Deal. Now I have to get going.”
    “Kiss.” She puckered her lips.
    He forced the smile, crossed to the bed, and kissed her. She threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer, plunging her tongue into his mouth. For a second he pulled back— quit that . He let his own tongue tangle with hers. When she pulled away, she gazed at his face. “Don’t be too long at this dramatic-training business. We have some serious sex on the horizon.”
    “You got it.” He kissed her