Chapter 1

June, 2001

"I just got an odd request from Chris Oliver involving you."

Darren Miles leaned back in his chair as he considered the speakerphone thoughtfully. "What could Mr. Uber-Agent himself possibly want from me?"

The phone crackled as Karl, his agent, replied. "He's not acting directly in the matter, but simply vouching for the person in question. Said person wants to meet with you regarding a, I quote, 'non-standard role.' Face to face, with no third party present."

"That's unusual."

"To say the least. Still, it's an offer."

"Any other details?"

"Only the time and place for the meeting." Karl paused for dramatic effect, then continued, "Dinner at the Penumbra next Tuesday."

"So the mystery person's going all out to impress me. Well, go ahead and set up the meeting. Worst case, I get a free meal and no one notices that I managed to get in the hottest hangout in Beverly Hills."

"I'll get right on it. Talk to you later."

Darren clicked off, stood up, and walked over to the window of his living room. Not quite the beachfront property I had dreamed of, he thought wistfully, but I'm getting there. The view from his small cottage in Chatsworth wasn't much more than the restored mission across the street, but it was paid for, and the black Porsche in the driveway as well.

How many years has it been, he mused, since his breakthrough role in 'Summer Daze'? Five? Six? It had been a slow summer filmwise, and the teen flick took Hollywood by storm. The director was hailed as the next John Hughes, and the six main cast members got their fifteen minutes and then some. Everyone signed multi-million-dollar movie deals with the big studios, he thought wistfully, except for me. I had to sign with an indy outfit that paid chicken feed (though they offered a share of the gross), but had a brilliant director and a part tailor-made for me. Still, I made out pretty well in the long run. Everyone else blew through their money and flopped in their sophomore projects (though Anne Marie now had her own TV series on Fox), and the director went back to pitching TV pilots to the networks. I made more than I expected off the indy film (critically acclaimed, bombed in the US but made a bundle overseas), and even got a Best Supporting nod from the Academy. Toss in three solid silver screen performances, a six-episode story arc on ER, and I haven't done too badly for someone whose twenty-first birthday was just two months ago.

Enough time for wool-gathering, he scolded himself mentally. If I don't get on track, I won't be able to grab a proper lunch before the Sony commercial shoot. After all, movies may be the glamorous part of show biz, but they rarely pay enough to cover the rent. And my bundle from 'Natural Law' made for a nice nest-egg, but was hardly fuck-you money. He checked himself in the mirror, dragged a brush briskly through his reddish-brown hair, and headed out the door.

Tuesday's shoot ended just before noon, and Darren had an unexpectedly free afternoon before the dinner engagement. After a light lunch, he decided to take advantage of the unexpected break to head home and relax. One thing that the media hadn't gotten hold of, he thought grudgingly, was that he dabbled in painting and sculpture. Though Darren was no more than a slightly gifted amateur, he found that the feel of clay on his fingers or a brush in his hand did wonders for his mental health. It kept him grounded--a precious commodity in a city of dreamers.

After an hour or two, his mind started to wander to his mysterious appointment this evening. For some reason, he mused, my would-be client requires a fair amount of discretion regarding his or her pitch, yet arranges for a meeting at one of the most visible places in Los Angeles. An odd paradox, to say the least.

A passing truck brought Darren out of his reverie. Examining the canvas, he grimaced at yet another insipid pastoral scene he whipped up while daydreaming. My life must be pretty boring if all I can paint are flowers and trees, he thought disgustedly to himself. Perhaps, tonight's appointment may change all that.

He arrived in his Porsche in front of the Penumbra, handed his key to the valet, and absently stuck the ticket in his left pocket as he stepped inside. "Mr. Miles? Ah, yes--your party is awaiting you in the Emerald room," pronounced the maitre d', summoning a hostess to escort him there. Well, well, that explains things a bit. The private meeting rooms at the Penumbra (all named after gemstones--how pretentious) had separate entrances, for patrons wishing to avoid the crowds and bright lights of the main entrance. Darren grinned slightly to himself. If nothing else, his presence here tonight certainly wouldn't hurt his standing in the Hollywood community. People will wonder why a second-string actor like me is meeting someone here, and the more questions, the more attention I'll get.

The hostess led him swiftly to the room. "Your party's already inside, Mr. Miles," she said before walking away. Shrugging--he was about to hand her a tip--to himself, Darren opened the door and went in. As befit the name, the room was tastefully decorated in various shades of green. There was a dinner service laid for two on the dining table. At first, he couldn't locate his host, until he noticed an armchair facing away from the door. Clearing his throat, he said, "To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing this evening?"

A slim figure rose out of the armchair and turned to greet him. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Miles. My name is Kilmeny Alastair," said the young woman in cultured, accentless English. Or rather, young girl--she was barely fifteen, and that was being generous. She was quite tall, however; she was wearing low pumps, but still came up to his nose (he was six foot two). Wavy golden hair came to her shoulders, and her blue eyes were set off nicely by the dark crimson pantsuit she wore.

"Good evening, Miss Alastair. I understand that we have something to discuss," replied Darren, carefully masking his surprise.

"Certainly. But first, please be seated. Would you like anything to drink?"

"White wine would be fine."

At that moment, there was a knock on the door before two waiters brought in several covered dishes, along with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc already chilling in an ice bucket. "You have excellent sources," Darren remarked as the servers swiftly distributed the dishes.