Chapter 3

"Where have you been?"

Lainie turned around after hanging up her coat in the walk-in closet of her split-level apartment. "Over at Coltrane's bash," she said casually to the figure reclining on the sofa. Walking over to the bar, she started making herself a drink. "Want anything?" she said without turning her head.

"Scotch, on the rocks."

As she brought over their drinks, he grimaced. "Don't tell me you're still hooked on that," he said, nodding toward the White Russian she was holding.

"What can I say? I like my drinks with some flair."

"Yeah, right. I'm seen you do shots of the Three Wise Men before."

"Ancient history, Jimmy boy."

"So, why were you over at Coltrane's?"

"My, my, James, why all the questions? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous."

"You went to see Darren, didn't you?"

Lainie hesitated for a moment--enough for an implicit admission--then riposted, "What if I did?"

James shook his head in wonder. "I could never understand why you dumped him in the first place, if you're still so hung up on him," he remarked, pulling himself up to a sitting position. "With that taut, muscled body and dreamy eyes, I'd never have let him go."

"Stop it already. He's as straight as the pope is Catholic."

"And thus I wouldn't be able to work my wiles on him," he said tonelessly.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay. I know you didn't."

Lainie leaned back in her chair and stretched languorously. "We're a real pair, aren't we? Will and Grace have nothing on us."

"The public still thinks we're sleeping together."

"Well, there's that. Must be so convenient for them, to have two of music's rising stars dating within the family, so to speak. Spears and Timberlake all over again."

"Good thing they don't know we're related."

"Hey, I've got an idea. Let's pull another public make-out session, then have our press agents release a 'They're just friends' statement, superceding our previous 'No comment.' A few hours later, we can have someone leak that we've actually gotten married in secret a week ago."

"Flattering, I'm sure, but I don't derive as much pleasure from our lip-locking as you do. Besides, don't you ever get tired of playing around with the media?"

"They're there to provide news, If they don't confirm the veracity of their stories before publishing, then it's egg on their collective faces. Between the recording sessions and concert tours. I've gotta have *something* to do to entertain myself."

"Even after what you did to-"

"Even after what?" A menacing tone crept into her voice.

Sensing the shift in the wind, James wisely backed off. "Never mind. Good night, Lainie," he said as he got up and headed up the stairs.

"Good night, James."

"Would you like something before take-off, sir?"

Darren looked up from his paper at the flight attendant. "Ginger ale, please," he replied. As the attendant proceeded to ask the rest of the cabin for their drink preferences, he returned to the Times. First class did have its privileges, he mused, separation from the masses being foremost in his mind. The last time he had flown economy (for a short trip to Phoenix for personal reasons), he had been immediately recognized, and spent the entire trip fending off questions such as "What was it like dating Lainie Davis?" and "What was it like getting dumped by Lainie Davis?" Here, only his fellow passenger in the aisle seat (who had yet to make an appearance) was likely to get a good look at him. The plane was a 757, which meant that the economy passengers didn't go through the first class section--another perk. Though the wines were usually less than satisfactory; hence, his selection of a soft drink. He would have preferred a Coke, but long-time habit stopped him. Those pearly whites stain way too easily, he thought.

Quick scan through the sports section... hmmm, the Dodgers are actually still in first place despite dropping seven of their last ten. The Celtics are staying coy on who they're taking with the first pick in the draft, though it seems they're likely to go with Battier instead of one of the high school phenoms. Jordan's still mulling a comeback. Norman and Safin are both pulling out of Wimbledon due to injuries. Blah blah blah... boring as only sports could be, but he had learned to pick up sports trivia in self-defense. Makes for innocuous conversation starters, at any rate.

He checked his watch. A minute or two till the cabin door closes, and the cabin was only two-thirds full. Maybe he'd end up sitting alone after all--but no such luck. A young woman came dashing in, bag in hand, right after the flight attendant returned with his drink. Young girl, he amended a few seconds later; up close, she didn't look a day over fourteen. As she sat down--with an ease and gracefulness notable despite her age--and took a sheaf of papers out of her bag, Darren noticed that they were covered with Cyrillic characters. Now, that was odd; he had pegged her as your average American girl-next-door. Not too many of those could read or speak Russian, let alone a fourteen-year-old.

Mentally filing away the curiosity, he folded up the paper, took a sip of his drink, and tried to relax as the plane taxied toward the runway. After a minute or two, however, he became aware of a soft murmuring from the girl. She was barely reading out loud, but some quirk of the plane's acoustics made it sound as clear as if she was whispering in his ear. He had picked up a fair command of Russian during a shoot in Vladivostok two years back, and realized that while she had a good grasp of the basic sound groups, she was missing some of the nuances. The take-off drowned her out for a little while, but after the third mis-pronunciation of the same word, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Kaidanov," he said clearly.

The girl turned to him, a startled look on her face. He noted in passing that her auburn hair (with golden tones), bluish-gray eyes, and heart-shaped face were quite easy on the eyes. In fact, her... whoa there, he admonished himself. She's so underage it's not even funny.