“Look, Jake,” I said. “You’re not going to be happy. Markopoulos agreed to see me. He was on his way out of town and there wasn’t time to talk to you first.”

There was an astonished pause. “Are you telling me you went to see Markopoulos after I asked you not to?”

I took a deep breath. “Pretty much. Yeah.”

I closed my eyes and waited for the sky to fall.

His tone was flat. “Why would you do that after I asked you not to? After you told me you wouldn’t.”

“He was going out of town. I thought --”

“No, you didn’t think,” he cut in. “There was no good reason for you to bypass me. I don’t give a shit if he was going out of town. I don’t give a shit if he was going to Mars. We have recourse --”

He bit off the rest of it. There was a sharp silence. I wondered if he heard the same echo I did. Remembered the last time we’d argued a similar situation -- remembered the way it had ended.

He said into that resounding silence, “I’m disappointed in you, Adrien.”

He was in the right all the way -- no question, really. I’d wanted to hear firsthand what Markopoulos had to say. I didn’t want to wait for Jake to filter it for me -- assuming he bothered -- but that particular choice of word was…unfortunate.

“Really?” I said. “I disappointed you? I can’t imagine what that feels like -- to be disappointed in someone you trusted. How’s it feel?”

He said tightly, “All right --”

“Does it? Feel all right? Terrific! Then I have something to look forward to --”

“God damn it!” he said, and that quiet fury shut me up like no amount of yelling could have.

I could hear him breathing hard. He said, “Listen, I know you think I’m an asshole -- I am an asshole -- but this is for your protection. I don’t --” He broke off whatever he was about to say.

I snarled, “This isn’t for my protection. Who are you kidding? You’re worried about me screwing up your case. Same thing you’ve always been worried about. So don’t feed me some line of bullshit about giving a fuck about what happens to me.” Acid reflux disease -- it was becoming chronic with me.

“You don’t have a clue what I think,” he shot back. “And you don’t have a clue what I feel. I’m not going to waste time with empty threats. We both know I’m not going to throw you in jail. But I can -- and I will -- make it impossible for you to be involved in this goddamned mess. I don’t want to go that route, and believe me, you don’t want me to go that route --”

I waited for him to finish it.

He inhaled and exhaled. I had driven him to deep breathing exercises. With an obvious attempt at control, he said, “So will you just, for once in your bullheaded life, do the reasonable thing and touch base with me -- like you gave me your word you would -- before you interview anyone else?”

In the pause that followed his words I realized that he wasn’t kicking me off the case. It took me a bewildered moment to register it.

“Yes,” I bit out. “I can do that.”

“Thank you,” he bit back. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“I can’t wait.”

He disconnected.

* * * * *

“Darling, that blue is just wonderful with your eyes,” my mother said as the photographer busied himself setting up his equipment in the Dautens’ formal living room in their Chatsworth Hills home.

“This old thing?” I inquired, glancing down at the silk Tommy Bahama camp shirt she’d bought me for my last birthday.

Natalie snorted, and Lauren -- who I rarely saw these days -- bit her lip trying not to laugh. I found it entertaining that my mother never bought me a garment in any color but blue. Different shades of blue -- and occasionally a pattern -- but always and without fail, blue. I’d pointed this out at the last Christmas extravaganza, and it had become a little family joke -- that Lisa did not acknowledge.

“He even got a haircut for the occasion,” Natalie offered.

Narrowly eyeing the photographer’s shapely assistant who was positioning Bill Dauten on the end of the sofa, Lisa replied absently, “That’s nice. Are you sure you don’t want Guy to be part of this portrait?”

“I’m sure,” I said, and my three stepsisters gazed at me with interest.

“It’s too late for that, darling,” Bill Dauten remonstrated gently.

“You’re a bit shiny,” the assistant told him, and Dauten grunted.

Dauten was a big man with the LA City Council. A big man in general -- a little soft around the middle -- bald and tanned. He had that aura of wealth and power that makes up for lack of looks and charm -- but he was unexpectedly both shrewd and kind.

And he’d managed to spawn three darling daughters.

They were darlings, too. Dolls. All three of them. Lovely, charming, intelligent girls bearing no physical resemblance to Dauten -- except they all had those blazing bright blue eyes. Maybe they took after Rebecca or Eleanor or whatever her name was: the first Mrs. Dauten. Or maybe Dauten was cranking them out of a factory somewhere.

“They aren’t married, Lisa,” Lauren said. Lauren was married -- for now -- to a handsome dolt who was wed to his upper management job; the spouse had apparently popped in for dinner, but couldn’t stay for the photo shoot. I wondered if Lauren sensed her days as Mrs. Corporate Clone were numbered. She was the toughest of my stepsisters to read.

“No, I suppose not,” Lisa said, meeting my eyes thoughtfully.

“That’s funny,” Natalie piped up. “Nobody has a problem with Warren not being part of the family picture.”

“Come on, Nat,” Lauren murmured.

“It’s hardly the same thing, darling,” Lisa put in. “Adrien has been seeing Guy for two years. You and Warren have only been dating a few weeks.”

“We’ve been dating for three months,” Natalie said.

No one responded to that.

Emma, sitting next to me, fidgeted in her frilly pink dress, and said, “I hate taking pictures.”

“Emma, don’t encourage Adrien,” my mother remonstrated, and Emma giggled. I met my mother’s gaze and she flicked an eyelid.

The photographer’s assistant began positioning us around the sofa, moving lights.

“What a lovely family,” she said, and Lisa preened as though she had responsibility for the whole kit and caboodle.

Eventually everyone stopped blinking and sweating and complaining about their bad sides -- and assuring each other they didn’t have bad sides -- and the photographer got down to it, clicking and snapping away while his assistant continued to flatter and instruct.

Finally it was over. The photographer packed up his gear and his assistant and left. Lauren and Natalie immediately fled to the nether regions of the house to “get comfortable.” Emma, who had complained several times about her scratchy, uncomfortable dress, apparently forgot all about it and settled on the floor with the box for Worst Case Scenario -- and a hopeful expression.

“Em…” I said.

“Adrien, you couldn’t take the time for dinner,” Lisa said. “At least you can visit for a bit.”

By which, I understood, that she planned on having a word with me.

I said, “In that case, I need a drink.”

“Darling, you mustn’t have alcohol while you’re on antibiotics.”

“I’m joking,” I said, although I wasn’t really. I missed alcohol. I missed it a lot at times like these.

She poured me mineral water, cut a wedge of lime, said way too casually, “Natalie said that your book is going to be made into a movie.”

“It’s been optioned. But lots of books get optioned, and almost none of them get made into movies.”

“You should have had Bill look at any contract before you signed it, darling.”

I nodded, sipped my mineral water, glanced at the clock.

“I’m seen some of Paul Kane’s movies,” Lisa said. “He’s very good. Very handsome. He makes a very good pirate.”

I shifted my eyes her way. “So does Bill,” I remarked.