Falling Star by Diana Dempsey

not for the
first time, that she looked good.
    *
    Suite 3800. Natalie stepped off the elevator
directly into the reception area for Dewey, Climer, Fipton and
Marner. She had the same reaction she always did when she stopped
by Geoff's firm: it made her think of an exclusive men's club.
Persian carpets. Cherrywood paneling. Tapestries hung from bronze
bars. She half expected to see aging British gentlemen in wing
chairs poring over The Financial Times , port and cigars by
their side. It was a jarring counterpoint to the rest of crass,
sunshine-bright Los Angeles 38 floors below.
    "Good afternoon, Ms. Daniels." The
receptionist was a tiny Japanese woman, impeccably turned out,
who'd fronted Dewey, Climer for more than thirty years. "I'll tell
Mr. Marner that you're here." A moment later, she said, "Please
follow me."
    Natalie allowed herself to be led down a hall
lined by offices, doors ajar to reveal men and women suited in navy
and gray wool, the only obvious variation solid or pinstripe. To a
person they were bent over desks piled high with documents and
outsize leather-bound tomes, no noise save for the murmur of
conversation and the tap of computer keys.
    "Whoa! Another hit! Yes!" A shouting male
voice suddenly shattered the quiet, a voice raised in the sort of
delirious frenzy produced in males by only two activities, though
Natalie could hardly imagine either sex or sport ever occurring in
these rarefied chambers. Unperturbed, the receptionist deposited
Natalie inside Geoff s plush corner office and glided away.
    Natalie shook her head. Her agent, the only
person besides herself on whom she depended to manage her career,
was perched on a stool in front of a mammoth television screen,
video-game joystick gyrating in his hand, shirtsleeves rolled to
his elbows, red paisley tie loose around his neck.
    "Give me a second, Nats," he demanded, his
eyes never leaving the screen. "I'm closing in on my all-time best
score."
    Which did look in serious danger of toppling.
Bemused, Natalie watched this paragon of legal skill make pinpoint
hit after pinpoint hit on alien spaceships, huge blobs of orange
and yellow light exploding repetitiously on the screen. His score
ratcheted ever higher until, suddenly, the screen shimmered with a
blinding silver flash as his own vessel, Surfboy , got
sideswiped by an alien module and peremptorily dispatched.
    "Shit!" His voice raised in a paroxysm of
glee and anger, Geoff let go of the joystick and swiveled around on
his stool. "I hate it when I lose!" He leaped to his feet, towering
over Natalie with a grin spreading across his face. "But I already
had one huge victory today so I'll let this slide."
    Seeing her agent this way reminded Natalie of
meeting Geoff Marner years before. Her initial reaction to the
brash Australian three years her junior had not been good. He'd
seemed like a New Yorker in Aussie camouflage: loud-voiced, prone
to big movements, somehow managing to take up a great deal of
space. He was very tall—she guessed about 6 foot 4—and lean, with
light brown hair and bright hazel eyes.
    But over time she'd come to trust him
completely. Whoever her news director of the moment, Geoff's
ability to manage him was spot on. He was, she realized, the only
person besides Ruth she could always count on.
    "So what was the victory?" she asked.
    He loped over to his desk. "Sorry." He began
unknotting his tie. "I'm too sweaty to keep wearing this shirt."
Geoff stripped it off and tossed it in a desk drawer, talking all
the while. "Finally settled with one of the studios. Got my client
the share of the gross they'd promised, then reneged on when his
movie was a hit. Twenty mil."
    Which no doubt more than justified the
enormous retainer the client was paying Dewey, Climer. Natalie
conducted a careful study of Geoff as he stood half naked at his
desk, rummaging in another drawer for a laundered shirt. He's a
real stud , she decided, at that moment more admiring of his
well-muscled, lightly