Arriving downstairs, Sloan and Dana find the Sharps having a leisurely breakfast on the verandah. Matt is engrossed in a phone call as Danielle flips a magazine's pages in a desultory fashion. At a glimpse upward, her eyes light up and her smile broadens.

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in!"

Matt immediately spies the pair and makes a quick goodbye before placing the phone on the table. "Good morning. I trust you lovebirds slept well?"

The pair seems to visibly withdraw into each other, but Danielle halts them with a single command.

"Come here. Now."

The pair moves cautiously toward her, as she rises. They stop and she smiles.

"So well behaved..." she murmurs, then she casually strokes each of them as she walks around them, her voice and touch firm, yet soothing, as though calming a skittish horse. "Yes, you two will be a very nice addition to our family."

The submissive couple shivered under Danielle's inspection, each of them experiencing a variety of conflicting emotions. Dana was secure in her skills as both a make-up artist as well as her ability as a director. She lacked opportunity but never confidence. Matt and Danielle Sharp had opened the door for her and given her the opportunity, but at what cost? She could not help but worry that her marriage might well be the cost, and she was certain that she loved Sloan too much to throw it away.

For his part, Sloan was confident in only two things. He adored Dana with all of his heart and soul. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were soul-mates. He also knew that he was more than capable of playing any dramatic role. He was a consummate actor and felt that his art contained there was no challenge that he was not capable of conquering. When Dana and Danielle had hatched their plan to get him an audition for Matt Sharp's new film, Soft Kill, the knowledge that he would have to prove he could play a transgendered assassin was accepted as just another role. He was proud of his ability to convince Matt Sharp that he was all woman. It was only when he confronted his own embracing of that role, while on his knees giving oral homage to the famous director's cock, that he became confused.

Matt watched the pair and observed the emotions that played across their faces with interest. He knew that these next few days were important on many levels. He had an obligation to his studio and its backers to begin production on Soft Kill. He also had a very real desire to bring this young couple fully within his own sphere of influence. That required a level of delicacy on his part, as well as a strong hand with his impulsive and impulsive spouse. He knew that Danielle had a lot more self-control than most people gave her credit for, but she did have an impetuous streak. Usually, this was a positive, in that her instincts were usually correct. He just was not eager to run the risk of losing them.

"Darling." The word brought Danielle up short, as her eyes snapped to meet her husband's. "Where are our manners? Dana, Taylor, please join us. We have so much to discuss...on so many levels."

Danielle took Dana's elbow and led her around the table to sit beside Matt, then brought Sloan to sit beside her. The table displayed a carafe of coffee, as well as several containing a variety of juices. There was also a tray of fruits and some bread. The young couple met each other's gaze across the table and then began to pick and choose from the light buffet.

"First things first," began Matt after a few minutes worth of non-conversation. "As you recall from our discussion after the party, for which by the way I thank you, Dana, we need to begin working on Soft Kill immediately. Celia Cole looks as though she may well fill the part of Agent Sarkasian and it is a pivotal role. If she can deliver, we may well have something here. As to your part, Taylor, I think you may be perfect for the role. Unfortunately, the one doubt that I have is also one of the things I find most attractive about you."

"I'm not sure I follow....ummm....Mr. Uhm..Sharp...."

"Call me Matt for now, but that will change depending on circumstance."

"Yes, Sir....Matt"

"In answer to your question, Taylor...by the way, do you prefer to be called Taylor or Sloan?"

Sloan blushed deeply, "When I am....well....like this..." he gestured to the lovely sun dress, "I would prefer Taylor, I think."

"Good. One thing settled, at least." He smiled with genuine humor and winked at Sloan while squeezing his hand. "Now then, as I was saying, I am only worried about your submissiveness. I love it, on a personal level. In many ways, it could be said that it is a peculiar hunger of ours," he waved his hand indicating his wife. "but the role calls for a stone cold assassin, a woman who kills without remorse and is always in complete control. I cannot help worrying that one as completely submissive as you, my little flower could ever be convincing in such a...."

Matt Sharp was brought up short by the change in Sloan's visage. It was an instantaneous metamorphosis that transformed the soft, submissive woman into a nightmare image of ruthlessness.

"I am an actor. There is no role that I cannot play."

"My God," gasped Danielle. "She looks like me at a budget meeting!"

Matt began laughing as the tension was broken. "Bravo...or rather Brava! Well done, my pet. Well done, indeed!"

Celia Cole was enjoying a day at the spa, courtesy of Thomas Dern and the late Brandin Jessup. It felt good to be pampered. She reflected back on the miraculous turn of events which brought her to this point in her life. It had certainly been a roller-coaster. In the past few months she had moved from NY to LA, signed with an agent who pimped out his clients on the side, had her contract bought by Thomas 'the Mormon' Dern, become Brandin Jessup's pretend girlfriend, and gotten a small, but pivotal role in Matt Sharp's latest Hollywood blockbuster. For a poor girl from Danbury, Connecticut it was quite a ride.

Fred Ibarra stepped out of the limo and looked around carefully. He heard a double click from Bobby Earl letting him know he was covered. 'Chico' Martinez got out of the other side of the car and began scanning the area behind his dark shades. Looking toward the building's glass doors, he saw the kid, Sims, casually scanning the lobby from just inside the Hotel.

"Moving"

'click-click'

He ushered the principal out of the car and hurried him toward the doors as Chico brought up the rear. The vehicle began to roll away and Fred responded without conscious thought.

"DOWN!" He dragged the principal to him, throwing his body over the stunned Saudi businessman as Chico drew his weapon and pivoted as he knelt, looking for a target. A pair of shooters, dressed as bellhops, popped from around a baggage trolley. One was dead before he could raise his weapon, the second got two shots into Fred's back before Chico cut him in two with a short burst.

'click-click-click'

The car was gone. The protocol called for the car to remain until they were inside the building. This tiny error was what clued Fred that something was going down. With no car, the team had to improvise. Fred was struggling to breathe as he heard shots from the hotel lobby. As he gasped for air, he looked around and saw two bellhops with SMGs in a growing pool of blood. Chico was commandeering a taxi at gunpoint as the Kid grabbed the principal and threw him bodily into the back seat. He struggled to drag himself to the passenger door and felt Chico's grip as he pulled him inside and gunned the engine. There was a single bullet hole in the windshield, but Fred was unable to guess when it happened.

As the heavy cab barreled down the roadway, he loosened his body armor and sucked in air like it was a limited commodity.

"Clear"

"Clear"

"C-clear," echoed Fred as he struggled to regain his breath. He was pretty sure a rib was broken, but he had no blood dripping down his back, so he was reasonably sure he would live. The principal complained, but the Kid kept a knee in his back and held him on the floor. He could bitch all he wanted, but he was alive only because they were better than the other guys.