He flipped it open to the map that showed where Farrell Champion's house was located behind the Colony gates in Malibu.

"I hate being late. Maybe we should just call in sick," he suggested, grinning.

"Nothing doing, you coward. Besides, I want to see the stars. I hear Julia Roberts is going to be there. Farrell produced one of her movies last year, and Nora said even Robert Downey, Jr."

"Shit, and us without our drug kits."

She punched him. "Stop it." She smiled. "You're gonna love it."

Seconds later they turned off the Coast Highway into the Colony. They pulled up to the guard, who frowned at the unwashed Acura. Then came the ritual giving and checking of names, the showing of the invitation.

They were validated.

A short drive down into the Malibu Colony and they were handing the dusty Acura over to a valet with surfer-blond hair wearing a red coat with gold buttons. It fit him better than Shane's blue blazer. Another valet was just driving a white Bentley away from in front of the house.

There were still a few tardy arrivals lined up at the front door. "See, we're not that late," Alexa said as she and Shane headed up the stone walkway.

Farrell Champion had built a French Provincial on two oceanfront lots. The house was grotesquely large, dwarfing its neighbors, and Shane thought it seemed pretentious and out of place, only forty yards from the crashing surf.

They got in line behind a beautiful woman who was wearing a beaded dress, very low cut, and an older gentleman with silver hair in a tuxedo with a black silk shirt-they looked like Bentley owners.

"We're underdressed," Alexa hissed in his ear as she looked at the woman's evening gown. Alexa had ended up wearing a white pantsuit with a wide belt and sandals. She looked gorgeous. Her blue eyes and sculpted face dominated a slender, athletic body.

Shane whispered back, "How can you underdress for a beach barbecue?"