"How long does it take her to pee?" a plaintive voice moaned at Robyn's ear.

She looked over to see a red-haired waif. Some starlet whose name Robyn wouldn't waste energy remembering.

"Well?" the young woman said. "Shouldn't you go check on her? Isn't that, like, your job?"

Only if Portia was peeing in the hall and the paparazzi were snapping photos.

Robyn had a good idea what her client was doing and it wasn't a bodily function, unless that included "inhaling." Last year, Portia had spent a month in rehab. She hadn't been addicted to anything except publicity, and realized rehab had been a sure way to get it. There, she'd made new friends who'd expected her to snort the coke they smuggled in. So Portia Kane became quite possibly the first person ever to become addicted while in rehab.

Still, given the choice between checking on Portia or listening to this starlet whine… Robyn rose unsteadily and headed for the back rooms.

ROBYN

Portia wasn't in the washroom. Robyn even peeked under the stalls for her Jimmy Choos, ignoring the outraged chirps of the chorus line reapplying lipstick at the mirrors. That row of young women, shoulder to shoulder, gave Robyn a good idea where Portia was.

While her client didn't mind having her drug problems splashed across the tabloids, she wasn't nearly as open about letting people actually see her using. If the washroom was busy, she'd go in search of a more private place.

Robyn could just head back to the club and wait, but walking – and thinking – was clearing her head.