The basement was one huge room and held only a collection of high, small tables for setting down drinks. A waiter who barely looked old enough to serve was making the rounds with champagne, flashing a camera-ready smile, unaware that no one here was in a position to give him his big Hollywood break.

The producer, Todd Simon, wasn't coming. He was on location in Amsterdam after filming Red Light District-a controversial but much anticipated new reality show-and was supposed to have returned by now, but had been delayed. Can't say I was thrilled about that. When I'd first signed onto the show, the producer had been a real sweetheart who was also a fan, and had seemed committed to approaching the special with just the right balance of showmanship and solemnity. Then, less than a month ago, I got a fax from the studio. The producer and his entire team had been replaced by Todd Simon, a guy best known for beer commercials.

I'd done my best to meet with Simon and his team, but it never happened. When I'd lived in L.A. I'd have tracked them down myself. Not so easy now that my condo was in Chicago and I'd spent the last two months on my live-show circuit. I hated going in blind, but my future in television was riding on this show. I'd make it work.

There were fewer than a dozen people in the room. There, chatting up the model who'd be playing Marilyn in the dramatized death scene, was Bradford Grady. Not much older than me, if the tabloids were right, yet his dark hair was streaked with silver, giving him the air of a distinguished gentleman. The old Hollywood double standard.

The waiter hurried over to offer me a glass.

"Thank you-" I checked his name tag. " Jordan."

I smiled and he blinked, bedazzled. My smile grew. When I looked up, Grady was heading my way, his gaze sliding over me as he walked.

"Ms. Vegas," he said. "This is such a pleasure."