L.A. Confidential. Julie Kenner

and he leaned back, eyeing her speculatively. Her nerves were about to shift into overdrive when he said, “I read your script.”

      “Only Angels?”

      When he nodded, her stomach twisted. She wondered not only why he’d read the thing, but what he’d thought of it. She’d written it more than a year ago and entered it in a contest at her professor’s urging.

      “I’m one of the sponsors of the fellowship program,” he said, answering one of her unasked questions. “You have a flair for comedy. The script was charming.”

      Her smile felt as watery as her knees, and she kept a firm hold on the back of the bar stool. “I’m glad you thought so,” she said, thrilled to find her voice was functioning. “It didn’t win,” she added, then immediately kicked herself for sounding petty.

      He laughed, and she felt even smaller, at least until he said, “Not the fellowship, no.” He leaned closer, in front of her to grab a napkin off the bar. “But it just may have won you a job.”

      At that, she almost lost her balance, and she grabbed onto the solid mahogany of the bar. “Excuse me?”

      “I’ve been talking with your professors, looking over your work. I’ve got a job for you, if you want it.”

      “A job?” she repeated stupidly. “Working with you?”

      His grin was slow—probably he was used to people being in utter awe of him. “Of course. That is, if you think you’re up for it.”

      Up for it? Of course she was up for it. The one thing she wanted most in the world had just been dropped in her lap. A job. A real career working with the Drake Tyrell.

      “Of course, you’ll have to move to New York.”

      She blinked. “Of course,” she murmured, trying not to scowl. How stupid of her to not have realized right off. As did Woody Allen and a handful of other producer/directors, Tyrell worked out of New York, refusing to set foot in Los Angeles unless absolutely necessary.

      She didn’t have a clue why he avoided California. Fear of earthquakes, an allergy to smog, an intense hatred of freeways…who knew? Didn’t much matter. The bottom line for her was simple—work for Tyrell, move to New York. Cut, mark it, that’s a wrap.

      He watched her, silent, not pressing, but neither did he offer to give her time to make up her mind. People like Tyrell expected action—folks jumped when they said “Boo.” If she wanted the job, she had to let him know before he walked away. Every instinct in her body told her to jump at the chance. This was her career, after all.

      And then there was Ken.

      Her eyes welled, and she blinked back the tears, annoyed with herself for being so emotional. She made a point of being perfectly sensible where her career was concerned, but that didn’t change the fact that she and Ken had become remarkably close, and it was going to tear her up inside to move so far away.

      But she’d worked her tail off for years—all with the goal of one day being a full-fledged player in the Hollywood scene. She had to grab her chance while she could. Opportunity was pounding on her door; she needed to open the dead bolt and let it in.

      Surely Ken would understand. After all, just this very night he’d taken the first step toward realizing his own ambition. And it wasn’t as if they were engaged or anything. Besides, she wasn’t breaking up with him, just moving away. She’d come back when she’d made something of a name for herself—hopefully sooner rather than later.

      The bottom line was, she had to take the job. If she didn’t, for the rest of her life she’d wonder “What if?”

      “Lisa?” At Tyrell’s voice, she sat up straighter, pulling her thoughts together into one cohesive package. “Are you interested?”

      A real job, working for Drake Tyrell. Scary, but undeniably enticing. And everything you’ve ever dreamed of wrapped up in one package. There was no way she could say no, no way at all. This was her dream. Her life.

      Taking a deep breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach, she looked Drake in the eyes. “Absolutely.” She held out her hand for him to shake. “I won’t disappoint you.”

      1

      Five years later…

      AS ALWAYS during the lunch rush, every seat at Oxygen was full, and the hostess was issuing pagers to the intrepid souls who hadn’t thought to make reservations and were now faced with a two-hour wait. At least at lunch they had the option of waiting. During the dinner hours those without reservations were politely turned away, and even clients with reservations usually waited at least half an hour.

      The difficulty in getting a table didn’t seem to bother the patrons. For that matter, it seemed to add to the clamor to be among those who dined regularly at the trendy restaurant—which, of course, was exactly what Ken had planned.

      Still, the crowds were intense, and when he had first realized just how huge a success the restaurant was going to be, Ken had considered expanding. Brant Tucker, who owned the Bellisimo Hotel, had agreed to let the restaurant take over almost the entire mezzanine, and Ken had even gone so far as to hire an architect.

      In the end, though, he’d decided to keep his firstborn just the way it was. More than one review had raved about the cozy atmosphere, and Ken wasn’t inclined to take risks with the establishment that had literally launched his career.

      Instead he’d compromised by opening a north location in Malibu and a south location in Marina Del Rey. With more capacity, the satellites were soon doing more business than the original location. But the first restaurant held a special place in Ken’s heart. And even after he’d opened a half dozen other restaurants with different names, he spent most lunch hours and weekend nights at the original Oxygen.

      There were days when he still couldn’t get his mind around the extent of his success. Five years ago he’d mortgaged himself to the hilt to get it up and running, but he’d actually pulled it off—and in a big way. Not bad for a college dropout from Blanco, Texas. He wished his parents were still alive to see it, but he knew they’d have been proud.

      It was his mother to whom he owed his success. She convinced his father to open a BBQ restaurant on the town square when Ken was just a toddler. He grew up in that kitchen, helping his mom when he could, getting underfoot and generally being a pest most of the time. But he saw how the town folk gravitated to the humble spot. And by the time he was in high school, On the Square had become the local after-school, after-work, after-church hangout.

      It didn’t take Ken long to realize he wanted to create something like that. A miniature town meeting hall. A place folks could come and enjoy the food, drink a little, dance a little, and have a good time.

      He’d started out by studying business at the University of Texas, earning his tuition by working in every restaurant that would have him. At first he’d planned to open a simple restaurant in Austin, figuring its laid-back community would be perfect for what he’d had in mind.

      But then one drunk driver had changed everything. Suddenly his parents were dead. His home had been ripped out from under him, and he’d felt more lost than he’d ever imagined possible. Uncomfortable in his own skin, he’d dropped out of college and escaped to the West coast, drowning his grief in a newly fueled ambition. He may have started out only wanting to operate a dive reminiscent of his mother’s place, but he’d accomplished so much more. He’d become a rich man, powerful in the industry.

      As usual, this afternoon he was moving among the tables, shaking hands and greeting the attorneys and brokers who made up the majority of the regular lunch crowd. He was chatting with a newly elected judge when he noticed one of the restaurant’s publicists, Marty Talbot, waving at him from a two-top across the room. After excusing himself, Ken headed over, greeting a few regulars along the way.

      “I didn’t expect to see you today, Marty. I figured you’d be tired of me after we spent all day yesterday