Tiffany was not used to being ignored. Not that she was beautiful in the classic sense-surviving as an actress required a brutal honesty which forbade her that particular delusion-but her mane of auburn hair, slightly slanted cat eyes, and ample curves exuded an earthy sensuality that usually guaranteed that men would make room for her in any conversation. As such, she found herself growing increasingly vexed at feeling all but invisible in a room filled by a crowd which was predominantly male.
Fighting a frown (frowns cause wrinkles, darling), she surveyed the gathering again. The chairs from the earlier briefing had been pushed back against the walls, creating an open area in which the Legionnaires stood clustered about in small groups-small closed groups which seemed oblivious to all else in the room except those people they were talking to immediately.
After having eased up to a few of these groups, only to finally wander away again when no one acknowledged her presence, Tiffany was ready to try a new tactic. Moving in a controlled drift, she took up a station near the mini-bar which had been set up at one end of the room … like any good predator, waiting for her prey near the water hole.
True to her observations, she didn’t have long to wait. If nothing else, the actors had that in common with the Legionnaires. Neither group was likely to squander the opportunity of free drinks at an open bar.
One Legionnaire detached himself from his group and strode over to the bar.
“Scotch, double, rocks,” he told the bartender in the universal shorthand of a confirmed lounge lizard.