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steps, Kit emerged from the plane's shadow into the afternoon's brilliant sunshine. Automatically she lifted her eyes to the autumn-cloaked range of mountains, the blending of gentleness and grandeur reaching on and on, finally melting into the paint-box blue of the sky.
    Always a creature of the senses eager to absorb every sight, smell, and sound, Kit turned her face to the feathering breeze and drew in the invigorating freshness of the high mountain air. It seemed charged with ozone, alive with possibilities, a trace of pine resin giving it the smell of home.
    When John Travis joined her, she turned, her glance skimming the parade of executive aircraft--Gulfstreams, Learjets, and Challengers--parked wingtip to wingtip outside Aspen Base Operations. With a nod of her head, she indicated the Boeing 727 that loomed over the other private jets. "It looks like J.d.
    has already arrived. There's his plane."
    Paula overheard her remark. "You mean that one is Lassiter's personal jet?"
    "What else?" Chip Freeman retorted somewhat caustically, leaving Kit with the impression he was still smarting from Maury's jibe. "The great man always has to have the biggest and the best in everything.
    It's a mania with him."
    "That's hardly a crime, Chip." Paula sent him a half-amused glance, her expression showing a smooth and worldly wisdom.
    His face took on a mutinous look. "The man's an autocratic ass. He thinks he can control everything and everyone."
    "Now, where would he get an idea like that?"
    Paula mocked. "It couldn't be a little thing like power and money, could it?" When Chip clamped his mouth shut and looked away, she reached out in sudden sympathy and laid a hand on his arm. "Chip, it isn't smart to snap at the hand that feeds you ...
    even if you do it behind his back."
    "If he was here, I'd do it to his face."
    "Careful, Chip," John Travis cautioned. "You're not exactly J.d.'s favorite person."
    His head came around at that, the thick lenses in his glasses magnifying the glaring look of his brown eyes. "And he's not mine. That makes us even."
    "Not quite." John's face was utterly smooth, but there was a touch of firmness in his tone. "It's still his fifty million that's funding the picture and his company that will be distributing the film."
    "And you can bet he never lets anyone forget it," Chip muttered.
    John smiled somewhat grimly. "Considering you were born without a filter between your brain and your mouth, do us all a favor, Chip, and keep your mouth shut around Lassiter tonight."
    The resistance went out of him and he hung his head like a chastised schoolboy. "I'll try, John," he said. "So help me God, I'll try. But the man doesn't know a good movie from a bad one--let alone what makes a good script."
    Two weeks ago Kit had heard a vague rumor that J.d. Lassiter was demanding some script changes. Was that what Chip was upset about? She knew Chip planned to do some fine-tuning on the screenplay as well as scout locations for the film while he was here in Aspen.
    Was Lassiter demanding more than that?
    A man dressed in jeans and a windbreaker fastened at the waist approached the plane, his tanned, All-American face wreathed in a smile, his eyes singling out John Travis.
    "Welcome back to Aspen, Mr. Travis.
    It's good to see you again."
    "Thanks, Dan." He stepped forward and shook hands with him, then turned back to the group, explaining, "This is Dan Somers. He handles security for me in Aspen. Dan and a couple of his men will be on hand tonight to make sure the fans--
    and the fanatics--stay at a safe distance."
    Kit glanced at the bodyguard, aware that John Travis never made public appearances without at least one at his side. Three years ago he'd had his ribs broken after he'd been attacked at a premiere by a man wielding a baseball bat, a man who had stalked him for months. That, combined with the rash of attacks on other celebrities by deranged fans in recent years, had served to double his already heightened sense of