"Sir? Sir, you need to put your seat belt on."

Arthur nodded and silently complied, refusing to allow himself to note that his hands shook or that his mouth was too dry. The sounds of the airplane getting ready to taxi to the runway were, in one word, terrifying. He hated flying! Hated it with all the passion of his soul and he didn't know why it was that he found himself sitting in a window seat with his hands twisted in his lap and his feet clamped to the floor like lead and the feeling of utter panic surging in his chest.

Wait. Yes, he did know why, and he had never hated Tommy Stone quite so much in his entire life. And the plane hadn't even taken off yet!

It was a long journey, too long. Long enough that Arthur was ready to kiss the ground when he stepped off onto it. Never mind that it was English soil and he had promised himself that he would not come back to England in any kind of hurry; it was good, solid earth and that was all that mattered.

A battered suitcase and a few frustratingly lengthy formalities later, and the man found himself in English sunlight. Well, rain. Rain. Good rain that tasted like smoke and fog and other impurities that he didn't want to think about. It had been an age!

"Mr. Stewart?"

He looked quickly around to the chauffer looking at him from under a forbidding black umbrella with a disapproving stare. A chauffer? Why was there a chauffer staring at him? "Yeah?" He frowned a little, not liking this at all.

"Mr. Stone sends his compliments," the man replied.

Good God! First the guy with the Harvard drawl and now the clipped Oxford accent! Arthur surrendered his battered suitcase without argument and let the umbrella be held over his head. The car was not, thank God, a limousine. But it was an expensive thing, with sleek interiors that make him uncomfortable for dripping damply in it.

"Mr. Stone, er, sent you?" he asked, clearing his throat nervously.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh good." He racked his brains to think of something else to say and then thought better of it. This wasn't a New York taxi driver. He wouldn't want to discuss the state of the world in the fifteen minutes they travelled together.

Arthur Stewart had schooled himself not to be surprised by the size and look of the hotel that he eventually found himself at. He didn't glance around uncertainly as he was let out of the car, or offer to carry his own bag, or even blink at the doorman's mocking good morning. After all, it wasn't his fault that he was here!

"This way, Mr. Stewart," the chauffer said.

"Right."

Shannon was waiting for him, clipboard in hand and reddened lips set in an ill-tempered line. "Mr. Stewart. Welcome," she said shortly, offering him a brief smile that didn't reach her icy blue eyes, "Mr. Stone is upstairs. Thank you, Gilly. Is that all?"

"That is all, Miss." He tipped his cap and left.

Arthur noticed that no tip changed hands. Was his salary that substantial? Well, Stone always did do things phenomenally large.

"You certainly travel light, Mr. Stewart," Shannon remarked. She said something to the front desk and then led him away to the bar. "Have a drink with me, Mr. Stewart. There are a few basic rules that we do need to discuss. Mr. Stone would be bored with them so it is best we go over them without him. What will you have?"

"Beer," he said absently, trying to get his mind to work.

"American or British?" Shannon asked patiently.

"Eh?"

"What kind?" she elaborated.

Arthur looked at the barkeeper wildly. "Eh…"

"Get him the usual, Harris," Shannon interrupted, sighing slightly to herself. If there was one thing she did not need, it was an easily flustered reporter to take care of as well as a temperamental celebrity.

Something soothingly amber and nutty was placed in front of him and Arthur decided that the 'usual' was something he wouldn't mind having the next time either. It was good to get away from the tasteless American brands. No one made beer like the English- he was convinced of that.

But Shannon was not here to buy him a drink and she had already begun to tick things off on her manicured nails. "First, Mr. Stewart, I know you have carte blanche to use whatever angle you wish, but the finished article will be approved by myself on behalf of Mr. Stone."

This was something Arthur was familiar with. "Fine," he agreed, "But keep in mind that this is an in-depth article. All new scoop on Tommy Stone an' all that. I was promised free reign."

Shannon's blue eyes narrowed. "We shall see. Second, photographs are allowed only if they do not interfere with Mr. Stone's schedule. He is too busy to pose for anything ridiculous. No indecent photographs or photographs that encroach on his privacy, and that includes with fans and persons that are not directly working as cast or crew. Basically, nothing unless it deals with work. Am I understood?"

"Sure." Arthur could agree to that. He wasn't looking forward to discussing Stone's sex life, if the man had any with that frightful mask of a face any more.

"Three, all comments and quotes are to be referenced for our convenience. Four, no other media personnel are to be involved in this. Notes, interviews, photography and writing are to be done by you and you alone. Five, negatives from the photographs you take are to be returned to us. All of them! Six… no mention or allusions to any of that Slade madness."

Ah. He'd been waiting for that. "None of that, eh?"

"None at all. The first inkling I get that you are making any more insinuations and I will slap you with a lawsuit so fast that you will have a hard time blinking."

Arthur leaned forward just as she had, smiling softly at her determined little face. "You can't sue me for the truth," he reminded her.

Shannon sucked in a breath. "I've said all I have to say. This was Tommy's idea and not mine. I wash my hands of you. One last thing- sign this, please." She tossed the clipboard down in front of him and then placed a pen on top of the papers.

Arthur looked from the written agreement to the woman sitting next to him. The barkeeper had moved away and was very meekly not listening to the conversation being held at one corner of his bar. Shannon, for all her aggression, was very soft-spoken and very careful. Had anyone looked in on their little scene, they would have seen two people arguing, without hearing a word about Tommy Stone or Brian Slade.

He pushed the clipboard a little way away and picked up his glass again. "I don't sign anything until I've read it," he told her, "I'll 'ave it back to you by tomorrow. Now, I need to sleep, so where is my room?"

He was not here to give anyone an easy time. If Shannon blamed him for his presence here, then he wasn't the one she should be whipping. This was all Stone's fault and no mistake. And if he had to suffer, then so could she. Why was she smiling at him like a she-devil?

"In Mr. Stone's suit," she said blandly, "You have the bedroom next to his."