Elegant, sophisticated and very popular with the local cognoscenti, The Bombay Club Restaurant and Martini Bistro is located adjacent to the Prince Conti. The Bombay Club features New World Creole and French specialties such as Bar-B-Q Shrimp, Duck Duet and Bombay Filet Mignon. The bar is well known for the best and largest martini selection in town - 125 variations - single malt scotches, ports, reserved bourbons and premium cigars. The Bombay Club provides room service to the guests of the Prince Conti Hotel.

Making a reservation at the Prince Conti Hotel couldn't be simpler!"

Taran could barely keep his eyes open as he reached the final line of the brochure. Already his publicist, Barbara Mellon, was arranging for a more permanent place to stay, and hopefully it too would be within walking distance of the city center, Bourbon Street and the French Quarter. He had given his opinion on that, because he didn't want to be rolling around in the limo each time he went some place fun.

For once, Taran wanted to be very un-celebrity like. He wanted to walk places (with Bruce the bodyguard, of course) or without, if he could dash out the door in time to avoid the hulking prescence of his guard. Taran wasn't a cookie cutter male model. He enjoyed life and was outgoing to the max. His celebrity status hadn't gone to his head, even though his jock was plastered on billboards for Calvin Klein across the country, and several others besides.

The Aussie model had arrived at Prince Conti Hotel, and was met by the staff. His suitcases were taken to his room ahead of his own arrival as part of their courtesy service, which he was certain cost him some greenbacks. Another thing about the model, he may like to party, but he was definitely budget conscious. His money went towards acting lessons, most of it at least. The rest was for recreational usage. He got free clothes from the fashion houses that he modeled for. Part of the perks of being well known.

Once Taran was checked in, and unlocked his door with a magnetic key to Room 202, which provided a wonderful view of Bourbon Street, he crashed on the soft bed, which absorbed the impact of his human form like a knife through soft bread dough. He struggled to get his clothing off, which made a pile on the floor when his phone started ringing. "Gee Taran I want to see ur bod!" Shite. Already the fans had a direct line into his room. Well he would have obliged the woman, but he was knackered.

He hung up on her. Then he took the phone off the cradle so no calls could come through while he was sleeping. But that wouldn't stop Paul Duggal from checking in on his prize model to see if he arrived at the hotel safely. His cell phone chimed "Waltzing Matilda" and Taran rolled over in his Y fronts and a white T to answer it with a groaning sound. "Tryin' to get some bloody sleep, mate." Paul wanted to know if he got the itinerary for tomorrow. "Aye, fuck Paul. I have the bloody itinerary for tomorrow." The rest of the call consisted of Paul making sure Taran was on time for a 9 am photo shoot in the Garden District.

Wherever that was. "Sure mate. I'll be there. 10 am, yah? I meant 9. Yah. Yah. Yah! Fer fucks sakes Paul. I am not all arse and elbows. I'll be on time. Stop being an old granny!" he said, his voice fading after raising it to defend himself. Finally the phone call ended, and poor Taran could close those penetrating hazel eyes of his and sleep off the zone changes.

He would be up bright and early the following morning as scheduled for a go-see at 9. If he was lucky. Chances were high he would wake up and go on a walkabout to see where everything was, have a few drinks, chat up a few people. But that was Taran's way of making himself at home. And he was home, right here in Nawlins.