“The director?” I take the napkin and appetizer she passes me, then try to decide how I’m going to eat it since I’m still holding my wine in my other hand. “Do you know him well?”
“Not as well as I thought.” She takes my wineglass and downs the last of my cabernet, then hands the empty glass to a passing waiter. “We used to be married.”
“Oh.”
I think of Blaine, the flamboyant younger artist who now shares Evelyn’s bed. He’s about as opposite to Michael Prado as it’s possible to be. And despite their age difference, I have to say that I can’t imagine Evelyn on anyone’s arm but Blaine’s.
“So where’s Blaine?” I ask, then blush when she laughs because I am absolutely certain she has watched my train of thought play out across my face.
“Working in his studio.” She winks. “He thinks Michael’s a twit.”
I laugh. “Is he?”
“A bit, but a harmless one. And he’s a very good director, not to mention an excellent fund-raiser and board member. His failings are more concentrated in the domestic arena.” She shrugs matter-of-factly. “Then again, maybe the failings were mine.”
“Or maybe it’s nobody’s fault. Maybe you just didn’t click.”
“I like the way you think,” she says, but I’m barely listening. My words have unexpectedly resonated with me. Because Jackson and I did click—fully and completely. And the reason we’re not together right now is entirely my fault.
“You haven’t told me why you’re here,” she says. “Personal or professional?”
“You know I’m working on the Santa Cortez project, right?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hit a little snag.” I tell her about Glau, and about my hope that I can convince Jackson Steele to get on board. I don’t mention our past. Evelyn may be in the mood to overshare about her relationship, but I’m not feeling that chatty.
“You’re here to do the business mingle,” Evelyn says. “A time-honored tradition. I’m doing a bit of the same since I’m here.” She glances around the room, pointing out a few of the actors and actresses she has on her radar. “Well, there’s someone I didn’t expect to see.”
I follow her gaze and see Jeremiah Stark, Damien’s father. I glance at Evelyn with a frown. “Guess it’s a good thing Damien’s not here,” I say, then immediately regret my words, afraid I’ve overstepped my bounds. It’s no secret that Damien and his father do not get along, but as his assistant, I really shouldn’t be commenting on that. Even to a mutual friend.
Evelyn is completely unperturbed by my comment. “I’ve seen him at a lot of screenings lately—he’s determined to get a foot in the Hollywood door. But I’m surprised he thinks a documentary is worth the drive from San Diego.”
“Maybe he likes architecture.” In truth, I don’t really care. I like Damien. I don’t like Jeremiah. And I don’t want to waste more thoughts on the man.
“Actually, you’re right. He’s on the board with Michael. I’d forgotten.” She waves the words away as if they’re just a bother. “But speaking of architecture, where is the man of the hour?”
“I haven’t seen him since just after the film ended.”
“Do you know him personally?”
“A bit,” I say. “You?”
“Only by reputation,” she says.
“What reputation?”
Evelyn’s smile borders on wicked. “Just that he has one. And speak of the devil.” She gestures to the far corner of the room where Jackson stands in the red light from the balcony. The light meshes with the gold and the blue, giving that part of the room an even more surreal quality.
Apropos, I think, considering the entire night seems rather surreal.
Evelyn hooks her arm through mine. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s go land you an architect.”
He’s alone when we start out, holding a highball glass and sipping leisurely as he looks around the room, as if taking stock of an empire. He looks in my direction, then stands a bit straighter. For a moment, I think that he has seen me.
But it’s not me that he’s seen.
He holds his hand out, gesturing for someone to come closer, and as I watch, a redhead glides up to him, her hair crackling like fire in the golden light. He kisses her lightly on the cheek, and I am overcome with two equally powerful urges. The first, to run away. The second, to slap the look of unabashed delight right off her face.
