Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy 1)

“It’s like a museum,” I say, then blush when I realize that Michael has joined our little trio.

“It’s meant to be,” he says. “I keep my memories here. It seemed easier than a scrapbook, and it makes the room uniquely appealing for events like this. As Jackson knows, the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project is one of my pet causes, and when they asked me to host a cocktail party and silent auction, I was happy to do it.”

“It’s a wonderful cause,” I say genuinely. “And I thought Stone and Steele was brilliant,” I add, though the truth is I still haven’t seen more than the first few minutes.

“It really was,” Cass chimes in. She’s blond tonight, and so elegant that she looks as though she belongs among Prado’s treasures.

“You’re both very kind,” Prado says, then winks at Jackson. “Of course, I had excellent material. But first things first. Before you check out the silent auction, we need to get you drinks. I’ve done enough of these events to know that there’s a direct upward correlation between the amount of alcohol that goes into a person and the amount of their bid. And I really do want this event to be a success.”

“Well, if drinking your alcohol will help,” Cass says, “then I’m happy to oblige.”

Prado calls over a waiter with a tray of drinks, then selects an Amsterdam Art and Science for me, a Sydney Opera House for Cass, and a Guggenheim for Jackson. “A Cosmopolitan, an Old-Fashioned, and a vodka martini with a twist,” he says. “But we needed to keep with the theme.”

He points to the area beneath a massive curving staircase that sweeps across the far wall. “The auction items are set up on tables against that wall. You can’t see from here, but they extend back under the stairs, and we have quite a few goodies to bid on. I’ve invited a number of people with more money than time, so that means that not only do I anticipate a significant number of bids, but there are also some incredible prizes. You’ve donated thirty hours toward the design of a single-family home, haven’t you, Jackson?”

“You did?” I ask.

“A weak moment,” he says, and we all laugh.

“I like him,” I say to Jackson when Prado leaves us to go mingle with other guests.

“As do I. My one decent experience in Hollywood so far.”

“I don’t know about decent,” Cass says, “but there’s another Hollywood experience trying to get your attention.” She nods to the stairs, where Irena Kent is descending with a fortysomething bald man with a goatee and the kind of dark frame glasses people wear when they’re trying to look hip and artsy. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place him. Irena Kent, however, draws my attention completely. She’s got an arm hooked through the bald man’s, and with the other she’s waving to Jackson.

“Well, hell,” he says.

“You could ignore her.” I believe him that there is nothing going on with him and Irena Kent anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to invite her over into our little circle. And, because I’m just that petty, the fact that he’s slept with her still stings.

“I could. But she’s with Robert Reed.”

Cass and I exchange shrugs.

“The asshole producer,” he explains.

“The one who wants to make the movie about the Santa Fe house?”

“The very one,” Jackson says. “And because of that, I’m going to go talk to them.”

“Why?” Cass asks. “I mean, if you don’t want them to make the movie.”

“Two reasons. One, I firmly believe in killing with kindness where appropriate. My attorneys can be the bad guys. I’ll be polite and charming and quietly toxic if it comes to that.”

“I like the way he thinks,” Cass says.

“And second,” he continues, “I want information. If they’re moving forward on the project, I want to know. I might learn something my lawyers can use.”

“Your boyfriend has a devious streak,” Cass teases. “I’d keep an eye on that.”

“You’re both welcome to join me. Syl?”

“You go ahead. I think Cass and I are going to go see if there’s any auction item we can actually afford to bid on.”

He meets my eyes before he kisses me, and I think I see understanding there. Cass is not quite as intuitive. “Why aren’t you going with him? He used to date her.”

“And there you have it,” I say. “Her, tall and statuesque and movie-star gorgeous. Me, utterly plain by comparison.”