“You’re wicked.”
“When I have to be.”
Cassie had a sudden mental image of Ineesha in her long dress on some kind of weightlifting machine, her back muscles visibly straining as she moved a bar, her body sweating all over her designer gown. “Not a pretty image.”
Trent bent closer to Cassie and said, “I’ll get the drinks. Be right back.” She nodded and he smiled slyly. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Oh, wow, so you two are back together?” Cherise asked, her gaze following Trent as he slipped around a large group of guests and made his way to the bar.
“I guess.”
“Looks like he’s really into you.” Cherise’s eyes thinned before she sighed wistfully. “Must be nice.”
“It is. Mostly.” Except when you act like a jealous idiot and accuse him of being in love with your sister.
Dragging her gaze away from Trent’s backside, Cherise rimmed the edge of her glass with a manicured finger. “I don’t suppose there’s any word on Allie?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad,” she said without much empathy. “I’m sorry. But, you know she was kind of a pain to work for, but way better than Brandon. He’s . . .”
“All about himself.”
Cherise nodded, her eyebrows pulling together, her voice a barely audible whisper. “I think he’s dating someone, but he’s keeping it very hush-hush.”
“Probably until after the movie’s out for a while,” Cassie said. “For the fans. They want to think that he’s still in love with Allie.” She made a sweeping gesture with one hand to the horrible stages of Allie lining the vast room. “For this. To keep up the fantasy. To sell more tickets.”
“Maybe.” Another swallow from her glass. Her lips pursed as if she’d just thought of something bothersome. “You know, I have this feeling . . . I mean he’s never said it, of course, but . . . I think he never got over Allie.” The words had a bit of bitterness to them and the corners of Cherise’s mouth turned down. Cassie couldn’t help but wonder if McNary’s assistant had a secret crush on her boss. It wouldn’t be the first time and, of course, McNary was considered a heartthrob.
Laura Merrick passed by and offered a quick, conspiratorial smile. “Not as fun as I’d hoped this would be,” she said on her way to the bar. “Kind of a pall over the place. It’s as if Allie is here and she’s not here, y’know?” Hitching her chin toward the set of Shondie in the mental hospital, she shook her head. “Macabre, if you ask me. Arnette’s idea of art.” She looked past Cassie and added, “Uh-oh, here comes Picasso now. Talk later,” and with Cherise in tow drifted toward the open bar where a crowd had gathered and two bartenders were busy mixing drinks.
“Cassie! There you are!” In a black suit and matching open-throated shirt, Dean Arnette approached. His smile, beneath his signature glasses, was wide. Friendly. He seemed pumped to be in the room.
“Hi,” she said.
Tall, rail thin with a shaved head and hint of a beard, Arnette gave her one of those almost-hugs. As if he were actually glad to see her. As if he hadn’t been ducking her calls.
As Arnette gave her a little space, Cassie caught a glimpse of Trent returning with their drinks. Walking carefully, agilely avoiding other guests while balancing the half-full glasses, Trent slid around the producer to hand Cassie her drink.
She held up the drink in shades of orange and yellow. “What is this?”
“Tequila sunrise. Signature for the party tonight, I guess. Kind of retro.”
“Shondie drank it in a bar scene,” Arnette clarified, “the character Allie played.” He had the good sense to appear grave for a second, then said, “You’re Cassie’s husband.” Quickly he stuck out his hand. “Dean Arnette. The director of Dead Heat.” He flashed a quick smile as they shook. “I’m surprised we haven’t met before.” He acted as if Cassie were his long lost daughter rather than someone he’d deftly avoided.
“You know,” Cassie said, “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”
“Oh, right. Right. I know. Sorry. I’m just busy as hell right now.” With a sweeping gesture, he motioned to the surroundings. “You know, putting this together was almost as difficult as filming the damned movie.” As if he’d personally constructed the sets, hired the caterers, and overseen the publicity when he had assistants and minions doing the actual work. He flashed his grin then and it seemed practiced and false. “I’m so sorry your mother couldn’t come. How is she holding up?”
Inwardly Cassie tightened. Suddenly she didn’t want to divulge a word to Arnette. Her skin actually crawled as he studied her intently. As if he cared. “She’s fine,” she lied.
“Well, we all miss Allie. I had hoped she would, you know, show up before tonight. God, it’s awful.” He shook his head, the sweat on his bald pate visible in the light from the chandeliers.
“It is.” Cassie nodded. “I was hoping to talk to you about her.”
“Of course! Any time.” Arnette was already looking around, searching for an escape route, someone more important so he could slither away.
“How about tonight?”