Say My Name (7 page)

My eyes sting, and I squeeze them shut, wishing for the release of tears but they simply won’t come. “Just the job,” I finally say. I take a deep breath and open my eyes to face him. “Nothing has changed, Jackson. We can’t …” I shake my head, letting my words trail away.

He holds my gaze. The heat building in the space between us is so intense that I swear I can see the molecules spinning.

Slowly, he releases his grip on my hand. He steps back and I feel cold when he lifts his other hand from the small of my back. “You’re right,” he says. “We can’t.”

And that is it. Two little words, and then he turns away from me and walks down the hall. I stare after him, breathing hard, watching until he disappears into the shadows of the larger room.

He never once looks back.

The moment Jackson is out of sight, my legs give out. I sink to the ground, my skirt over my knees, my knees pulled to my chest. I hug them close, because I am shaking. Not tears, but the best I seem able to manage.

That is where I am when Cass finds me, my head down on my knees, my mind empty as I try to avoid my memories, this night, every goddamn thing.

“Jesus, Syl. What happened?”

I lift my head to find her crouching in front of me. The sun-streaked blonde is with her, standing a few steps behind and looking genuinely concerned. “How did you get back here?”

“Zee has after-party tickets. Someone saw you leave with Jackson, and when I couldn’t find you, we thought you must have come here with him.”

“I did,” I say, and hold out my hand so she can help me up. “Zee?”

“Zelda,” the blonde says. “My parents are F. Scott Fitzgerald fans. Are you okay?”

I shrug. “I’m not having the best night of my life.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, then glances quickly at Cass. “I am.”

That lifts my mood considerably, and I flash a quick grin at my friend, who has gone uncharacteristically pink in the cheeks.

“I’m guessing he said no,” Cass says.

“He said a lot of things,” I admit. “‘No’ was one of them.”

“Business thing,” Cass says to Zee. “Went south.”

“That sucks. Wanna hang with us?”

I’m tempted. At the moment, getting lost in drink and dance seems like a truly fine idea. But I don’t want to be a third wheel. Even more, I need to handle this. I need to think. I need to figure out a way to rewind this night, start over, and somehow get Jackson to agree.

“Thanks, but no.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “I’m just frustrated. But I’ll walk back into the party with you guys.”

“You’re staying?”

“Yeah. I think. I’m not sure. I need to talk to Jackson again. We didn’t exactly get off on the right foot this last go-round.”

Cass’s eyes narrow to slits.

“It’s fine,” I lie. “It’s going to be just fine.”

I can tell she’s not convinced, but she knows me well enough not to argue. As soon as we’re back in the main ballroom, I split off from them and head to the bar for some wine. This time, I take a long sip, because as far as I’m concerned, forced sobriety has been no great benefit. Heat blooms through me as the wine hits my system, and I go slower with the rest of the glass, taking small sips as I circulate through the room.

The after-party is even more crowded than the pre-screening reception, which I suppose makes sense, as a lot of folks undoubtedly showed up right as the lights dimmed, planning to watch the film and then dive into party mode. Unfortunately for me, that’s making it more difficult to maneuver, and I’m feeling a little trapped and a lot claustrophobic.

I consider texting Cass just to find her in the crowd, but sternly talk myself out of it. Zee is obviously interested in Cass, and I’m not going to mess that up just because I need a balm for my nerves. Instead, I double my efforts to find Jackson. That’s why I’m here, after all. And I’m not leaving until he’s cooled down and I have the chance to really talk to him.

I ease over to one of the light-bathed pillars and stand with my back to it, using that as a central point from which to scan the faces around me. I don’t see Jackson, but I do see a familiar face and grin broadly when Evelyn Dodge notices me and makes a beeline in my direction.

“Look at you.” She spreads her arms wide and gathers me into a smothering hug. “Did my favorite benevolent dictator actually give you an evening off?”

“Just a short break,” I deadpan. “If I’m not back in the office by midnight, I’ll turn into a pumpkin.”

“Don’t risk it, sweetie. With your complexion, you’ll look terrible in orange. Now I, on the other hand …” She indicates the orange, eye-melting dress she has on which, despite the radioactive color, looks show-stoppingly perfect on her. “I knew there was a reason I liked you,” she says, when I tell her just how awesome she looks.

Evelyn was the first person I met when I went to work for Damien Stark. She’d burst into the reception area on day one and announced to Damien that she was taking me to lunch “because the way to an executive’s ear is through his assistant.”

Not that she needed me to have Damien’s ear. A former actress, Evelyn Dodge has held pretty much every job in Hollywood that it is possible to hold, and a few that I’m certain she invented herself. Recently, she’s returned from semi-retirement to agenting.

She’s known Damien since his tennis-star days, and represented him in endorsement deals and all the rest of the celebrity nonsense that comes with being a hot, good-looking athlete. And even more so when he became a hot, good-looking athlete surrounded by scandal.

Of course, I didn’t know either of them back then, but I do know that not only is Evelyn mama-bear loyal to Damien Stark, she’s also one of the funniest, brashest, most engaging women I’ve ever met. And I am limp with relief that she’s materialized right in front of me.

“I had no idea you were coming,” I say. “Do you rep someone here?”

“Not yet, but the night is young.” She takes my arm and leads me toward a waiter with a tray of tiny puff pastries topped with sour cream and caviar. “No, I’m here because of Michael.”

“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.

“Do you know who that is?” I tug Evelyn to a stop beside me.

“Not a clue, which means she’s probably not in the business. Or if she is, she’s fresh off the turnip truck.”

“We should wait,” I say.

“We should go,” she counters. “You want the man to talk to you about business, don’t you?”

I nod.

“And you told me he’s already turned down your request for a meeting?”

I nod again.

“Then take a tip from Auntie Evelyn and talk to him while someone’s with him. He’ll either have to say yes, or risk looking like an asshole in front of his lovely young friend.”

Considering she has a point, we continue on, only to stop again when their discussion shifts from casual to contentious.

“The one corollary to my rule?” Evelyn says as we pause several yards away. “Don’t walk into a minefield.”

To be honest, I’m curious enough to do just that. I want to know who this woman is, why he kissed her, and what they are now arguing about. I’m imagining a lovers’ quarrel, and the thought is not a happy one. Not because I’m concerned about the quarrel, but about the lover.

I’m distracted from my thoughts by Wyatt’s approach. “Now there’s a great picture,” he says, lifting his camera. “Smile, ladies.”

Evelyn hooks an arm around my shoulder and we both smile for the camera.

“Want to make the rounds with me?” he asks. “You can take a few shots, I can give you a few tips.”

The offer is tempting, but I regretfully shake my head. “Mission not yet accomplished,” I say, hooking my thumb to indicate Jackson.

His mouth quirks up. “I knew you weren’t just looking to party with me when you asked for those extra tickets.”

“Funny.”

He chuckles. “I’ll wish you luck, then.” He turns to Evelyn. “How about you? Want some company?”

“With you? Always. Especially if you’ll get a shot of me with that woman.” She points to a trim blonde flirting with the bartender. “That young lady is on the rise, and she’s represented by Jake Osprey, a rat bastard of a competitor. He’ll blow a gasket if he sees me in the trades with his nubile young client.”

“You have a devious streak,” I say.

“It’s why I’m so damn good at what I do. Now go,” she says, pointing to where Jackson was standing only moments before. “He’s got to still be around here somewhere.”

She gives me a quick hug, Wyatt squeezes my shoulder, and then the two of them slide into the crowd behind me. I stand a moment longer, looking at the faces moving in front of me, once again searching the crowd for Jackson and mentally rehearsing what I’m going to say to him as I glide through the light and people. He has to see the upside of doing this project, and I’m going to reason with him, pointing out all the pros and the very minimal number of cons.

And, yes, I realize that as far as he’s concerned, working with me falls squarely in the “con” category. But there is no way that Jackson could have done so well in business if he didn’t have the ability to compartmentalize his emotions.

We can make this work—and I’m absolutely determined to convince him of that.

The crowd parts, and I once again see Jackson. The redhead is no longer with him, but she has been replaced by a svelte brunette who looks vaguely familiar. As I hurry in that direction, Jackson looks up, and I smile in greeting, certain that he must see me. He doesn’t acknowledge me, though. Instead, I watch as he slides his arm around the brunette’s waist. Her face lights up, her expression suggesting that if his movement was an invitation, her smile is an acceptance.

I bite back a twinge of irritation as I continue forward, reminding myself that it’s none of my business whose waist Jackson has claimed. “Jackson,” I say once I’ve reached the two of them. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to speak with you.”

“Is this about the resort?” His eyes are fixed on me, but his fingers are twined in the brunette’s hair.