I smiled blandly. "I'm sure Cy would've loved to find out how the competition did things."
"Oh, 'The Governor' always had complicated motives," Meyers said with a chuckle. "Well, mine are simple. Get the best. Glad to have you on board."
"Actually, Mr. Meyers-"
"David, please."
A small warning bell rang in my head. All too often when a middle-aged executive insists a younger woman use his first name, it's a prelude to hitting on her. I pressed on. "David. I hate to talk shop with you on a party night, but-"
"Of course, of course!" He gestured toward the front room and we walked slowly toward the caterer pouring red wine as we talked. "You've learned by now that 'business hours' never end in show business."
I gave him a more genuine smile as I took the full glass being handed to me by a white-jacketed caterer and waited until he had a glass as well. A full-bodied California red, of course, from the vineyard in Napa that Grandpa Cy had bought before the fad of owning wineries had taken off. I took a sip and thought, okay, here goes, he just complimented you about work. Now's the perfect time to pitch him. "I've been kicking around this idea," I began.
That was as far as I got. "David! So glad you're here." Grant Randolph put a chummy hand onto Meyers's shoulder. With barely a nod at me, off he went, buttonholing Meyers about some deal they were working on as if I were not even there. After several minutes I finally excused myself, pretending I needed to return to hostess duties.
I wondered. Maybe if I were taller they wouldn't be able to ignore me so easily? If I saw eye to eye with them? I should see if I can try on some of Sakura's heels after all.
"Stripper shoes" she called them, and they were toweringly tall, but they were becoming all the rage now, despite the name. Or maybe because of? Showing your bra strap and the top of your thong was fashionable now, too. If the shoes put me on the level with the guys, though, maybe it would be worth it. That is, if I didn't break my neck trying to wear them …
And who was I kidding? If I wanted to be taken seriously by the "boys," then "stripper shoes" were probably not the way.
I caught sight of Axel and Sakura on the far side of the courtyard. Axel was holding something in his hands. Oh, a Grammy Award. Next to him was the tall man with the long black hair I'd seen at the ceremony, a bandmate whose name I had already forgotten. Maxim, maybe? They were being congratulated by various other guests. Good. Accepting congratulations would probably keep Axel busy all night.
I wondered what he'd told his bandmates about the limo ride. If he kept his promises, nothing.
I looked for his manager, though, to thank her for the shoes and, I confess, to make sure our PR stories were going to match. She was an image-maker. I thought she would understand.
But before I could find her I ran into Conrad Schmitt.
Not that long ago I had thought of him as a benign, grandfatherly presence. He had been Cy's lawyer and confidant for years and had been a regular presence here at the house throughout my childhood. He had brought Christmas presents for me and Gwen when we were young and had arranged horseback riding lessons for Gwen when she'd been trying to convince my father and grandfather to build a stable.
But lately I had seen entirely too much of Mr. Conrad L. Schmitt, Esquire. He was not only the executor of my grandfather's will, he was a majority stockholder on the board of CTC, and also happened to be the longest tenured member of The Governor's Club.
And, as it turned out, a condescending pain in the ass.
"Rickanna Hamilton," he said, using my full name as if I were a five-year-old, and complimenting me like one, too: "Don't you look simply perfect in that dress." He kissed me wetly on the cheek. Ick.
"Good to see you, Mr. Schmitt."
He chuckled at my formal use of his last name but did not insist I call him Conrad. "I see quite a number of young starlets here tonight. This is your influence, darling."
"Oh, hardly," I demurred. If the Governor's Mansion had become a hipper place for the glitterati than it had been a few years ago, I supposed it could be ascribed to me and Gwen, but I wasn't about to say that.
Schmitt's eyes twinkled. "Now if only you can influence some of your generation to join our … other soirees."
I hid my shock that he would even hint at that in the open and gave him a look my grandfather had called "lizard eye." Apparently my grandmother had one that could freeze a man in his tracks. Her eyes would slit open like a dragon being disturbed from a nap, and then her pupils would slowly rotate to the side until she was looking right at you … Oh, if looks could kill, he would say. That look could freeze the testicles off an orangutan.
But Schmitt was no orangutan. I gave him the lizard eye and he merely chuckled like a schoolboy before patting me on the arm.
"By the way," I asked, "has the date been set yet for the shareholders meeting?"
"Oh, don't worry yourself about that, Ricki."
"I'd like to address them."
"It's going to be such a full meeting, though. I'm not sure when we'd fit you in. Better that you attend the, ah, meet and greet so you can have some quality time with them, one on one. I'll steer you to the ones who matter most."
"Mr. Schmitt, you needn't worry that I'll embarrass myself or the company the way my father did-"
"No, no, no, that's not a concern at all, my dear, I assure you! It's entirely logistics. Perhaps we can get it on next year's agenda, though. Oh, look, have you met Sun-Lee? Best Female Vocal Performance for the theme song to Miami Thunder! I must congratulate her."
He swanned off to fawn over another starlet, a K-Pop singer who had recently made the transition to Hollywood and who they were still trying to break big into the American mainstream. I decided to wait until Schmitt wasn't talking to her to approach her.
The place was filling up quite a bit. Much as I wanted to disagree with everything Schmitt said on principle, he was right. The Governor's Mansion had always been a place where the CEOs and financiers of Hollywood, the power players, came to rub elbows with each other and a smattering of "it" stars. The stars had been somewhat thinner in recent years, while my grandfather had been ill and Gwen and I had been off at school, but now it seemed like those with star power were coming back.
I watched Axel exchange cheek kisses with Sun-Lee and felt a surge of … of … something.
Damn him anyway. The faster I forgot about him the better.
* * *
AXEL
Hot damn. I think I didn't appreciate the moment I heard about the win as much as I might have if I hadn't been so lovedrunk. Honestly, I'm not sure even winning a Grammy can compare to the bliss that was having a sweaty, orgasm-limp Ricki Hamilton in my arms.
But holding the statue for the first time was pretty cool. Made it real. Chino had brought mine to the party. He, Samson, Mal, and Ford presented it to me in the garden, with Mal and Ford pretending to be the orchestra and Chino playing announcer and then getting down on one knee to hand it to me as if it were a diamond ring or something.
"Goofballs," I said, and took it.
"Group hug!" Chino declared as he hopped to his feet, and they must've all been feeling as goofy as they looked because they did it. Even Mal, who is not the touchy-feely type. Mal is the broody Dracula type.
Chino was also the one who punched me on the arm. "Sakura told us you skipped out on the rest of the ceremony because you were convinced we were going to lose."
"Yeah, well." I shrugged. "I've never been happier to be wrong. And you know, Ricki had to get back here to get ready for the party, so I had the limo take us directly here." Hey, that was almost the truth, too. "Be grateful: she added all of you to the guest list."
"I know! This is one of the hardest parties to get into, apparently. We went first to the Capitol party, and our A&R rep was like don't stick around here, get your asses up to the Governor's Mansion!" He looked around like he was impressed.
After that things were a blur of people congratulating me and introducing themselves. I've never been good with names so I usually forgot them before they walked away. Perhaps one of the best things about becoming famous is people no longer seemed to expect me to remember, though.
Christina, when I finally saw her, hugged me so hard I thought she was going to snap my neck. "Ahhh, you crazy bastard, that was perfect! Terrible! But perfect!"
We moved a little ways away from the table laden with hors d'oeuvres. "I think it worked out all right," I said, assuming she meant my little stunt with making off with the Hamilton heiress.
"Yes. But how about warn me before you do something like that next time? My phone is blowing up! Every reporter in Hollywood is trying to get a statement."
"You want me to talk to them?"
"No! No no no. The more you keep quiet the more desperate they'll be. If they're still calling like crazy in twenty-four hours, then we'll strategize a response." She pulled her phone out and looked at it, then shoved it back into the tiny clutch purse that it barely fit into.