here you said you liked mongrels." She blinked. "I don't know what you mean."
"Right." He resisted—barely—slamming the door. The evening, he thought as he rounded the hood, was off to a flying start.
Chapter Six
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It could have been worse, Michael supposed. He could have been back in some Central American jungle sweating bullets and dodging them. He could have had his skull bashed in, as he had once when a stunt gag went wrong.
Instead he was standing in a room with people he didn't know and didn't care to know.
He'd rather have had his skull bashed in.
He thought the room itself was overly cute, with its glossy red hearts hanging from swatches of paper lace. The flowers were nice, he supposed. He didn't have any objection to flowers. But he thought they carried the obsessive red and white theme too far.
All of the pink-draped tables were centered with a grouping of white tapers ringed by a halo of fluffy red and white carnations. At least he thought they were carnations. And the music. He decided it represented the widest culture clash, with its mild strings and discreet piano, all played by middle-aged men in white suits.
Give him blues or honest rock any day.
But there was a spiffy view of the coastline through a wall of windows. The drama of it, the war of fretful waves against mean-edged rocks, provided an interesting contrast to the quiet, undeniably stuffy group inside the polished, overheated club.
The women had decked themselves out, absolutely dripping bangles and beads and other jewelry, he noted. They wore layers of perfumes and silks and lace. Overdone, in his estimation, like the decor. He preferred Laura's simple and feminine choice. It was class, he supposed, that set her apart. Simple class that came straight through the blood and bone. He might have mentioned it to her, but she had drifted away quickly, making, as he termed it, her Templeton rounds.
Most of the men were in tuxes. A little fact that Josh had conveniently neglected to mention. Not that Michael minded. He wouldn't have worn one anyway. If he'd had one to wear.
Still it gave him another bone to pick with his old friend. If the slippery son of a bitch ever showed up.
On the bright side, he had a cold beer in his hand. The finger food spread out artistically on buffet tables looked delicate, but it tasted fine. He'd already enjoyed a mild flirtation with a woman who mistook him for some Hollywood young gun. Michael hadn't bothered to disabuse her.
He was considering wandering about, maybe taking a turn outside in the fresh air or checking out one of the other rooms. He might find that pool table and a few suckers to fleece. Then Laura moved back to him.
"I'm sorry. There were a few people I needed to speak with." In a gesture that was both absentminded and automatic, she accepted a glass of champagne from a roving waiter, murmured her thanks.
"No problem."
But it was, she thought, her problem. She'd had some time to think about it. "I am sorry, Michael. I was annoyed with Josh for maneuvering me into this evening and I took it out on you." When he didn't respond, she drummed up a smile. "So, what were you and Kitty Bennett talking about?"
"Who? Oh, the ditzy brunette with all the teeth."
Laura choked on her champagne. She'd never heard the chair of the Monterey Arts Council described just that way. Or quite that accurately. "Yes."
"She dug my last flick."
"Did she?"
He decided to be friendly, smiled. "Not Braveheart , though I had a couple of nice stunts in it. She thought I was the director of some art house film. Something about foot fetishes."
"Mm-hmm. And you discussed the metaphoric twists on our sex-obsessed society, along with the multiple layers of symbolism representing moral decay."
He started to feel better. "Something like that. She thinks I'm brilliant, and underrated. I think I might be getting a grant."
"Congratulations.''
"Of course, she really only wanted my body."
"Well, an
"Right." He resisted—barely—slamming the door. The evening, he thought as he rounded the hood, was off to a flying start.
Chapter Six
Contents - Prev | Next
It could have been worse, Michael supposed. He could have been back in some Central American jungle sweating bullets and dodging them. He could have had his skull bashed in, as he had once when a stunt gag went wrong.
Instead he was standing in a room with people he didn't know and didn't care to know.
He'd rather have had his skull bashed in.
He thought the room itself was overly cute, with its glossy red hearts hanging from swatches of paper lace. The flowers were nice, he supposed. He didn't have any objection to flowers. But he thought they carried the obsessive red and white theme too far.
All of the pink-draped tables were centered with a grouping of white tapers ringed by a halo of fluffy red and white carnations. At least he thought they were carnations. And the music. He decided it represented the widest culture clash, with its mild strings and discreet piano, all played by middle-aged men in white suits.
Give him blues or honest rock any day.
But there was a spiffy view of the coastline through a wall of windows. The drama of it, the war of fretful waves against mean-edged rocks, provided an interesting contrast to the quiet, undeniably stuffy group inside the polished, overheated club.
The women had decked themselves out, absolutely dripping bangles and beads and other jewelry, he noted. They wore layers of perfumes and silks and lace. Overdone, in his estimation, like the decor. He preferred Laura's simple and feminine choice. It was class, he supposed, that set her apart. Simple class that came straight through the blood and bone. He might have mentioned it to her, but she had drifted away quickly, making, as he termed it, her Templeton rounds.
Most of the men were in tuxes. A little fact that Josh had conveniently neglected to mention. Not that Michael minded. He wouldn't have worn one anyway. If he'd had one to wear.
Still it gave him another bone to pick with his old friend. If the slippery son of a bitch ever showed up.
On the bright side, he had a cold beer in his hand. The finger food spread out artistically on buffet tables looked delicate, but it tasted fine. He'd already enjoyed a mild flirtation with a woman who mistook him for some Hollywood young gun. Michael hadn't bothered to disabuse her.
He was considering wandering about, maybe taking a turn outside in the fresh air or checking out one of the other rooms. He might find that pool table and a few suckers to fleece. Then Laura moved back to him.
"I'm sorry. There were a few people I needed to speak with." In a gesture that was both absentminded and automatic, she accepted a glass of champagne from a roving waiter, murmured her thanks.
"No problem."
But it was, she thought, her problem. She'd had some time to think about it. "I am sorry, Michael. I was annoyed with Josh for maneuvering me into this evening and I took it out on you." When he didn't respond, she drummed up a smile. "So, what were you and Kitty Bennett talking about?"
"Who? Oh, the ditzy brunette with all the teeth."
Laura choked on her champagne. She'd never heard the chair of the Monterey Arts Council described just that way. Or quite that accurately. "Yes."
"She dug my last flick."
"Did she?"
He decided to be friendly, smiled. "Not Braveheart , though I had a couple of nice stunts in it. She thought I was the director of some art house film. Something about foot fetishes."
"Mm-hmm. And you discussed the metaphoric twists on our sex-obsessed society, along with the multiple layers of symbolism representing moral decay."
He started to feel better. "Something like that. She thinks I'm brilliant, and underrated. I think I might be getting a grant."
"Congratulations.''
"Of course, she really only wanted my body."
"Well, an
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