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Put it away, Eve ordered herself. “A new movie?”
“It’s sweet of you to ask when you couldn’t be the least bit interested. Yes, a good, solid part. But I can’t give the decision the attention it deserves until after the auction. Now, should I tell you about your guests tonight, or has Roarke already briefed you?”
“There wasn’t a lot of time for that,” Eve said and thought about the fast, impulsive sex on her desk. Nearly grinned.
“Good, it gives me a chance for quick gossip. My son.” She glanced over with affection at the golden-haired man standing by the fireplace, his face handsome and serious. “My one and only. He’s becoming quite the sober and steady businessman,” she said with pride shining. “I don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s not yet settled down to give me the grandchildren I’ve begun to crave, but I have hope. Not,” she said with some spirit, “that I see Liza Trent in the role of my daughter-in-law. She’s gorgeous, of course.”
Magda leaned back and studied the curvy blonde who stood with her hand on Vince’s arm and appeared to hang on his every word. “Ambitious, and a reasonably good actor. Not Vince’s type for the long haul. Not very bright, all in all. But so good for the ego. See how she looks at him as though the words fall from his mouth like gold coins.”
“You don’t like her.”
“I don’t dislike her. It’s the mother in me, I suppose, becoming impatient for Vince to move on.”
It didn’t look like it would happen anytime soon, Eve mused. Vince Lane might have been his mother’s apple, but to her he looked a bit weak around the chin.
Fashion-wise, he went for the trendy and expensive, and looked, in her opinion, elaborate and overdressed next to Roarke’s understated elegance.
But then, what did she know about fashion?
“Then there’s Carlton Mince,” Magda went on. “Looks a bit like a mole, doesn’t he? Bless him. He’s managed my finances for more years than I care to count. He’s helped me tremendously with the ins and outs of the foundation. Steady as a rock, that’s Carlton, and I’m afraid just as interesting to most people. His wife, the woman in the remarkably
ugly and unsuitable gown, is Minnie. Minnie Mince, can you imagine? She’s walking proof that you can indeed be too thin and too addicted to body sculpting.”
Eve felt herself smirk before she could stop it. The fact was, the woman looked like an overdressed, overpolished stick with a tower of gaudy red hair.
“Twenty years ago she was his bookkeeper,” Magda continued, “with bad hair and an eye on the goal. The last twelve she’s been his wife. She got the goal, Carlton, and still has bad hair.”
Eve laughed. “That’s probably mean.”
“Oh, probably. But where’s the fun in talking about people if you only say nice things? You look at Minnie and are assured money can’t buy taste, but at the same time she suits Carlton to the ground. She makes him happy, and since I’m enormously fond of him, I like her for that alone. Last, we have Roarke’s charming friend from Ireland. What can you tell me about him?”
“Not a lot. They were boys together in Dublin, and haven’t seen each other for a number of years.”
“And you watch him with a calculating eye.”
“Do I?” Eve moved her shoulders. It paid to remember that actors were the observant sort. At least the good ones were. “I probably watch everyone that way. Another occupational hazard.”
“You don’t look at this one with a cop’s eye,” Magda commented as Roarke crossed the room toward them.
“Ladies.” In a gesture both absent and intimate, he trailed his fingers over Eve’s shoulder. On cue, Summerset came to the door to announce dinner.
During the meal Eve confirmed that Magda was, for the most part, a keen observer of human nature. Liza Trent either giggled or knit her brows in rapt concentration whenever Vince spoke. The fact that she could put on a good show of fascination with his tedious remarks earned her points, in Eve’s mind, as an actor.
Carlton Mince was as quiet as the mole Magda had compared him to, speaking in polite and modulated tones when called on to do so, and otherwise steadily burrowing his way through each course. As for his wife, Eve caught her surreptitiously examining the silverware for the maker’s mark.
Conversation wound its way around to the auction, and there, at least, Vince appeared to know his business. “Magda Lane’s collection of theater memorabilia, particularly costume, is unrivaled.” He cut delicately into his pressed duck. “In fact, I tried to persuade her to limit the auction to that alone.”
“One fell swoop,” Magda said with a laugh. “I never could do anything in pieces.”
“Truer words.” Her son sent her a warm, if exasperated look. “Still, saving the ball gown from Pride’s Fall until last will end the event on a high note.”
“Ah, I remember it well.” Mick let out a wistful, loverlike sigh. “The spoiled and headstrong Pamela sweeps into the ballroom at Carlyle Hall in her simmering gown of the ice goddess, daring any man to resist her. The dreams I had that night, after seeing you in that dress, Miss Lane, why they’d bring a blush to your cheek.”
Obviously delighted, she leaned toward him. “I don’t blush easily, Mr. Connelly.”
He chuckled. “I do. Does it hurt your heart, a little, to part with your memories?”
“I’ll never part with them, just the visual aides. And what the foundation will do with the proceeds will keep me very warm at night.”
