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everyone’s favorite film villains, actually. If there were an Oscar for best villain, he would win it every year. In typical Hollywood fashion, that meant that in person he was known for being one of the most gracious, generous people in the business, tirelessly supporting charities and mentoring young actors, that sort of thing. “Do you know him?”
    “We met very briefly once at a party in London. Barely exchanged two words,” Mal said, but even he sounded a bit awed.
    The man was headed toward us again, and as he approached he held out his hand to shake Mal’s. “Ah, Kenneally, wasn’t it?”
    Mal stood up very straight. “Yes, sir. I’m honored you remembered. May I present Ms. Gwen Hamilton.”
    Roderick Grisham took my hand, kissed it with a bow, and made it all seem perfectly smooth and natural. “Charmed, Ms. Hamilton. Truthfully, Kenneally, the reason your name stuck with me is I thought, well, that’s an odd name for a man I’m quite certain is English, not Irish.”
    “It’s a stage name, sir. Chosen to irritate my father.”
    I tried not to stare in amazement that Mal was calling him “sir” like it was second nature to him.
    “Ah, so you know the history of the name?” Grisham asked.
    “An English bastard who was awarded the Victoria Cross after he joined the Irish Guard, yes. As the story goes, Kenneally’s valor caused Winston Churchill to express love for the Irish, somewhat ironically.”
    “Just so,” Grisham said with a laugh. “The troublemakers are the most interesting people in history. And which irritates your father more, your stage name or what you do upon that stage?”
    Mal chuckled. “It is all of a piece to him. I am the black sheep of the family.”
    “Black sheep make the best art,” Grisham said, and then turned his charming smile to me. “And you, Ms. Hamilton. Are you a budding impresario like your elder sister?”
    “Oh, not really,” I said, feeling every bit charmed by his attention. “I’m trying to break into acting, actually. Any…any advice?”
    “Let’s see. The best advice I can give in a short amount of time is this.” He paused for dramatic effect and we both leaned toward him in anticipation. “Always get it in writing.”
    All three of us laughed and then he was nabbed by a member of the press with a microphone. Mal and I edged to the side to let them pass.
    “I am not normally one to be starstruck,” he said as he watched Grisham recede across the crowded lobby. “But something about that man is quite striking.”
    “I agree,” I said. “And I grew up with Harrison Ford and Denzel Washington hanging around my backyard pool.”
    Mal’s glare returned suddenly as he caught sight of something.
    The annoying photographer from outside was making a beeline for us. Because of the crowd and the ridiculous amount of equipment the guy had hanging off his shoulders and neck—three different cameras and a bag—he had to weave and pause, trying to get to us. The man himself was not small, either.
    “Let’s go in,” Mal suggested. He shepherded me up the stairs and I felt the warmth of his hand at the small of my back through my dress. I wanted to lean toward that touch like a flower toward the sun, but I kept myself poised and proper while we were in full view.
    “Do you know that guy?” I asked as ushers opened a set of velvet ropes for us.
    “Not him in particular, but I know his type. Like a bulldog. It’s best not to engage.” We made our way down the aisle. In the theater, it was relatively hushed compared to the high-energy schmoozefest going on in the lobby. “He’ll move on to easier targets.”
    “Okay, but isn’t the whole point to get lots of photos taken?” I asked as we took seats in the second row.
    Mal looked at me with an even more serious glare than his usual look. “Have you been talking to Christina?”
    “No, I haven’t even seen her yet tonight,” I said, confused.
    “Hmm.” He took my hand and placed it on