Excerpt of Perfect Sax by Jerrilyn Farmer

"Mood Indigo"

"I love big balls."

Wesley Westcott took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance over at the tall, thin blonde sitting beside him.

"Oh, stop!" Holly caught his look and laughed. "You know what I mean," she said, flushing. "Big fund-raising balls. Banquets. Parties."

"Uh-huh." He turned back to the road, steering his new white Jaguar S-Type off the freeway and onto Sunset Boulevard as he doused a smirk.

Holly pointed at where the smirk had made its momentary appearance and demanded, "Stop it, Wesley."

"I am stopping it," he protested. "Go on, already. Tell me all about your love of balls."

She laughed. "Tonight, for instance. The music blew me away. And the dresses. And the caviar. It was all pretty freakin' faboo."

The Jazz Ball had been a stunning success. Six hundred Los Angelenos had gathered to celebrate the Woodburn School of Music and raise funds to support its prestigious Young Artists Program. The Woodburn, a private institute devoted to tutoring the West Coast's most gifted musical prodigies, liked to suggest it was even more selective than its better-known rival on the other coast, Juilliard.

Once a year, the fund-raising wing of the Woodburn put on a major social event to lure contributions from its well- heeled patrons. The Jazz Ball was famous for the star power of its guest list and the lavishness of the festivities. And this year, the event-planning firm that had won the plum prize of creating this über-party was none other than Mad Bean Events, Wes and Holly's own firm.

"I think Madeline outdid herself tonight," Holly said, referring to their friend and leader. "The black-and-white newspaper theme was awesome. She has the coolest ideas."

"That she does. It was a beautiful night." Wes turned the car south on Vine Street and said, "I wish she had come back with us to my house to celebrate."

"I think she's exhausted," Holly said, finger-combing her loose platinum wisps as she ran through the obligatory party postmortem with Wesley. "She doesn't usually leave a party so early."

"I know," Wes said. "But even Maddie needs a break."

Madeline Bean, the head of one of Hollywood's trendiest young event-producing companies, had managed to rise quickly in the world of spectacular parties. She might only be twenty-nine, but she had become a seasoned veteran of the ever rising and falling Hollywood social tide in a short time. And if the clients alone hadn't made her seasick, she'd managed to weather quite a few ups and downs of a dicey economy, too. Running a small business could be treacherous; one way she had found to succeed was simply to work harder than anyone else. A case in point had been the Jazz Ball. Madeline had been indefatigable for the past two weeks. The number of details involved in pulling off a grand party this grand was enormous. All the intense attention Maddie had paid to a zillion small concerns -- the black linen napkins that arrived were, in actuality, puce; the white peppercorns she had ordered were, at the last minute, unavailable -- must, by now, have finally taken its toll.

Wes stopped at a traffic light and looked over at Holly. "When Maddie and I decided to start the company, I don't think either of us realized how much real, honest-to- God work we'd be in for."

"Ah." Holly smiled broadly. "Now I finally understand why it was you so quickly hired an assistant."

"We were stunned by your talent." Wes was always a gentleman. And then he added, "You have no idea how hard it is to find a good schlepper."

Holly had begun as their assistant six years ago and worked her way up by mastering just about every party job she encountered. Holly filled in wherever she was needed, as an extra bartender, or the person to make the emergency run for more white asparagus, or the one in full-face clown greasepaint twisting a balloon giraffe for six-year- old birthday twins. Six feet tall, scrappy, and much more likely to wear a Day-Glo orange paisley polyester miniskirt than anyone else you might meet -- ever -- Holly Nichols was made for parties. And even though she was apt to gaze upon certain celebrity guests with more dogged affection than was entirely suitable for a staff member working a private party, she was in all ways a most valuable asset to the team.

Holly pushed her white-blond bangs off her forehead and six rhinestone-encrusted bangle bracelets clacked as they fell down her wrist.

Wes shot her another glance. "You sure you're up for coming to my place?"

"Absolutely. I'm wide-awake. And I'm starving."

"You're always hungry."

"True. And you always cook so divinely for me."

"True." Wes looked happy with the arrangement. He loved to cook and, together with Madeline, devised the menus and supervised the chefs at their events.

The traffic was thin at this late hour as they got south of Hollywood. Wes brushed his thick brown hair off of his forehead and eased his new car southwest toward his house in Hancock Park. His black leather jacket, he noticed with the habit of one who takes in every visual detail, looked not at all bad against the custom white leather seats of the Jag. It reminded him again of the Black & White Ball. They'd just pulled off another stunning event. He hummed a riff of "In the Mood."

"Is that jazz?" Holly asked, perking up. "I'm all about jazz now. The band that played at the ball was flat-out awesome. Who knew that kind of music could sound so groovy?"

"Jazz? You mean you don't listen to jazz, Holly?"

"Well, cha! I am major into Eminem. And Radiohead. And Vendetta Red. And, well, Mars Volta. And Clay Aiken. You know me. I dig rap. And rock. And show tunes."