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  When their eyes met, Jason grinned and added, “With a penis.”

  “Is that what this is all about?”

  “Penises?”

  Taylor laughed. “I meant, you needing a model for your character. Is that why you . . .” She trailed off, as if uncertain how to finish her sentence.

  “Is that why I . . . what?”

  Jason realized then that despite the fact that Taylor was trapped between him and the railing, she seemed to be making no attempt to move away.

  Her eyes searched his. “Why you keep . . . pestering me,” she said softly.

  “Is that what I’m doing?” Jason murmured, stepping closer.

  Drawn in, Taylor’s eyes lowered seductively as she raised her face to his. “Yes,” she whispered, “you’re definitely very pesty.”

  And suddenly, Jason couldn’t help himself.

  Despite all his best-laid plans, he was lost . . . his hand reached up to the nape of her neck and he gently pulled her in to him . . . she wasn’t stopping him, in fact her hand slid up his chest and her lips parted invitingly as she pulled him closer and his lips came down to hers and—

  “Oh my god, it’s Jason Andrews!”

  The scream came from the terrace below.

  Jason watched as it happened—the dreamy fog dissolved from Taylor’s eyes, like a method actor who’d been deeply into character when the director suddenly yelled “Cut!” Reality set in.

  She immediately stepped away from him as if caught. He looked down and saw that a crowd had formed on the terrace below them. Several women shouted frantically, pointing, crying out his name. Paparazzi appeared out of nowhere. Cameras began to flash as everyone scrambled to get photographs. Suddenly, it was pure bedlam. Jason took a step back from the balcony and reached for Taylor—

  But she was gone. Inside.

  With a look of disappointment, Jason waved to the crowd, then turned and headed to the terrace doors.

  The screams of his fans were upon his back all the way inside.

  AS JASON WALKED Taylor up the brick path to her apartment, she was quietly relieved that the evening was coming to an end. She’d been internally berating herself over the Terrace Snafu (as she’d come to think of it) and externally had been doing her best to let Jason know that whatever he thought was about to happen back in Vegas was not, in fact, what had been about to happen.

  Of course, she knew full well what had been about to happen.

  God only knows what she’d been thinking, but she had, in fact, been about to kiss Jason. Such a move would have been unprofessional and unethical, not to mention overwhelmingly stupid. She blamed the vodka and the heat for getting to her. Never mind the fact that it had been only sixty-five degrees on the terrace and she’d gone instantly sober the minute the crowd had begun screaming.

  “Did you have a good time tonight?” It was the fourth time Jason had asked her that since they’d landed.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  For once, conversation seemed to elude them. Luckily, they arrived at her front door. Taylor was careful to keep a good distance between her and Jason as they said good-bye.

  “So, thank you, again, for the gambling lesson and, you know, everything else,” she said lamely.

  Jason, too, seemed to be struggling for something to say.

  “So . . . okay, then.” He shifted uneasily.

  When another awkward moment passed, Taylor nodded efficiently. “Good-bye, Jason.” She turned and unlocked her door and was just about to step inside her apartment when—

  “I’m having a party next Saturday.”

  Taylor glanced back over her shoulder. Jason stood there, on her doorstep, wearing the same lost-but-adorable expression he’d had that first evening when she’d left him alone with the paparazzi outside her office building.

  “You should come,” he said, shrugging with a boyish grin. “If you don’t have other plans, that is.”

  “Next Saturday?” Taylor quickly tried to think of an excuse.

  Jason nodded. “June twenty-first. Mark it in that little BlackBerry you carry everywhere.”

  The words hit Taylor with a shock, like a bucket of icy water that had been dumped over her head.

  “June twenty-first?” she repeated.

  Her wedding day.

  Or rather, her former wedding day, before she called it off after finding Daniel in flagrante doggie-stylo with his assistant. With everything going on, the date had completely slipped her mind.

  Jason saw the expression on her face. “Do you have other plans that day?”

  Taylor shook her head slowly. “No. Um, not anymore.”

  Jason smiled, the matter having been settled in his mind. “Great. Then I’ll see you there.”

  HE HAD MADE up the whole thing about the party, of course.

  Jason had been struggling, trying to think of anything to say to get a second nonwork date/meeting/whatever with Taylor, and he’d just blurted the words out. He hadn’t hosted a party in years (he hated having people in his house), but it had been the first thing that had come to mind that wouldn’t so obviously convey to her exactly what he was trying to do.

  “A party?” Marty was surprised the next morning when Jason stopped by his office on the way to the set to pass along the news.

  Jason nodded. “I’ll let you handle the list.” He relaxed on the couch that fronted the wall of windows in Marty’s office.

  “Is there anyone special I’m supposed to put on this list?” Marty asked.

  “Whoever. The usual people.” Jason’s tone was casual. “And Taylor Donovan.”

  Marty paused at this. Then he nodded. “Sure, sure, Ms. Donovan—of course. But I also think we should invite some of the other actors from In the Dark,” he said, referring to the legal thriller Jason was shooting. “Like Naomi Cross.”

  Jason shot Marty a knowing look. His publicist had been pushing Naomi Cross on him since the day she’d been cast. It would create great buzz for the film, Marty had urged repeatedly. One of the favorite strategies of any Hollywood publicist was to leak a web of hints, suggestions, innuendos, and whispers that two costars were hooking up on set. All of which, of course, would then in turn be vehemently denied by said publicist when asked.

  “I’ve talked to Naomi’s publicist, and we agree it would be great for the two of you to be seen together,” Marty continued. “Her publicist is probably having the same conversation with her right at this very moment.”

  Jason sighed. Normally, he didn’t mind this part of the business. In fact, typically he didn’t have to be asked by his publicist to be “seen” with his costars because he was already sleeping with them anyway. But something didn’t feel right this time. He didn’t like the thought of Taylor reading about him and another woman in the press. He already needed to handle things delicately with her. He didn’t see any reason to add more obstacles to the mix.

  “Feel free to put Naomi or anyone else you want on the list,” Jason told Marty. “But for now, this party is the only thing you should focus on.”

  TRUTH BE TOLD, Marty had been a bit perturbed by Jason’s flat-out refusal to discuss the Naomi issue any further. They were costars, they both were single—of course there had to be rumors spread about them. It was the Hollywood way of things. He didn’t understand why Jason was being so damn stubborn about the whole thing.

  Luckily, within twenty-four hours, Marty’s annoyance with his number one client dissipated as word spread around town that Jason Andrews was having a party that weekend. All of Los Angeles seemed to be talking about it. Funny, even Scott Casey mentioned it to Marty when the two of them met for lunch at Ago a few days later to discuss the possibility of Marty becoming his new publicist. Over their steak salads, Scott casually mentioned that he had always been curious to see Jason Andrews’s famous mansion.

  Of course, since Scott was now a potential client, Marty was more than happy to put his name on the invite list.

  Fifteen

  WHEN SATUR
DAY EVENING rolled around, as many of Hollywood’s biggest names and most beautiful faces were presumably being primped and dressed, and as frantic publicists undoubtedly raced around coordinating the all-important last-minute details of who would arrive exactly when and with whom, Taylor sat quietly alone in her apartment.

  She wasn’t going.

  She took the Terrace Snafu as a warning sign that Jason Andrews plus alcohol (she still blamed the vodka) was not a good mix, and that things between them should remain on a purely professional level from here on out.

  Yes, true, not going would mean spending another Saturday night by herself while the one person she knew in Los Angeles threw what appeared to be the biggest party of the year. And yes, not going would mean pathetically sitting home alone on what was previously supposed to be the night of her wedding, while being forced to listen to the long and pitiful messages Daniel kept leaving on her machine (he had called three times that day already).

  And not going also meant not seeing Jason.

  This was a good thing, Taylor reminded herself. After their night in Las Vegas, she had a pretty good idea what Jason was after and—judging from her completely unthinking reaction to him on the terrace—she worried that she couldn’t keep him at bay forever. Or rather, that she wouldn’t want to.

  And she worried that this seemed to be worrying her less and less.

  Taylor had replayed that moment on the Bellagio balcony a thousand times in her head. Actually, it wasn’t just in her head—the shots the paparazzi had gotten of her and Jason, right before they had almost kissed, had made the covers of all the tabloid magazines. “Jason and the Mystery Woman: It’s On!”; “Hot Desert Nights: Jason with Mystery Woman in Vegas!”; “Romance at the Bellagio!” Every morning, Linda left a different tabloid on Taylor’s chair. And every morning, she promptly tossed them in her garbage can.

  Possibly after taking a quick peek or two.

  She had paused the first time she’d seen one of the photographs of them on the terrace. Her back had been to the cameras, but Jason’s face could be seen as clear as day. Something about his expression had struck her, something about the way he had been looking at her right then. Like nothing existed except for her and him, in that moment.

  But that was a ridiculous thought. A ridiculous and dangerous thought, and one that could get her into a whole mess of trouble.

  And that was why she wasn’t going to the party.

  SHE WASN’T COMING.

  Jason stood on the balcony outside the living room of his Beverly Hills home. The party was crowded and wild, with people everywhere—around the pool, by his guesthouse, even spilling onto his basketball court. At least the security staff had done a good job of keeping everyone outdoors. So far.

  He had stopped having interest in his party guests well over an hour ago, about the time when the degree of Taylor’s lateness had gone beyond being fashionable. He glanced at the front gate, the entrance to the party, once again.

  “I don’t think she’s coming.”

  Jason glared at Jeremy, who stood next to him on the balcony. To think this was one thing, but for Jeremy to actually vocalize the sentiment was pure treachery.

  “She’s coming,” Jason assured him, sounding far more confident than he felt.

  “I don’t know . . . it’s getting late,” Jeremy said, shaking his head skeptically.

  Jason checked his watch. Four minutes since the last time he had looked, and still no sign of Taylor.

  “You actually look anxious.” Jeremy sounded both surprised and amused by this.

  Jason threw him another cautionary look—he was not in the mood to be trifled with that night—when he spotted something at the front gate. Or rather, someone.

  Seeing the expression on Jason’s face, Jeremy turned and followed his gaze. Both men watched as Taylor walked into the party.

  For a moment, Jason was speechless.

  She wore a dress that would have no place inside a courtroom—a black strapless dress with a slit up to there that molded perfectly to her every curve. Her hair was long and wild and wavy, and her eyes were smoky. He had never seen this side of Taylor before, so overtly . . . hot. He vaguely heard Jeremy’s voice in the distance, telling him to pick his jaw up off the floor before someone tripped over it.

  Jason swallowed, then turned to his friend. “I told you she was coming,” he said confidently. Then he quickly headed down the steps that led from the balcony and worked his way through the crowd. As he approached Taylor, her eyes met his and did not break away. He slowed as he drew near and stopped before her.

  “You’re here.”

  “I am.”

  Jason boldly took in the way she looked.

  “I take it you don’t often wear that dress in court.”

  “Probably not a good idea.”

  He grinned. “Yes, I can imagine it would be somewhat awkward standing before a judge who has a huge hard-on.”

  “Is that the effect this dress has?”

  Taylor’s eyes traveled downward, to the zipper of Jason’s pants, and he was momentarily caught off guard by her bluntness.

  Her eyes sparkled, amused.

  “You’re blushing, Jason. That’s cute.”

  He smiled at her sassiness, then grabbed her hand. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  He led Taylor through the crowd, past all the people who stared, and the two of them headed inside the house.

  AS JASON GAVE her the grand tour, Taylor couldn’t help but be impressed by his passion for and sizable knowledge of architecture, which appeared to be mostly self-taught. As he pointed out one detail after the next—everything from the teak floors up to the intricate crown molding—she learned that he had personally overseen the design of the 12,000--square-foot French Normandy-style mansion when he had built it five years ago.

  Jason led her through the six guest bedrooms, master suite with two separate sitting rooms, vaulted glass foyer, screening room, private wine cellar, spa, steam room, and two-story reading studio/library. At several points along the way, Taylor couldn’t help but think how she had never before seen wealth like this. She was not someone who was particularly impressed by money—her firm paid her over a quarter million dollars per year and that constituted a far greater income than any other Chicago Donovan had ever seen—but being in that house with Jason was so far out of her league it was downright dizzying.

  After the tour, Jason took her outside to one of the bars that had been set up on the first-floor terrace. As he handed her the French martini she had ordered (getting into the spirit of the Normandy style of the house), he gave her a coy look.

  “So . . . is there any reason you waited until after midnight to finally show up?”

  “Sorry. I had to stop at a party at Jack Nicholson’s along the way.”

  “Actually, Jack is sitting about ten feet behind you, smoking a cigar in that lounge chair.”

  As Taylor turned to look, Jason pressed on. “Seriously, I know you debated whether to come tonight. What made you decide?”

  She shrugged nonchalantly. “It sounded like fun.”

  “But I know how busy you are. So I’m touched by the gesture.”

  Dismissing this with a wave, Taylor moved away from the bar. Jason followed her. Slowly they weaved through the crowd, going back and forth.

  “You’re reading too much into this. I just thought I needed to get out for a few hours.”

  “And you chose to spend those few hours with me.”

  “I chose to go to a party. You just happened to be the host.”

  “You chose to wear that dress.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting that a woman’s attire is an indication of her intentions?”

  “No, but when this woman spends the little free time she has with me, I start to get curious.”

  Taylor came to a stop in an alcove that was set off from the rest of the party. She leaned against the wall, holding her martini with one hand.

  “G
oing to Las Vegas with you was part of the deal we made,” she said casually.

  Jason moved in close and rested one hand on the wall next to her. He stared down into her eyes.

  “But coming here tonight wasn’t—you did that on your own. Why?”

  Taylor avoided the question. The truth was, she wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing there. On an impulse, she had hopped in the PT Cruiser and driven over—a totally last-minute, spur-of-the-moment decision.

  After twenty minutes spent doing her makeup.

  And thirty doing her hair.

  And four dress changes.

  Totally spur-of-the-moment.

  Avoiding Jason’s gaze, Taylor gestured to the party. “You probably should get back out there. You’re ignoring your other guests.”

  “Screw them.”

  “I’m sure that many of them, you already have.”

  She regretted the words the instant they came out.

  Jason cocked his head with a knowing grin. “Hmmm . . . now that sounds a little bit like jealousy. How intriguing.”

  Taylor could have smacked herself for making the comment, for giving him any ammunition. He was standing too close to her, that was the problem, she realized. It was . . . distracting. She needed to quickly extricate herself from the situation.

  She stared him in the eyes defiantly. “Whatever you’re trying to get me to admit, Jason, it’s not going to happen.”

  And, having gotten in the last word, Taylor slipped under his arm and walked away.

  JEREMY HADN’T MOVED from his position on the balcony. It was the only place in the crowded party where he could safely drink his beer without being jostled by some drunken early twenties asshole threatening to throw his scantily clad date into the pool, or accosted by a hopeful starlet who believed that flirting with him would get her that much closer to Jason.

  Frankly, Jeremy disliked the whole Hollywood scene, but he tolerated it not only as a sometimes-necessary part of his life as a screenwriter but also as an always-necessary part of Jason’s life. It was one of those things that anyone close to Jason inevitably had to accept, for better or worse, like the constant presence of the paparazzi.