Yes, Taylor learned at a very young age that the only way to get boys to shut up and play fairly was to show them that you took crap from no one. It was a lesson that served her well working at a large law firm, where women comprised roughly 15 percent of partners despite the fact that they generally constituted, year after year, more than half of every entering first-year associate class. Somewhere along the way, these women were getting lost, ignored, weeded out, or were choosing a different path.

Taylor, however, was determined not to fall victim to what these law firms accepted as inevitable reality. Even if it meant she had to eat nails for breakfast.

So in response to Sam’s directive that she not get “starry-eyed” on this particular assignment, she folded her arms definitively across her chest, having only one thing to say.

“Not a chance.”

Sam smiled. He nodded, satisfied.

Then something occurred to her. She cautiously asked Sam one last question.

“But I have to wonder, Sam, given the . . . reputation . . . of this particular client, did the fact that I’m a woman have anything to do with choosing me for this project?”

Ever the litigator, Sam paced grandly in front of his desk, ready to show off the interrogation skills he had honed over the past twenty years.

“Taylor, in your sexual harassment practice, who do you tell your clients they should have leading their defense team, a man or a woman?”

“A woman,” she replied without hesitation.

“And why is that?”

“Because it makes the client seem more credible if they have a female lawyer saying they treat women fairly.”

Sam paused meaningfully before his imaginary jury. “So then you agree, don’t you, that there are times when—in addition to being the best litigator—your gender can be an advantage to this firm?”

Taylor got the message. Shut up and play the game.

She smiled at her boss.

“Thursday it is.”

Two

JASON ANDREWS.

He would be at their offices on Thursday. The biggest actor in Hollywood.

Jason Andrews.

The movie star. In every paparazzi-following-your-every-move, crazed-fans-showing-up-naked-in-your-bedroom sense of the term.

Later, when Taylor’s secretary did her “research,” she would stumble across Rolling Stone magazine’s June cover interview, which summed up Jason Andrews as: “devilishly good-looking, and a true legend of his day. Like Clark Gable or Cary Grant, he exudes effortless charm and confidence. Thinks he’s smarter than most and frankly, probably is. A lethal combination that seemingly has left him with respect for very few.”

Devilishly good-looking. Effortless charm and confidence.

Jason Andrews.

And she was going to be working with him.

As Taylor left Sam’s office, she suddenly found herself wondering where she was in her bikini wax cycle. Hmm . . . she may have been due . . .

Then she immediately shook off the ridiculous thought. Please. She was a professional.

And so Ms. Professional straightened her suit and calmly shut Sam’s door behind her. She made her way through the office with what she assumed was a casually dismissive air, as if she acted as legal counsel to fabulously famous sex gods all the time. She had never, ever, let anyone at work see her rattled—not even during the worst point in her breakup with her ex-fiancé a few months ago. She’d be damned if she now was about to let some actor unnerve her in front of others.

“Linda, I need to clear my schedule for Thursday,” Taylor said as she approached her secretary’s desk. She was peering at her calendar, trying to figure out how best to move things around to accommodate her new “assignment.”

“There’s been a change of plans—a new matter has come up.”

She had barely gotten the words out when Linda flew out of her chair. It fell backward to the ground with a loud thunk, which Linda didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh my god! So it’s true then? You’re really going to be working with Jason Andrews?”

How the hell did that get out so fast? Taylor glanced around the office and saw that the other secretaries all had paused in what they were doing. They were staring at her, wide-eyed, and holding their breath as if their very lives depended on her reply. Looking over, she saw that most of the lawyers, too, lingered in their office doorways. For that moment, all business at Gray & Dallas had utterly, completely stopped.

With the one hundred sets of hopeful eyes on her, Taylor cleared her throat and addressed the waiting office, like the town crier announcing that the king was on his way.

“Yes, it’s true. Jason—uh, Andrews—will be here. On Thursday.” Taylor began to fan herself, suddenly feeling a little flushed. Strange how warm it had become in the office right then. Probably a poor ventilation spot, she mused. She’d have to speak to Linda about calling the maintenance people.

All around her, the secretaries and lawyers had erupted in a frenzy of frantic conversations at her exciting news.

“What should I wear?”

“What do you think he will wear?”

“Didn’t you just love it when he [insert favorite Jason Andrews movie/scene/line here]?”

“Do you think”—gasp—“he could ever possibly be as gorgeous in person?”

Taylor stood in the middle of all the chaos. As always, she felt the need to maintain control over the situation, so she gestured calmingly to the secretaries that hopped about her like over-caffeinated jackrabbits.

“You all need to pull yourselves together,” she said firmly, over the racket. “We need to treat this like any other project.”

At this, the secretaries simmered down and stopped dancing. Linda stared at her incredulously. “Any other project? It’s Jason Andrews.”

Taylor felt herself getting all flushed again. Damn ventilation. Someone really needed to see to that soon.

Linda’s expression was one of utter disbelief. “Are you seriously trying to tell us that you’re not the least bit excited about this?”

Taylor sighed loudly in exasperation. “Oh, Linda, come on . . .” With that said, she turned and coolly headed toward her office. But when she reached the door, she looked back at her secretary and winked.

“Hey—I didn’t say it wouldn’t be a fun project.”

With a sly grin, she disappeared into her office.


IT WAS AFTER eleven that evening when Taylor finally pulled into the driveway of her apartment building. For the remainder of the day, she had tried to put all thoughts of the “Andrews Project” (as it had widely come to be known throughout the office) out of her mind. But fate, of course, had been conspiring against her.

Shortly after her meeting with Sam, she had received a phone call from one of “Mr. Andrews’s” assistants, who had informed her in clipped, brisk terms that “Mr. Andrews” (the assistant’s repeated use of the surname conjured up visions in Taylor’s mind of a stuffy eighteenth-century British servant) would arrive at her office on Thursday morning at nine o’clock. It was expected, said the servant-assistant, that Ms. Donovan would not be late, as Mr. Andrews kept a very busy schedule.

The whole tone of the conversation had irked her.

Let’s get something straight, Taylor had been tempted to say. I am doing him a favor.

She hadn’t been in Los Angeles long enough to adjust to the fact that catering to celebrities with overinflated senses of self-importance was simply part of the city’s framework, never to be questioned. She may have been living—temporarily—in the city of dreams, but her life was quite grounded in reality. And that life, whether in L.A. or Chicago, was in The Law.

Moreover, since her work schedule generally permitted her to see only about four movies per year, she simply didn’t have enough interest in “the industry” to give a crap about stroking Jason Andrews’s ego. Besides, she was quite certain that—given his infamous reputation—he’d already had enough things stroked to last a lifetime.

But despite the strong opinions she had on the matter, Taylor thought she had been highly diplomatic in her response to the servant-assistant’s instructions.

“Now, is it customary that I curtsy before or after I’m presented to His Highness?” she had innocently inquired.

The servant-assistant had not been amused.

After ending the call on that note, Taylor had set off to find a way to miraculously fit three days of work into the two days remaining before His Royal Wonderfulness arrived. Her first priority had been to meet with Derek, the second-year associate assigned to work with her on the sexual harassment case.

Poor Derek, always a bit of a nervous type, appeared ready to break out in hives when Taylor told him he’d be arguing the motions on Thursday. For a moment, she thought about sneakily whispering a trade—seven motions in limine for seven hours with you-know-who—but she knew Sam expected that she personally handle the actor.

Even to the likely detriment of their motions.

And the possible harm that would then befall their client.

Not to mention what she personally wanted.

Not that she had any opinions on the matter. Really.

But for the rest of the afternoon, Taylor had other, far more important things to worry about. And so, between the seventeen class member deposition transcripts she needed to review, and the eleven telephone arguments with opposing counsel over jury instructions, it was not until late that night, as she exhaustedly made her way to her front door, that she remembered the envelope Linda had handed her before leaving for the day.