Scott resumed his place in the lounge chair next to Rob.

“How did it go with what’s-her-name?”

Ignoring Rob’s question, Scott looked pointedly at the Cheetos bag that had started off full just twenty minutes ago and now appeared to be virtually empty.

Rob made a face in response. “They’re baked.”

“Whatever. Just don’t get into my pool with that orange shit all over your hands.” Scott leaned back to watch the girls, who smiled at him in collective invitation. “As for your question, everything’s fine with what’s-her-name. I’m taking her to the Black and Pink Ball next Saturday.”

“That should at least be worth a blow job.”

“You would think so, right? But she needs to ‘rest’ tonight,” Scott said with mocking finger quotes. Then with his arms folded casually behind his head, he eyed the girls in the pool. He wondered how much longer he should let them go on splashing each other before he jumped in and gave them something to really splash about.

“So I’m gonna have Marty make sure she and I are photographed together at the party,” he told Rob. He had officially signed with Marty Shepherd three days ago and was eager to take his new publicist out for a spin. “Then he can leak her name to the press.” He grinned, proud of this plan. “Taylor Donovan—the girl formerly known as the Mystery Woman.”

Rob looked over as he scrunched up the Cheetos bag. “I thought you told me she had issues with the press—something to do with her trial or whatever.”

“She does. But that’s not my problem, is it?”

Scott glanced back at the girls in the pool, who were coyly gesturing for him to join them.

“Ladies . . . how’s the water?”

In response, one of the girls took off her bikini top and smiled. The other two quickly followed suit.

“Looks like it might be a little chilly,” Scott said, enjoying the view. He got up from his lounge chair, glancing at Rob as he walked by. “Now that you’ve finished your snack . . . I assume you know your way out?”

Rob looked at him in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He pointed an orange-tipped finger at the three girls in the water, whose bikini bottoms had now gone the way of their tops. “What about me?”

Scott shook his head with an oh-so-sorry grin. “Sorry, buddy—but this one’s all mine. I told you, you need to lay off the desserts anyway.”

And with that, Scott dove cleanly into the pool. When he surfaced in the midst of the three naked girls, Taylor Donovan was the last thing on his mind.


JASON HAD A meeting with Marty later that week to discuss his promo schedule for Inferno, which opened the following Friday. It was a whirlwind of a lineup that would have him jetting all across the country: press junkets, photo shoots, the Today show, The Tonight Show, The Early Show, The Late Show, Ellen, Oprah, and Barbara Walters on The View. All in the span of four days.

Since Jason would still be in Los Angeles the upcoming weekend, Marty asked if he planned to attend Tony Redstone’s Black & Pink Ball. Jason was just about to caustically reply that indeed he was not so planning—Redstone was the head of the studio that had greenlit Outback Nights and supposedly (according to Jason’s sources) the man who had balked at his salary and decided to go with the far less talented (again, according to Jason’s sources) and less expensive Scott Casey.

But then Marty casually mentioned that if Jason was planning to attend, perhaps he could bring Naomi Cross. Given the fact that Taylor Donovan was already going with Scott Casey.

Hearing this, Jason felt a pit form in his stomach.

He hated the way he’d left things with her last weekend, but he’d been too mad and later, too embarrassed to call her. He had realized over the past couple days, however, that they really needed to talk. And not over the telephone.

So if Saturday night had to be the night, so be it. Fuck Scott Casey—he was a cocky little pissant and Jason could give a crap about the fact that he would be there, too. There were things he needed to say to Taylor. Important things.

So he told Marty to put him down as a yes.

Twenty-eight

TAYLOR PRIDED HERSELF in being a virtual expert in the area of labor and employment law. She had worked hard for this distinction: she subscribed to the various labor and employment trade publications, she kept on top of the case law and legislation and studied the trends and changes in her field, she attended conferences and seminars and was even the cochairwoman of the Young Lawyers Employment Law Committee of the Chicago Bar Association.

In short, when it came to labor and employment law, Taylor had skills.

On the other hand, when it came to the subject of black-tie Hollywood balls, Taylor’s skills were, well . . . not so much. In this area, she needed reinforcements. She needed an expert in the subject of all things Hollywood, someone who worked hard to acquire that knowledge, someone who subscribed to the various trade publications and studied the trends and changes in that particular field.

So she called Valerie.

The woman was apoplectic.

“The Black and Pink Ball!”

Val screamed so loudly, Taylor had to hold the phone away from her ear.

“Taylor Donovan you are the luckiest goddamn woman in the world! I’d cut off my right arm to go to the Black and Pink Ball!”

“Then I’d recommend a strapless gown for you when the time comes.”

“Taylor!” Valerie yelled warningly. “You are not taking this seriously enough! Your dress, your shoes, your hair and makeup—your very existence—needs to be planned down to the absolute last detail.” Then Val began to fret, mumbling distractedly on her end of the line. “You call and give me three days’ notice? It can’t be done—there’s no time. All right, fine then—yes, I will help you, you’ll be gorgeous, and your fabulous movie star boyfriend will be unable to speak at the very sight of you.” She paused pointedly. “Wait—who is it you’re going out with this week?”

Taylor smirked. Ha ha. “Couldn’t resist throwing in that last part, could you?”

“Without the snide comments, I might have to kill you, I’m that jealous.” Then Val got down to business. “Okay—so for the Black and Pink Ball, we need to think classic Hollywood. Glamorous old-school Hollywood. Think Ava Gardner. Think Ingrid Bergman, Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly. You will wear black—”

“But I always wear black,” Taylor interrupted. “I was thinking—”

“Taylor! Are you trying to kill me? We don’t have time for you to run around looking for shoes that will match some peach nightmare you plucked off the clearance rack at Saks!”

Taylor was highly insulted by this. As if she would ever wear peach.

“Speaking of shoes,” Val continued, “you will go to Christian Louboutin—write this down, Taylor . . .”

And so it went.

Thanks to the wonders of technology, Taylor felt as though Valerie was shopping right alongside her when she stopped off at Rodeo Drive Thursday evening after her trial. When the salesclerks weren’t looking, she snapped photos with her cell phone of the various dress and shoe contenders and sent them to Val for immediate comment.

The two women exchanged several phone calls over the next two days. During their final conversation early Saturday evening, when Taylor was just about to start getting ready, Valerie heard the hesitation creeping into her voice and asked about it.

“I feel guilty about going to the party,” Taylor admitted. “I think I might be leading Scott on.”

“Think of it this way,” Val told her, “by going with Scott Casey to the Black and Pink Ball, you saved our friendship. Because if I had ever heard you turned down such an invitation, I never would’ve spoken to you again.”

Taylor smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Val, for that.”

Valerie sighed wistfully. “Now go to your big fancy party, and call me tomorrow and tell me every detail. And Taylor—knock him dead.”

Although it went unsaid, Taylor knew full well that the “him” Valerie had been referring to was not Scott Casey.


LATER THAT EVENING, when Taylor stepped out onto the veranda of Tony Bredstone’s mansion, she instantly saw why the Black & Pink Ball was one of the hottest tickets in Hollywood. She tried to take in every detail of the grandness of the party, thinking how she would describe it to Val in the morning.

The studio head’s home sat on a sprawling five-acre estate in Bel Air. The grounds behind the house had been elaborately transformed into an outdoor ballroom, complete with white linens and crystal-set dining tables. Low candlelight was sprinkled throughout, creating a warm glow. Twinkling lights were strung along the sculptured topiaries that surrounded the main dance floor. Waiters with bow ties carried silver platters of champagne, and a string quartet played classical music from the upstairs balcony.

To Taylor, it looked like a scene right out of a movie. Which was an appropriate thought, considering a good number of the guests mingling throughout were actors and actresses she had seen in those very movies. For a lawyer from Chicago, it was like being at the Academy Awards. Only without the whole I’m-just-honored-to-have-been-nominated rigamarole.

Scott took Taylor by the hand and led her into the party. He looked great in his tux; there certainly was no disputing that. He headed straight for one of the bars, saying something about needing a drink. Taylor balked when she spotted some photographers hanging off to the side.