Jason glanced over at the passenger seat, surprised that Jeremy remembered. He had mentioned the meeting in passing to his friend last Friday in Vegas, around four in the morning as they devoured burritos from some sketchy dive seven blocks off the Strip. (Jeremy had used the old “at least no one will recognize you here” trick.)

Of course, Jason hadn’t mentioned then that the meeting with the lawyer was supposed to have occurred earlier that very same day, right about the same moment when he and Jeremy had sidled up to the craps table in the Bellagio’s VIP room. If Jeremy had known that particular detail, he undoubtedly would’ve made some sarcastic remark that Jason—by Friday night being over $100,000 down from said craps table—was in no mood to hear.

It wasn’t the money, Jason repeatedly told Jeremy (who had quite unsympathetically pointed out that he made about ten times that amount in one day of filming)—it was the principle of the matter. He simply hated losing.

Jason turned his eyes back to the road as he considered how to answer his friend’s question. Driving like Mario Andretti on crack cocaine—he had learned a long time ago that it was the only way to avoid being followed by the paparazzi—he skillfully sped his black Aston Martin Vanquish to the off-ramp that would lead them to the Staples Center. He and Jeremy had tickets that evening to the Lakers/Knicks game. Courtside seats, of course. It was one of the few perks of Jason’s fame that Jeremy actually lowered himself to take advantage of.

Jason tried to think of the best way to describe his meeting with the illustrious Ms. Taylor Donovan, Esquire.

“The meeting with the lawyer was . . . enlightening,” he finally settled on.

Jeremy stopped gripping the black leather armrests of the passenger seat, relaxing now that Jason was pulling off the highway. “Was he any good?”

“She does one hell of a cross-examination, I can tell you that,” Jason said, smiling to himself.

Jeremy glanced over and studied him carefully. “What aren’t you telling me here?”

Somehow, Jeremy was the one guy who always seemed to know when he was hiding something. The two of them had come to Los Angeles almost sixteen years ago, with big dreams of making it in the film industry. When Jason’s acting career took off like a rocket, virtually every aspect of his life had changed. Their friendship was one of the few things that had not. Jeremy was the last remaining bridge to normality in Jason’s world—a fact Jeremy never missed a chance to remind him of.

“What makes you think I’m not telling you something?” Jason asked innocently.

“The last time you made that face was two months ago at the Four Seasons bar, after your interview with the reporter from Vanity Fair. When you asked me to come up in one hour and scream ‘Fire!’ outside your room.”

Jason laughed. Good times. “Hey—that worked. In the scramble to evacuate the building, I didn’t even have to promise to call her.”

“I’m sure the forty other people who had to run down twenty flights of stairs at one a.m. would be happy to know they saved you from another awkward postcoital moment.”

“Come on—it was the thrill of their lives. They all thought it was very magnanimous of me to offer to hold the fire door open for everyone.”

“Of course, you were the only one who knew there was actually no fire.”

Jason brushed this aside. “Details, details.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Just tell me about the lawyer.”

So many possible responses, Jason mused to himself. He could tell Jeremy how it really pissed him off that “Ms. Donovan” wasted a day of his time, when he had so few of them left to prepare before filming began; how it irked him beyond all measure that she was too stubborn to get off her high horse and let bygones be bygones (so he had missed a few appointments—that was hardly a crime); or, worst of all, how angry he was that she managed to get the better of him in her little cross-examination exercise.

Or maybe he could talk about the fact that he had literally stopped in his tracks when she first turned around and looked at him.

Because Taylor Donovan was stunning.

And he certainly hadn’t been expecting that.

Long, dark hair—a deep chestnut brown—that swept across one eye and tumbled well past her shoulders in wavy layers. Fair skin that blushed a little when she was angry (as he had definitely seen firsthand) and deep, expressive green eyes.

It was her eyes that made him stop. They had a lively sparkle—a little gleam—that said she was five steps ahead of you at all times and knew it.

Of course, it also could’ve been the legs, Jason conceded. She had smugly caught him checking those out and that pissed him off, too. But he couldn’t resist: in her pencil-thin knee-length skirt and Mary Jane high heels, she looked both classic and sexy at the same time, like the women in the black-and-white movies they used to watch in his film classes.

But no matter what Taylor Donovan looked like, Jason firmly concluded, the thought of her insulting him and storming out of the courtroom was absolutely ludicrous.

Or highly amusing. He still couldn’t decide.

Jason glanced over and saw that Jeremy was waiting for an answer.

“She was angry with me,” he finally said with a smile, thinking that was the best way to sum up their experience.

“Angry with you?” Jeremy paused, mulling this over. “And you haven’t even had sex with this one yet.” Then he considered the source. “Have you?”

Jason threw him a look. “This wasn’t angry like ‘But didn’t those three nights in London mean anything to you?’ angry.” He imitated a clingy woman’s voice.

“More problems with the supermodel?”

“Marty’s on it.”

Jason cocked his head in careful contemplation. “It was different with this lawyer. She was . . .” He trailed off, searching for the right word. It was somewhat of a surprise when it came to him. “Condescending.”

He glanced over at Jeremy for support. Just in time to catch his friend’s grin.

“Condescending?” Jeremy repeated, as if appalled. “To Jason Andrews? Do I dare ask why?”

Jason shrugged as he pulled the Aston Martin in front of the VIP entrance of the Staples Center. “I may have blown off one or two meetings with her last week.”

He shut off the car and threw Jeremy an innocent look. “I didn’t think it would make a difference when I showed up this morning.”

Jeremy clutched his heart in feigned shock. “You mean she didn’t immediately fall on her knees in gratitude when you walked through the door?”

Jason grinned as he stepped out of the car.

“It’s fair to say that’s not exactly how she reacted.”


“AND MAKE SURE she gets the message immediately.”

Jason and Jeremy sat courtside at the Lakers game. They had just barely gotten to their seats when Jason whipped out his cell phone two minutes into the first quarter. He had made a decision during the car ride over.

This morning had not been the last he would see of Taylor Donovan.

Upon arriving at this conclusion, Jason had called his manager and asked him to personally convey the following message to her, word for word: “Mr. Andrews very much enjoyed the lesson he learned from Ms. Donovan and respectfully requests the opportunity of another meeting.”

He knew she’d be amused by the subtext. He grinned as he thought about her reaction: she’d smile coyly—perhaps even toy with a lock of that fabulous long, dark hair—as she contemplated an appropriately flirtatious reply.

After hanging up with his manager, Jason happily turned his attention to the game, his mind wandering only once or twice to speculate what Taylor Donovan would be wearing during their next meeting. He liked the whole smart, sexy lawyer thing she had going on that morning. Now if she would merely undo one or two more buttons of her shirt, one might even call her a naughty lawyer. Perhaps she had a pair of serious librarian-like glasses to finish the look. She could pull her hair up in some sort of no-nonsense, I’m-all-about-business twist, which of course would come tumbling down in a most unbusinesslike manner right as they—

Jason’s cell phone suddenly rang, interrupting his internal debate over the most comfortable position to have sex in a jury box. He liked the possibilities that little half wall presented.

He frowned when he saw that the caller was his publicist, Marty. He had expected it to be his manager, with Ms. Donovan’s feigned reluctant (but secretly delighted) acceptance of his proposal. And he frowned because he was fully aware of the belief shared by his agent, manager, and lawyer that only Marty knew how to “handle” him when bearing bad news.

Jason answered his phone on the second ring.

“Yeah, Marty. What’s up?”


SITTING NEXT TO Jason, Jeremy glanced over and watched as his friend’s publicist delivered what apparently was some unexpected news. Jeremy could’ve laughed out loud when he heard Jason’s reply.

“What do you mean, she ‘regretfully declines’ my invitation?” he said, stunned. “Well—did she say anything else?”

Although Jeremy typically had little interest in Jason’s various escapades, he listened with curiosity to this particular exchange. He had overheard the message Jason had sent this Taylor Donovan person, and noted—with quite a bit of surprise—that it had bordered on being an apology. And as far as Jeremy knew, Jason Andrews hadn’t apologized to a woman other than his mother in fifteen years.

Jeremy watched as Jason’s expression turned to one of amusement as Marty conveyed whatever was the rest of Taylor Donovan’s message.