Just the Sexiest Man Alive

by Julie James

  “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.

  “What’s wrong?” Scott asked her. Then he saw the source of her hesitation. “Oh that . . . don’t worry, those are just industry photographers. They cover these charity events for the trade papers. Nothing your trial judge would ever see.”

  Taylor continued to hesitate. “I don’t know . . . why don’t you go ahead and get us drinks? I’ll just wait here.”

  She could’ve sworn she saw a flicker of—disappointment? anger?—in Scott’s eyes right then. But then he smiled.

  “Don’t be so paranoid, Mystery Woman.” He held up his hand in a mock-solemn vow. “Your secret identity is safe with me. I promise.”

  But there was something about his smile that Taylor didn’t quite trust . . . She was trying to figure out what that something was, when someone grabbed Scott from behind.

  “You wouldn’t be trying to sneak by without saying hello, would you, brother?” an Irish voice said.

  Turning, Taylor saw two guys in their midtwenties who she recognized as Scott’s costars from A Viking’s Quest.

  “Hey—who the hell let you scrubs in here!” Scott shouted at them. In his excitement, his Australian accent was more pronounced than ever.

  Taylor had heard the tales—everyone had—about how close Scott and his A Viking’s Quest costars had grown during their grueling thirteen-month shoot. There were even rumors that the cast had gone out one night after filming and gotten “AVQ” tattoos in “secret” places. Valerie had been highly disappointed to learn that Taylor had not gotten any confirmation of this.

  Taylor watched as Scott’s boys pulled him into a rough tumble of inebriated man-hugs.

  “Scrubs? Ahh . . . look here at this guy, such a big shot,” said the British actor. He, like Scott, had gotten his first big break with A Viking’s Quest, and he too was doing well for himself, having landed a role as a recovering alcoholic on a new primetime television show that boasted the biggest ratings of the season.

  “What the fuck is this shit?” demanded the Irish actor, the word coming out as “shite.” As far as Taylor knew, he had done absolutely nothing since A Viking’s Quest. “You got no drink—what’s up with that?” he asked Scott in his thick brogue. “We need to address that situation immediately.”

  Before Taylor knew what was happening, the two actors dragged Scott off to the bar for a round of shots. Leaving her standing alone on the veranda.

  Taylor looked around and recognized no one. Somehow, this kept happening to her at these Hollywood parties. Probably because she was the no one.

  Not wanting to stand on the veranda forever, Taylor headed off in search of a washroom, thinking it was the only place for a girl to be alone at a party like this without looking pathetic.

  WHAT TAYLOR DIDN’T realize, as she cut through the crowd, was that people at that party were paying attention to her. Very much so, in fact.

  She never knew it, but the reason no one dared approach her was because they all assumed she was somebody they should know and were too embarrassed to admit they didn’t. So instead, they turned to one another in low whispers. Remind me—I know this, but the name escapes me right now—who is that woman?

  And with each person that couldn’t quite place Taylor, the mystery surrounding her deepened.

  She came with Scott Casey, someone said. No, no—they just happened to walk in at the same time. See—there he is, over there, laughing with the other actors from that movie. If Scott Casey was here with her, wouldn’t he at least get her a drink?

  And then something magical happened.

  The voices dropped to a hushed awe.

  Wait—look over there, isn’t that Jason Andrews? Over by the other bar, sitting by himself. Look at how he’s watching her.

  A quiet frenzy swept across the party. Do you
think it could be—yes, yes, you can tell by the long, dark hair, it’s the same as the photographs in the magazines, I think you might be right . . .

  It was the Mystery Woman.

  In person, right there at their party. The crowd couldn’t help but stare. It was generally agreed she had been expected to be a little taller.

  The whispers quickly worked their way to the photographers who hovered along the edges of the party, snapping relatively unexciting shots of Alec Baldwin sneaking another cheese puff off a passing waiter’s tray, or Salma Hayek spilling champagne on her Manolos while toasting Brad Grey.

  Catching word of the whispers, paparazzi heads shot up in a state of ready alertness, like a herd of gazelle that had caught wind of a lioness lurking in the grass nearby. Their ears twitched and their eyes darted side to side as they scanned the vast Serengeti of the Bel Air mansion until they spotted her.

  The Mystery Woman! Now there was the money shot—easily worth twenty times another photograph of one of them Gyllenhaal jokers. But not alone—she needed to be with him.

  So now the paparazzi watched, along with the interested party guests, as the Mystery Woman made her way into the house. They stood by, ready, as Jason set down his drink and got up from the bar as if to follow her.

  The crowd nudged one another. Such drama! Such excitement!

  They couldn’t wait to see what was about to happen next.

  Twenty-nine

  TAYLOR SEARCHED IN vain for Jason amongst the crowd that had gathered inside the Bredstone mansion. Spotting the time on the Rolex of a man drinking a martini, she realized she had left Scott alone for quite a long time. Feeling guilty, she headed back out onto the veranda.

  Perhaps she was imagining things, but when Taylor stepped outside, she got the distinct impression that people stopped their conversations. As she worked her way toward the bar where she had last seen Scott, she became more and more aware that the other guests were indeed staring at her. She did a quick check to make sure one of her boobs hadn’t popped out of her dress or anything. Seeing that the girls were both securely under wraps, she shrugged and figured the other guests must simply be wondering what someone like her was doing wandering aimlessly amongst their fabulousness.

  When Taylor got to the bar, she saw Scott in the corner. Laughing riotously in a circle with his boys, he appeared not to have realized she had even disappeared. Torn between not wanting to interrupt and not wanting to walk around the party any longer like a lost child in a grocery store, Taylor debated whether to join him.

  But then a better idea struck her—she realized she hadn’t checked the second bar, the one on the other end of the dance floor. Perhaps she would find Jason there. After all, he was the reason she had come to this party in the first place.

  She headed across the dance floor, where the classical music portion of the evening’s entertainment clearly was over. She had no idea who DJ AM was, but many others apparently did, judging from the way they all rushed out to dance as soon as his name was announced.

  She got to the second bar and scanned the faces of everyone there. But not one of them was Jason. Frustrated, she took a deep breath. Yep—once again she was standing alone at this party, with nowhere to go.

  But then, she happened to look up just as the crowd shifted and suddenly, she had a view of the veranda.

  There Jason stood, with his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his pants. In his tuxedo, he looked . . . well, there were no words. He peered down at Taylor with a grin, and from across the bar, she smiled back.

  For the first time that evening, she felt like she belonged.

  AS JASON MADE his way through the crowd, he was certain he would have something clever and nonchalant to say by the time he reached Taylor. But when he got there and saw her up close, nothing remotely clever or even nonchalant came to mind. In fact, thoughts, in general, were a bit beyond him at that point.

  It was the way she looked that night. He would never forget it.

  She wore a shimmering Grecian-style white satin gown that skimmed over her body in graceful gathers. In wild contrast to the traditional updo favored by virtually every other woman at that party, she wore her hair down and long and wavy.

  Other women at the ball, with their black gowns and diamond chokers, looked like princesses. But to Jason, Taylor was a goddess.

  He stopped before her, transfixed. She shifted worriedly when he said nothing at first.

  “You’re so beautiful, Taylor,” he finally managed.

  Her cheeks flushed at the compliment. “It’s just the dress.”

  No—it’s you, he almost blurted out. But he kept his tongue in check.

  “Where’s your date?” he asked instead.

  Taylor gestured across the dance floor, where Scott and his friends were clanking their beer bottles in another rowdy toast.

  “Over there, hanging out with the other members of the Fellowship.”

  Jason grinned. “I think that’s a different movie.”

  Taylor turned back and looked him over. “So . . . where’s your date?”

  “I don’t have one. Unless you count Jeremy, which of course I don’t. He has a crush on Bredstone’s daughter, so I brought him along.”

  Taylor nodded. Did she seem pleased by the fact that he didn’t have a date? There was only one way to tell. Jason held out his hand.

  “Dance with me, Taylor.”

  She hesitated for a moment. Then she took his hand without saying a word.

  Jason led her out onto the dance floor. Couples had paired off as “Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star began to play. Through the crowd, he caught sight of some photographers hovering eagerly on the other side of the dance floor. Scanning the area, he spotted a secluded area that was sheltered by the low branches of a tree that reached out over the dance floor. He led Taylor over and pulled her into his arms.

  They danced slowly together, with the lights glittering in the tree branches above them like stars. Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Jason wanted to enjoy the feel of Taylor’s hand in his, the snugness of his arm around her waist. In her heels, the top of her head rested right under his chin. He could whisper anything in her ear, he realized, and only she would hear.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he began softly. “You may finally be free of me.”

  Taylor turned her face toward his. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, your work with the script is essentially finished, we have no more deals about keeping the press away from you, and as far as I know, you don’t have any more friends in town . . .”

  She smiled. “Valerie is still talking about that night.”

  “And unless you plan to knock yourself over the head with a hammer, you’ll likely remain concussion-free,” Jason teased. But then his expression turned serious. “So I guess there’s nothing left to keep you around me anymore.”

  Taylor’s green eyes probed his intently. “What if I just like being around you?”

  Jason held his breath. “Is that true?”

  She nodded slowly. “I need to tell you something, Jason—I know how I’ve acted toward you, things I’ve said in the past, but . . .” She trailed off, hesitating, then looked him straight in the eyes.

  “I was so wrong about you. These past few weeks, I’ve realized that when you take away the cameras, and the reporters, and the big house, and the fancy car . . . the guy who’s left is not too bad. In fact, I like him quite a bit.”

  And that was it. Those simple words affected Jason more than any others ever had.

  “Taylor . . .” he said, pulling her closer to him.

  But she shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. I just wanted you to know that. That’s all.”

  She started to pull away, but Jason held her tight. “Don’t pull away from me. Not this time.”

  “I have to.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “Because of Scott?”

  Taylor looked up at him. “We both know Scott isn’t the p
roblem.”

  “Then what?”

  She paused at the question, her eyes troubled.

  “It’s you, Jason—you’re the problem. I just . . . I can’t do this with you.”

  Jason was momentarily taken aback by her words. Before he could say anything further, Taylor pulled away. He felt it—the moment her fingers slipped out of his. Then she hurried off, disappearing into the crowd.

  Jason stayed there, on the dance floor, watching her go. A rush of emotions swept over him, and he knew then one thing, the only thing that mattered.

  He loved her.

  A LITTLE WHILE later, Jeremy found Jason sitting alone on a bench in front of a fountain near the back of Bredstone’s grounds. The party was a little distance away, back up the hill. The sounds of lively music and laughter drifted down in stark contrast to Jason’s somber mood.

  Jeremy took a seat on the bench next to Jason. He sighed. “Yep, yep, yep . . .”

  The two of them sat quietly for a long time.

  “I know, I hear you,” Jeremy agreed.

  More silence.

  Finally, Jason broke it.

  “It’s not a game with her anymore. If it ever really was.” He glanced over at Jeremy. “She doesn’t trust me.”

  Jeremy considered this. “Should she?”

  Jason faced the cold, hard truth. “I suppose I haven’t exactly been a good guy.”

  Jeremy spoke honestly then, as only a best friend could. “You know, I remember when we were just two guys driving cross-country to Los Angeles in that crappy yellow Datsun you owned, hoping to somehow make a living in Hollywood. And also hoping that the car would actually make it to Hollywood.”

  That got a slight smile out of Jason. He remembered that car well.

  “These years that we’ve been in L.A.,” Jeremy paused, as if this was something he had been thinking about for a while. “I’ve watched as you’ve settled into this crazy, ridiculous life you’ve been blessed with. And I’m not going to lie to you—there were plenty of times when I’ve been worried about you. Plenty of times. Getting everything you want so easily, that changes a man.”