He turned and took a swig of his beer as Jeremy nodded, impressed. Over at the board, a dart pierced right through each of Scott Casey’s eyes. The third jutted out prominently from his throat.

“Not bad,” Jeremy said. “But perhaps this is a good time to discuss your anger management issues.”

Jason sat down at their bar table as Jeremy lined up for his turn at the board. “You don’t think Taylor really likes this guy, do you?”

Jeremy shrugged, about to throw. “I don’t know. I haven’t met too many women who wouldn’t be impressed by Scott Casey.” He pointed the darts at Jason, thinking. “Then again, I haven’t met any other woman who has been so wholly unimpressed by you, so maybe there’s hope yet.”

Jason didn’t even crack a smile. In fact, he looked utterly miserable. Jeremy gave up his position at the dartboard and took a seat.

“Come on, Jason—what’s going on with you and this girl? This isn’t like you.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

“Then what is it?”

Jason sighed. “I don’t know . . .” He looked over at Jeremy, suddenly serious. “All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Now it was Jeremy’s turn to sigh. “Ahh . . . the friend zone. Have I been there.”

The two of them sat in dejected silence. Then Jeremy thought of something.

“Hey—you know what you need? You need a real guy’s night out. None of this pansy-ass Hollywood nightclub shit. I heard about this poker game going on tonight. Just a few writers I know, nothing high stakes. We can smoke cigars, drink some Macallan, talk about—”

“Poker?” Jason’s eyes lit up feverishly. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure you’d be interested, given your track record.”

“So I’ve been dealt a few bad hands,” Jason said dismissively. “Who hasn’t?”

Jeremy fought back his grin. The poor guy really had no idea. Any poker player worth his salt picked up on the whole watch thing in two hands or less. That was why he had subtly steered Jason toward craps a few years ago, when they had started going to Vegas and Jason had begun gambling serious money.

Of course, Jeremy supposed, a better man would’ve simply told his friend about his little tell. But as long as Jason never got into any serious trouble—hey, as long as he was still driving friggin’ Aston Martins and living in twenty-five-million-dollar houses—Jeremy saw no harm in keeping quiet. Every once in a while, it came in quite handy to be able to tell when Jason was lying. Like that time, years ago, when he had insisted he’d lost Speed to Keanu because the director had said he was “too tall” for the shots on the bus.

So Jeremy remained quiet this time as well. “Yes, that’s right, Jason,” he said reassuringly. “You’ve been dealt some bad hands. That’s all.”

Jason eagerly rubbed his hands together. “And that means I’m due—I can feel the gods of luck smiling down on me.” He pointed at Jeremy, highly confident. “You better be careful tonight. I’d hate for you to lose all your mac-and-cheese money.”

To keep his mouth shut, Jeremy took a long swig of his beer. After polishing it off, he set the bottle down on the table and gestured to the door. “Should we go then?”

Jason nodded, and Jeremy followed him out the bar.

He had the funniest feeling steak dinners were about to be back on the week’s menu.


LATER THAT NIGHT, Taylor let herself into her apartment. Not in the mood for a sudden flood of light, she turned on just one lamp in the living room. She kicked off her heels and sunk into the couch.

She wasn’t exactly an expert—this having been her first, first date in several years—but she felt that an objective third party would have to say that the night had gone relatively well.

Her thoughts drifted back to what had been the turning point of the evening: the moment when she had hung up the phone with Jason and noticed Scott standing in the doorway. She could immediately tell by the look on his face that he knew who she’d been talking to.

“You should be careful around him,” Scott said flatly.

Taylor tucked her phone into her purse. Yes, well, thanks for the news flash.

“We’re just friends,” she replied.

Scott took a seat next to her at the dining table. “So it’s friends now? I thought you said you and Jason were just business associates.”

Taylor toyed with her wineglass. She wasn’t sure she owed him any further explanation. They had known each other all of what—six days?

“We’re just friends, Scott,” she repeated simply.

Seeming to sense her wariness, Scott took his questioning down a notch. “I’m just worried about you, gorgeous, that’s all. I know plenty of women who have had their hearts broken by Jason Andrews. It’s not a pretty sight.” He paused. “In fact, this friend of mine . . .” He trailed off, waving his hand. “Never mind, you don’t need to hear this stuff.”

Taylor thought about this. Did she? Perhaps whatever Scott had to say was exactly what she needed to hear. The lawyer in her decided it was best to have all the facts.

“No, go on,” she told him. “I’d like to know whatever it was you were going to say.”

Scott looked pained to have to tell the story. “Well . . . Jason once dated this girl I know. She’s a supermodel—”

Of course she was a supermodel.

“—and apparently,” Scott continued, “she and Jason took a trip to London together. For some photo shoot or something she had there. But on their third day together, he left the hotel after breakfast, telling her he was going to get fitted for suits on Savile Row.”

Probably for the legal thriller he was filming, Taylor thought. So this was something that had happened fairly recently.

“But it must’ve been one hell of a long fitting,” Scott marched on, “because your ‘friend’ Jason didn’t come back to the hotel. Ever. He just left the poor girl alone in London, without even saying good-bye. She thought he was dead or had been kidnapped or something, until she saw his picture in the Daily Mirror the next morning. The British paparazzi had caught him at the airport, happily boarding a flight back to Los Angeles.”

Taylor remained silent after Scott finished his story. Frankly, she didn’t know what to say in response. Assuming the story was true, was she surprised to hear that Jason could be so callous? Was she disappointed? Angry?

She stared at her wineglass, feeling Scott’s eyes on her. She knew she had to say something.

“Wow. I guess I don’t know why Jason would do something like that.”

“Because he can.”

Scott took hold of Taylor’s wineglass and set it off to the side, out of their way. He spoke cautiously as he peered at her from across the table.

“You know, Taylor, some people say he can get any woman he wants.”

This struck a nerve with her.

Taylor thought about Scott’s words. Really? Was that what people said? Right then, she knew what she had to do.

She reached over and pulled Scott toward her. And she kissed him—a long, deep kiss. When she pulled back, she stared directly into his eyes.

“You know what, Scott? I think you better start listening to different people.”


SITTING ON HER living room couch, Taylor’s mind drifted back to the present.

Okay, sure, it had been a good kiss. And in the interests of full disclosure, the kiss in the kitchen, when they were cleaning up after dinner, hadn’t been too shabby, either. Nor the two in the foyer by the front door. Nor the really long good-night kiss against her car.

Yes, Taylor decided, all in all it had been a very nice first date. He had cooked for her, complimented her, even said all the right things about calling her the next day, and—for crying out loud, he was Scott Casey.

But.

Something was missing.

Taylor curled up and rested her head against the soft suede pillows of the couch.

She had just gone on a great first date with a handsome international movie star, and she thought something was missing. But she couldn’t deny it, something had indeed been lacking in their date.

Because not a single kiss with Scott Casey had held a candle to her one almost-kiss with Jason.

Taylor closed her eyes in frustration. Hell, she supposed, it didn’t matter that her night with Scott had ended with only a kiss. Because she was as good as fucked anyway.

She needed somebody to talk some sense into her.

She needed somebody to give her a swift smack upside the head and a good, strong kick in the ass.

She needed Val and Kate.

Quickly.

Twenty-one

THE WITNESS’S MONOTONE voice droned on endlessly.

Watching from the defense table, Taylor glanced over to see how the jury was reacting to the woman’s testimony, which had been going on for hours with seemingly no end in sight.

She saw that three of the jurors had already nodded off and that the remaining six appeared ready to drop like flies any moment. She watched as the juror in the far back corner began bobbing her head like a high school student in history class. Wait . . . wait for it . . .

The juror’s head dropped back against the seat, and her mouth fell open.

Taylor grinned. Another one bites the dust.

Seemingly oblivious to these goings-on, Frank stood at the podium asking one long, drawn-out question after the other. Apparently, he was unaware of the torture he was inflicting upon these jurors he would later ask for $30 million.

“. . . And like I said earlier,” the witness rambled on, “on many occasions, I would overhear my manager refer to women as ‘chicks.’ ”

“How many times did you hear your manager use that word?” Frank asked.

The witness took a moment to answer, as if needing to compose herself. Taylor tried to keep from rolling her eyes at Derek, who sat next to her at the defense table.

“Oh, I couldn’t even guess,” the witness tearfully responded. “My manager used that derogatory term too many times to count.”

Frank nodded sympathetically. “Then perhaps we should go through all the occasions you can remember your manager using the word ‘chicks.’ One incident at a time, in detail.”

This was too much. Taylor rose from her table.

“I have to object to this line of questioning, Your Honor.”

The judge peered over at her. “Grounds?”

“Well, for starters, it’s entirely too boring for four o’clock on a Friday afternoon.”

The jurors—the ones that were awake, anyway—laughed.

Frank pounded the podium furiously. “Your Honor—Ms. Donovan’s objection is highly inappropriate! I ask that she be admonished for her conduct, and I move to strike her comment from the record!”

Taylor shrugged amiably. “Fine—I’ll modify my objection to include the fact that nothing in this witness’s testimony even remotely resembles sexual harassment.”

The judge held up his hand before Frank could respond further.

“All right, counselors, that’s enough. I agree that it’s getting late. It might be a good time to take a break.” He peered down from his bench at Frank. “Counselor, do you intend to continue this line of questioning on Monday?”

“Your Honor, if I may,” Taylor interjected, “in order to keep the trial moving, the defendant will stipulate that this witness would testify that she heard the word ‘chicks’ in her workplace on several occasions.”

“Not several, Your Honor, numerous occasions,” Frank replied pissily.

Taylor held up her hands innocently. “Now counsel is just getting greedy, Your Honor.”

More titters of laughter could be heard coming from the jury box. The judge rapped his gavel lightly.

“In order to keep this trial on schedule, I will accept the defendant’s proposed stipulation. The record will reflect that this witness would testify that she heard the word ‘chicks’ in her workplace on several occasions.” He gave Frank a stern look. “Mr. Siedlecki, you’ve already fallen two days behind on your witness list. I suggest you find ways to structure their testimonies more succinctly.”

Then the judge turned to Taylor. “As for you, Ms. Donovan, in the future, please try to keep your objections within the confines of the Federal Rules of Evidence.” His words were firm, but his expression held a trace of a smile.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Taylor said demurely. She knew when she had pushed a judge just far enough.