Just the Sexiest Man Alive

Seventeen

TAYLOR HURRIED OUT the front gate, eager to put as much distance between her and the wall that surrounded Jason’s estate as fast as possible. When she got to the end of the cobblestone driveway, she looked up and down the street, trying to remember where the hell she had parked her car. The stupid Beverly Hills side streets all looked the same: walls and fences and ten-foot hedges, created for the single purpose of keeping the riffraff from sneaking peeks at the fabulous houses and people inside.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she swore under her breath.

The real problem, of course, was not that she couldn’t find her car.

The real problem was that she had been an utter and complete fool.

What had she been thinking, convincing herself that maybe Jason had—

She stopped herself mid-thought. The idea was so ridiculous she couldn’t even finish it.

She had felt like such an idiot, just standing there as Naomi draped herself all over Jason. And as for him, Mr. I’m-So-Hot with that—what was up with that smug grin, anyway? When he had called her name as she left, there had been about a thousand things she’d been tempted to say. But when she turned and saw Jason standing with Naomi, and then glanced around at the rest of the party, it had occurred to her that she really didn’t belong there anyway. She may have put on the dress and looked the part, but at the end of the day, she was still just a lawyer from Chicago.

The worst part of the situation was that Taylor had no one to blame but herself. She had set herself up to be disappointed by a man who was infamously known worldwide for disappointing women. Despite what she might have wanted to believe for a few brief seconds after overhearing the little bathroom trixies, she was no different from any other woman Jason Andrews had ever met.

But knowing this still did not make things hurt any less.

For a brief moment, Taylor’s thoughts drifted back to Jason. There was something about him—his eyes, his smile, the way his voice sounded when he said her name, the things he said that made her laugh, the way he could look at her as if there was no one else in the room . . .

She resolutely shoved this line of thinking out of her mind.

“Shit!” she muttered again as she paced the driveway. So bothered was she, even her profanity lacked its usual flair.

Suddenly, a voice came out of the darkness.

“Well, it can’t be that bad.”

Taylor whirled around and saw—whoa, nelly—Scott Casey standing just a few feet away. How long he had been hanging out by the driveway, she had no idea.

Scott smiled at the surprised look on her face.

“Is something wrong?”

Taylor had noticed a lot of famous faces at Jason’s party, but certainly didn’t recall seeing Scott Casey there. And he would be very hard to miss. Val was right—he was absolutely beautiful in person, with his blond hair, lean build, and model-perfect features. A walking Calvin Klein ad. And apparently, talking, too.

To her.

Right then.

“Sorry.” Taylor regrouped, managing to find her voice. “I can’t remember where I parked my car, that’s all.”

“I’d be happy to give you a ride if you need one.”

Taylor gave him a look. He may have been Scott Casey, but she was no fool. At least not twice in one night, anyway.

“I’ll be fine,” she told him. “It’s around here somewhere.”

“You’re leaving the party so soon. I hope nothing’s wrong?”

For some reason, Taylor found herself warming a little to him. Perhaps it was the look of concern in his light hazel eyes. Or possibly the killer Australian accent.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said lightly. “I just need to get an early start tomorrow, for work.”

“Work on a Sunday?” Scott made a face. “What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.” Taylor saw that this registered with him.

“I should’ve guessed,” he mused. “You were wearing a suit in that one photograph, and no one in this town wears suits except lawyers and agents.”

“Photograph?” Taylor tried to imagine where on earth Scott Casey would’ve seen her photograph. Then it hit her. “Oh, the magazines.”

He stepped a little closer. “You’re on all the covers again this week. You are the Mystery Woman, aren’t you?” he asked in a coyly curious tone.

“Would it surprise you if I was?”

“Not at all.” His eyes took her in appreciatively. “I’m only surprised they didn’t photograph you from the front. Your face belongs on a magazine cover.”

Taylor paused. That was actually kind of smooth.

Admittedly, she had a secret weakness for compliments like that. Growing up with three older brothers, she hadn’t paid much attention to fashion trends, makeup, hairstyles, or other things of the type that the typical teenage girl devoted hours to studying. The one time she had actually dared to sneak home a copy of Seventeen magazine had yielded disastrous results: her brothers had mocked her incessantly for days. So instead, Taylor had gone through high school as the “smart girl,” and she’d been just fine with that. Although, admittedly, “smart girls” were not exactly what teenage boys were interested in.

Eventually, when Taylor got to college and teamed up with Valerie and Kate, her friends convinced her to get rid of the out-of-date glasses and tomboy ponytail. One rainy Saturday morning, Val even managed to talk her into a makeover. The results had surprised not only Kate and Val, but Taylor herself. The three of them, using their fake IDs, had gone out to the campus bars that night, and it had taken Taylor all of about fifteen seconds of obvious male appreciation to decide that her new look was one she could live with.

Nevertheless, as is often the case despite a person’s latter achievements, Taylor’s high school “smart girl” label stuck with her into adulthood, and she still blushed whenever a good-looking guy told her she was attractive.

Which was exactly what she did right then, hearing Scott’s compliment.

“Thank you,” she smiled modestly. “It’s sort of an arrangement Jason made with the tabloids. They can’t publish any pictures that identify me.”

“Hence the ‘mystery’ part,” Scott said cutely.

Taylor studied him curiously. He didn’t exactly seem like the kind of guy who often used the word “hence.” Was it possible that he—Scott Casey—was actually trying to impress her?

She decided to throw out a little test.

“But now the mystery is out. Unless . . . I can trust you to keep my secret safe?” she asked in a deliberately flirtatious tone.

Scott instantly took the bait. “Absolutely.” He grinned at her, all boyish charm. “On one condition: that you tell me all about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” Taylor shrugged innocently. Damn, it felt good to be flirting. The hell with cheating fiancés and ex-wedding nights and brilliant blue-eyed Sexiest Men Alive going on sex romps to wine country with their gorgeous blonde toothpick costars.

“Well, for starters, how long have you and Jason been seeing each other?”

Taylor scoffed at this. Perhaps a little too vehemently.

“We’re not dating,” she said definitively. “Jason and I are just . . . business associates.”

Scott looked deep into her eyes, taking another step closer. “Are you sure about that?”

Taylor nodded. “I’m positive.”

He grinned.

“Then maybe, Mystery Woman, you should start by telling me your name.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, after the last of the party guests had straggled out, Jason fell asleep thinking about how perfectly the evening had gone. He pushed aside all of Jeremy’s annoying negativity: So what if he had to trick Taylor into admitting her feelings? In the long run, none of that would matter.

After letting Taylor stew for a day or two, he would put into effect the second half of his plan: he would sweep in, assure her that Naomi meant nothing to him, that she was the only woman he thought about. And Taylor, in turn, having already implicitly admitted her feelings with the jealous look, would have to concede her loss and have no reason not to explicitly admit her feelings as well.

But despite the fact that everything was smoothly falling into place, Jason had a terrible dream that night.

He dreamt that he was back at the party. He knew Taylor was there, but he couldn’t find her anywhere. Finally he spotted her at a secluded table in the garden, drinking a glass of wine that he knew came from Napa Valley. But Taylor wasn’t alone. Sitting next to her—too close to her—and wearing some sort of weird painter’s beret was Brad Pitt. For some reason, Taylor kept calling him Jason.

Jason called her name, but Taylor ignored him. He tried walking over to her, but a stone wall suddenly popped out of the ground like a medieval fortress. Then Brad grinned and held out his hand and led Taylor into the house. Jason watched the two of them through the windows; he saw them head up to his bedroom, and he shouted for Taylor to stop. But nobody could hear him except for Jeremy, who popped out of nowhere dangling upside down from a tree while wearing a court jester’s costume and giggling something about the party being over. Then Jeremy’s laugh turned maniacal and he flung his cigarette into some nearby bushes. Walls sprung up all around Jason, closing him in, and he had no choice but to watch helplessly as his beautiful twelve-thousand-square-foot French Normandy-style house burst into flames and burned to the ground.

Jason woke up with a start.

Gasping for breath, he shook the nightmare off and tried to clear his head. Parched with thirst, he got up and gulped down a glass of water in the kitchen. He peeked through his windows and briefly opened the back door just to make sure he didn’t smell any smoke.

But by the time he got back into bed, Jason was once again convinced that all was right with the world. As his head hit the pillow, he smiled at the sheer ridiculousness of his dream.

Brad Pitt. Jason almost laughed out loud at the thought.

He wished he was Jason Andrews.