Just the Sexiest Man Alive

Two

JASON ANDREWS.

He would be at their offices on Thursday. The biggest actor in Hollywood.

Jason Andrews.

The movie star. In every paparazzi-following-your-every-move, crazed-fans-showing-up-naked-in-your-bedroom sense of the term.

Later, when Taylor’s secretary did her “research,” she would stumble across Rolling Stone magazine’s June cover interview, which summed up Jason Andrews as: “devilishly good-looking, and a true legend of his day. Like Clark Gable or Cary Grant, he exudes effortless charm and confidence. Thinks he’s smarter than most and frankly, probably is. A lethal combination that seemingly has left him with respect for very few.”

Devilishly good-looking. Effortless charm and confidence.

Jason Andrews.

And she was going to be working with him.

As Taylor left Sam’s office, she suddenly found herself wondering where she was in her bikini wax cycle. Hmm . . . she may have been due . . .

Then she immediately shook off the ridiculous thought. Please. She was a professional.

And so Ms. Professional straightened her suit and calmly shut Sam’s door behind her. She made her way through the office with what she assumed was a casually dismissive air, as if she acted as legal counsel to fabulously famous sex gods all the time. She had never, ever, let anyone at work see her rattled—not even during the worst point in her breakup with her ex-fiancé a few months ago. She’d be damned if she now was about to let some actor unnerve her in front of others.

“Linda, I need to clear my schedule for Thursday,” Taylor said as she approached her secretary’s desk. She was peering at her calendar, trying to figure out how best to move things around to accommodate her new “assignment.”

“There’s been a change of plans—a new matter has come up.”

She had barely gotten the words out when Linda flew out of her chair. It fell backward to the ground with a loud thunk, which Linda didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh my god! So it’s true then? You’re really going to be working with Jason Andrews?”

How the hell did that get out so fast? Taylor glanced around the office and saw that the other secretaries all had paused in what they were doing. They were staring at her, wide-eyed, and holding their breath as if their very lives depended on her reply. Looking over, she saw that most of the lawyers, too, lingered in their office doorways. For that moment, all business at Gray & Dallas had utterly, completely stopped.

With the one hundred sets of hopeful eyes on her, Taylor cleared her throat and addressed the waiting office, like the town crier announcing that the king was on his way.

“Yes, it’s true. Jason—uh, Andrews—will be here. On Thursday.” Taylor began to fan herself, suddenly feeling a little flushed. Strange how warm it had become in the office right then. Probably a poor ventilation spot, she mused. She’d have to speak to Linda about calling the maintenance people.

All around her, the secretaries and lawyers had erupted in a frenzy of frantic conversations at her exciting news.

“What should I wear?”

“What do you think he will wear?”

“Didn’t you just love it when he [insert favorite Jason Andrews movie/scene/line here]?”

“Do you think”—gasp—“he could ever possibly be as gorgeous in person?”

Taylor stood in the middle of all the chaos. As always, she felt the need to maintain control over the situation, so she gestured calmingly to the secretaries that hopped about her like over-caffeinated jackrabbits.

“You all need to pull yourselves together,” she said firmly, over the racket. “We need to treat this like any other project.”

At this, the secretaries simmered down and stopped dancing. Linda stared at her incredulously. “Any other project? It’s Jason Andrews.”

Taylor felt herself getting all flushed again. Damn ventilation. Someone really needed to see to that soon.

Linda’s expression was one of utter disbelief. “Are you seriously trying to tell us that you’re not the least bit excited about this?”

Taylor sighed loudly in exasperation. “Oh, Linda, come on . . .” With that said, she turned and coolly headed toward her office. But when she reached the door, she looked back at her secretary and winked.

“Hey—I didn’t say it wouldn’t be a fun project.”

With a sly grin, she disappeared into her office.

IT WAS AFTER eleven that evening when Taylor finally pulled into the driveway of her apartment building. For the remainder of the day, she had tried to put all thoughts of the “Andrews Project” (as it had widely come to be known throughout the office) out of her mind. But fate, of course, had been conspiring against her.

Shortly after her meeting with Sam, she had received a phone call from one of “Mr. Andrews’s” assistants, who had informed her in clipped, brisk terms that “Mr. Andrews” (the assistant’s repeated use of the surname conjured up visions in Taylor’s mind of a stuffy eighteenth-century British servant) would arrive at her office on Thursday morning at nine o’clock. It was expected, said the servant-assistant, that Ms. Donovan would not be late, as Mr. Andrews kept a very busy schedule.

The whole tone of the conversation had irked her.

Let’s get something straight, Taylor had been tempted to say. I am doing him a favor.

She hadn’t been in Los Angeles long enough to adjust to the fact that catering to celebrities with overinflated senses of self-importance was simply part of the city’s framework, never to be questioned. She may have been living—temporarily—in the city of dreams, but her life was quite grounded in reality. And that life, whether in L.A. or Chicago, was in The Law.

Moreover, since her work schedule generally permitted her to see only about four movies per year, she simply didn’t have enough interest in “the industry” to give a crap about stroking Jason Andrews’s ego. Besides, she was quite certain that—given his infamous reputation—he’d already had enough things stroked to last a lifetime.

But despite the strong opinions she had on the matter, Taylor thought she had been highly diplomatic in her response to the servant-assistant’s instructions.

“Now, is it customary that I curtsy before or after I’m presented to His Highness?” she had innocently inquired.

The servant-assistant had not been amused.

After ending the call on that note, Taylor had set off to find a way to miraculously fit three days of work into the two days remaining before His Royal Wonderfulness arrived. Her first priority had been to meet with Derek, the second-year associate assigned to work with her on the sexual harassment case.

Poor Derek, always a bit of a nervous type, appeared ready to break out in hives when Taylor told him he’d be arguing the motions on Thursday. For a moment, she thought about sneakily whispering a trade—seven motions in limine for seven hours with you-know-who—but she knew Sam expected that she personally handle the actor.

Even to the likely detriment of their motions.

And the possible harm that would then befall their client.

Not to mention what she personally wanted.

Not that she had any opinions on the matter. Really.

But for the rest of the afternoon, Taylor had other, far more important things to worry about. And so, between the seventeen class member deposition transcripts she needed to review, and the eleven telephone arguments with opposing counsel over jury instructions, it was not until late that night, as she exhaustedly made her way to her front door, that she remembered the envelope Linda had handed her before leaving for the day.

Research, her secretary had called it. She had smiled in amusement, thoroughly enjoying the new project.

Given Linda’s mischievous grin, it was with dread that Taylor pulled the envelope out of her briefcase as she walked up the bricked path to her apartment. She slid out the envelope’s contents, and found herself staring at that week’s edition of People magazine.

Taylor rolled her eyes. Oh, for heaven’s sake—like she had time to read this.

But tabloids have a sneaky way of grabbing the attention of even the most resolute of scoffers, and Taylor was not immune. It was the cover story that caught her eye.

“The Women of Jason Andrews!”

The image below the headline consisted of three side-by-side photos of the film star with a different starlet/model/bimbo hanging all over him.

Taylor shook her head disdainfully at the pictures. Typical. There was something about the sight of this particular man, the way he so deliberately flaunted his parade of conquests, that rubbed her feminist sensibilities the wrong way.

Or maybe it was something more personal.

Right, like she would ever admit that.

She opened the magazine, and a multiple-page foldout of Jason Andrews and his various dalliances fell out.

And spilled all the way to the ground.

For a moment, Taylor could only stare at the pages and pages and pages of “The Women of Jason Andrews!”

With a scornful snort, she bent over to pick up the foldout. The last photo in the series happened to catch her eye: the actor with a classically beautiful blonde in her midtwenties, who Taylor immediately recognized. She may not have been particularly interested in “the industry,” but even the four times a year she crawled out from under her rock to see a movie was enough to know who Naomi Cross was. She saw that written in big, bold letters above the waiflike actress was the urgent question, “Jason’s Next Conquest?”

Deciding that she could somehow manage to go on living without getting an answer to that question, Taylor tucked the Jason-plus-starlet/model/bimbo pages back into the magazine and headed up the walkway to her front door. It was then that she stumbled upon something sitting on her front stoop.

A large bouquet of flowers.

As all women do when first receiving flowers, Taylor silently scrolled through the list of potential senders. Coming up with no pleasant suspects, she eyed the flowers with suspicion. She scooped them up and sifted through the bouquet until she found the card. She instantly regretted bothering to look.

I’m sorry. And I love you. Daniel.

DANIEL LAWRY.

The biggest mistake of Taylor’s life.

Ridiculously big. Gargantuan.

They had met in law school, when she was a third-year student and Daniel had just joined the Northwestern faculty as their new evidence professor. He was young for a professor, only twenty-nine, but his Harvard Law degree and four-year stint at the New York U.S. Attorney’s Office had been too attractive for the law school to ignore.

“Too attractive to ignore” was also the general consensus among the law school’s female student body. With icy blue eyes and streaks of golden blond in his light brown hair, he looked more like a Ralph Lauren model than a law school professor.

The first time Daniel had asked Taylor out was at her law school graduation. She, of course, had said no, having heard rumors from a classmate of hers who lived in the downtown high-rise across the street from Daniel that he frequently was seen around the area with women but much less frequently seen with the same woman.

Six months went by before he asked her out again. The second time was a Saturday morning, when Taylor found him waiting on the steps of her three-flat condo on her walk home from the gym.

He came bearing Starbucks, he said to her with an easy smile, and he had her order exactly right: a grande skim latte with two Splendas. Apparently, he had called her secretary earlier in the week for the info.

It took five Saturday mornings of waiting, and five grande skim lattes with two Splendas, until Taylor finally agreed to meet Daniel for coffee somewhere other than her front steps. Coffee led to drinks, which led to dinner and then dating, which eventually led to Daniel saying all the right things about Taylor being “the one.” She finally agreed to move in with him and a year after that, they were engaged.

It by no means had been a whirlwind affair. She had been cautious and careful throughout the first couple of years of their relationship, but eventually, Daniel’s charm and constant affection had brought down her guard.

She believed he had changed his womanizing ways.

But now here she was in Los Angeles, living alone. And without the two-and-a-half-carat Tiffany ring that used to sit on the fourth finger of her left hand.

Taylor stepped into her apartment. With that now-ringless left hand, she tossed her keys onto the console table by the front door and headed into the kitchen.

She had gotten lucky in terms of the apartment the firm had found for her. Since her case easily would last at least four months (after the inevitable posttrial motions were taken into account), putting her up in a hotel for the duration had not been either her or the firm’s first choice. So one of the legal assistants for the Chicago litigation group had been assigned the task of searching for apartments Taylor could rent. The paralegal was only a few days into her quest when one of her counterparts in the Los Angeles office contacted her with a suggestion: the daughter of one of the partners would be studying abroad in Rome for the fall semester. She wanted to backpack through Europe and Asia for the summer before her classes began, and they were looking for someone to sublet her furnished Santa Monica apartment.

The deal was done as soon as Taylor saw the photographs the L.A. office emailed over. Just minutes from the beach, with a quaint little garden off the living room and cozy cream-and-brown Pottery Barn decor, the apartment was far better than anything else the legal assistant had shown her and easily worth the ten extra miles it would add to her daily downtown commute.

Unfortunately on this night, however, the apartment’s charm was lost on Taylor as she stepped into the kitchen and set the copy of People magazine down on the black-speckled granite countertop. She threw the bouquet of flowers next to the magazine, not noticing as Daniel’s card slipped into its pages.

She leaned against the far side of the counter and stared at the two dozen red roses with the same enthusiasm as if she were looking at a dead skunk.

How ironic that in the five years they had been together, Daniel had never figured out that she didn’t even really like flowers. They’re not practical, she had tried hinting on several occasions. Well, at least now she no longer had to humor him.

She opened up one of the kitchen drawers, searching for a pair of scissors, when she saw her blinking answering machine. It sat atop the wine chiller, one of the “top of the line kitchen appliances” the legal assistant had eagerly included in her description of the apartment. What the legal assistant hadn’t realized was that the far stronger selling point in Taylor’s mind was the Chinese restaurant down the street that delivered until 2 a.m.

Taylor reached across the counter and hit the play button on her answering machine. After the beep, she was relieved to hear Kate’s voice cheerfully greeting her.

“Hey, girl! It’s me, just calling to see how L.A.’s treating you. Val and I are already planning a visit. Miss you.”

Taylor couldn’t help but grin—in truth, Val and Kate had been planning their visit pretty much from the moment she had first announced that she’d be moving to L.A. for the summer. And starting about two weeks ago, Val had stepped it up a notch by emailing her with “suggested places to visit”—a list Taylor suspected was comprised primarily, if not entirely, of the restaurants and bars mentioned in that week’s Page Six columns or Us Weekly “VIP Scene” section.

Taylor glanced down when her answering machine beeped again, indicating that there was a second message. She held her breath, tensing in anticipation.

A familiar husky voice cut through the quiet of her kitchen.

“Taylor, it’s Daniel. I hope you got my flowers . . . I’d really like to talk. Please call me.”

She reached over and instantly deleted the message. How the hell Daniel had gotten her phone number and address in Los Angeles, she had no clue. Five years together meant too many mutual friends, she supposed. She leaned back against the counter and replayed his words in her head.

I’d really like to talk.

Really? Why? She couldn’t possibly think of one thing they had to say to each other.

With this in mind, Taylor walked over to the sink and began to run the water. She pulled a vase out of the cabinet below the sink—feeling obligated to at least put the flowers somewhere—and tested the water for its temperature. As she removed the paper wrapping from the bouquet, her mind drifted back to his card.

I’m sorry. And I love you.

How sweet. Daniel always had been such a charmer.

That is, until the day she walked into his office to discuss their wedding guest list and found him fucking his twenty-two-year-old teaching assistant on top of his desk.

Doggie-style, by the way.

With their backs to her, not noticing, so they just kept right on going. Evidently, they had not been expecting anyone to show up for what was supposed to be Daniel’s “office hour.”

Even now, whenever Taylor actually allowed herself to think of her ex-fiancé, the visual that always came to mind was that of him standing in front of his desk with his pants around his ankles, his hands feverishly holding on to the girl’s hips in ecstasy. Naked ass checks thrusting back and forth in all their glory.

Lovely.

“It’s how every girl dreams of seeing her fiancé,” she had said in sarcastic bitterness to Val and Kate as they sat on her living-room couch later that night, consoling her. They had a bottle of Grey Goose vodka standing by on ice. But with Taylor, there hadn’t been the expected breakdown and hysterics, nor even a single cry of “why me?” And there certainly had been no tears.

Because there’s no crying in baseball.

Taylor vowed that she would at least hold on to that last shred of dignity. She would get over Daniel and move on with her life. And she vowed to never, ever again go against her instincts when it came to a man.

Standing there that night in her temporary Santa Monica kitchen, having finished unwrapping the flowers, she realized with a good deal of satisfaction that she’d barely thought of Daniel in the couple of weeks since she had moved to Los Angeles. That was a large part of the reason his flowers and card had come as such a surprise.

I’m sorry. And I love you.

What a nice sentiment. Daniel, apparently, was not finding it quite as easy to stop thinking about her.

With that thought in mind, Taylor reached over and flicked a switch just above her kitchen sink. The garbage disposal roared to life with a loud garbled crank.

She had found just the perfect spot for his flowers.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON at work, when she came out of her office for a much-needed coffee break, Taylor discovered a large crowd of what had to be virtually every one of the firm’s secretaries huddled around the credenza behind Linda’s desk.

Without diverting their gaze, the secretaries parted so that Taylor could get a look at whatever it was that had so captivated them.

A television.

Taylor could barely hide her disdain. Oh, come on—he wasn’t worth this much fuss. Whether it was the patronizing tone of his assistant during their conversation the day before or the brazenly sexist bravado of “The Women of Jason Andrews!” article, she had recently found herself developing several preconceived notions about the actor she soon was going to be working with. And none of them could exactly be considered positive.

She glanced over at the television, just in time to catch a quick montage of images of Jason Andrews flashing across the screen.

“Where did you guys get this?” she whispered to Linda, not wanting to divert the larger group’s attention from such obviously important matters.

Linda responded to Taylor without tearing her eyes away from the TV screen. “They aired an interview with him last night on E!, so I recorded it.”

Seeing the slightly dazed look on her secretary’s face, Taylor had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She couldn’t help it—a vision flashed into her head: Jason Andrews walking through the office corridor the following morning, as the administrative staff swooned and fainted one by one to the floor as he passed by.

With that image in mind, Taylor turned her attention back to the television, where Jason was being interviewed in some posh hotel room. She couldn’t help but notice, as he leaned against the couch, how natural and relaxed he appeared—undoubtedly due to the many, many times he had been interviewed before.

Of course, she also couldn’t help but notice how good he looked on camera. She’d hazard a guess that his face was one of the most recognized in the world: the rakish dark hair, the perpetual glint of confidence in his brilliant blue eyes, and that trademark devilish smile. He pretty much was the standard against which male attractiveness had been defined for the past ten years.

Taylor recalled being at a party a few years ago where, as a game, Kate had asked each male attendee the same question: Who would they choose if—for whatever reason (gunpoint, to save the world, etc.)—they had to have sex with another man? Without exception, every man at the party had picked Jason Andrews.

“Is there really any other answer?” Chris, Kate’s boyfriend at the time, had laughed. He refreshingly had been the only guy not to utter the token “I’d rather die” protests before finally answering. The other men at the party had nodded in universal agreement: if (upon pain of death) the deed had to be done, Jason Andrews was the only way to go.

Taylor turned her attention back to the on-screen Jason as he stretched his long legs out in front of him. There was something different about seeing him on television that morning. It was kind of strange, but up until that point she somehow had never viewed “Jason Andrews” as a real person. He was so larger than life that he seemed more like some Hollywood creation than an actual flesh-and-blood man. So in many senses, she felt as though she was watching the man himself for the first time.

Taylor glanced at her watch. She supposed she could spare a few minutes checking out the interview before getting back to her dep transcripts. For research purposes, of course.

The reporter who sat across from Jason was a man in his mid-thirties who Taylor vaguely recognized from last year’s Academy Awards red carpet preshow. He launched eagerly into his first question.

“So let’s see, Jason, you’ve earned three Golden Globe nominations—one of those a win, and two Academy Award nominations, again with a win for your dramatic performance as an undercover narcotics police officer in Overload. Tell me: Is there anywhere you can go from here?”

Jason flashed that famous smile at the reporter’s question.

“Of course. I’m always looking for something that will challenge me.”

The reporter shifted in his seat, ready to move into tougher territory. “There are rumors you were interested in the lead role in Outback Nights, but that your salary—which currently is the top in the industry—was simply too high for the film’s budget. Care to make any comment on that?”

“Only that I wish everyone involved in that project the best of luck.”

Jason’s relaxed gaze gave away no hint of animosity. Taylor wondered if he was acting. Actually, she wondered if he ever wasn’t acting.

The reporter pressed on. “Do your best wishes extend to Scott Casey, who landed the role instead of you?”

Jason continued to smile as he nonchalantly adjusted his watch, turning it around his wrist. He seemed very indifferent to the whole affair.

“It’s a big town, and there are plenty of roles for all of us. Besides, I’m very excited about my next project—a legal thriller with Paramount.”

The secretaries surrounding the television erupted into cheers and pointed at Taylor. She waved off the attention with some embarrassment.

On screen, the reporter appeared resigned to the fact that he wasn’t getting any gossip out of the actor, at least not on that subject.

“So with all the roles available to you, how do you know which one to choose?”

Jason crossed one leg over the other and stretched an arm casually along the back of the couch. The fitted V-neck sweater he wore emphasized the broad shoulders and lean muscular physique Taylor knew was underneath. As infrequently as she went to the movies, even she had seen Overload, and she recalled with a fair amount of detail the scene in the shower where Jason’s character leaned emotionally against the wall, letting the water wash the blood of his slain wife off his naked body. Not since Psycho had a shower scene more affected the female moviegoing public.

“You know, Billy, you just have to go with your instincts,” Jason explained in response to the reporter’s question. “Something clicks, something comes alive inside you—feelings you maybe didn’t even realize you had—and you suddenly know you’ve found the right fit.”

The reporter shifted eagerly in his chair at the opening Jason had just provided him. “Speaking of finding the right fit . . . you’ve led into my next topic. Women.”

Jason laughed and folded his arms behind his head. “You guys are all the same. You always ask me about this.”

“Can you blame us?” the reporter inquired with an innocent grin. “You’ve dated supermodels, a pop star, and many of the most beautiful actresses in Hollywood.”

Jason nodded along with the list, obviously quite proud of his accomplishments.

“And I think the only thing that gets more media coverage than the names of the women you date is the speed at which you go through them. Let’s see, you are . . .” The reporter trailed off as he shifted through his notes, appearing puzzled. “Oh, I see that for ‘age,’ your publicist tells us only that you are in your ‘thirties.’ ”

The reporter glanced up questioningly at Jason.

Who clearly had nothing further to add on that particular subject.

After a semi-awkward moment, the reporter pressed on. “I guess my question is this: when it comes to women, what are you looking for?”

The camera zoomed in on Jason. And Taylor watched as he answered as only a man in his position could.

“My philosophy is that relationships should be treated the same as a new script. If it doesn’t hold my interest after an hour, I’m not going to waste any more time on it.”

Taylor’s mouth fell open at the pure, unadulterated arrogance of his words.

Linda, who was standing next to her, leaned over and mumbled under her breath. “Wow—actress, supermodel, whoever—I feel sorry for any woman who has to get over him.”

Taylor turned to Linda, scoffing vehemently at this.

“Please—after hearing what he just said, any woman dumb enough to go out with him can’t complain when she inevitably gets hurt.”

“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But I’ll tell you this—smart women don’t date Jason Andrews.”

Linda nodded as she turned back to the television. “I suppose that’s true.”

But then she peered over at Taylor with a sly grin. “Except . . . let’s see how much that resistance holds up once you’re alone with him.” Listening in, the other secretaries all laughed in implicit agreement.

Taylor defiantly flung her long hair over her shoulders. Jason Andrews had hardly made much of an impression on her thus far.

“Please—I’m sure in real life the man can barely hold an intelligent conversation.”

Linda considered this. “Well then, I guess you better find a way to keep him from doing a lot of talking.” She threw Taylor a wicked grin. “How big is your shower?”

The secretaries burst into tittering giggles.

Taylor found herself oddly flustered by Linda’s words. It had to be the temperature in the office, she thought with annoyance, which had suddenly become ridiculously hot again. All that money, and the firm couldn’t even afford damn decent air-conditioning.

Realizing she had been fanning herself—and that everyone was watching—Taylor stopped and pretended to be waving off the group’s giggles.

“Don’t you people have any work to do?”

The secretaries exchanged amused looks at her tone. With a dismissive flick of her hand—figuring she’d wasted more than enough time on nonsense that morning—Taylor abruptly turned back toward her office.

And stumbled most ungracefully over a file box sitting in the hallway.

After an ungainly balancing act, Taylor managed to right herself. She looked down in annoyance. Stupid stinking box. She kicked it with her heel.

Behind her, the secretaries giggled even louder.

Taylor straightened her suit and pulled herself together, then hurried off to the sanctity of her office. On her way, she gestured to the object of everyone’s fascination.

“And why do we have a television in here, anyway?” she demanded in an attempt to at least get the last word in. “This is a law office!”

Linda shrugged this off nonchalantly.

“This is L.A.”