by Julie James
“Well, from what I’ve seen and heard so far, the lawyer is up by two.”
Jason considered this. He may not have liked losing, but he loved the thrill of the game.
“We’ll see how long that lasts . . .” he mused out loud. Then he followed Jeremy back to the pool table and confirmed that the next shot was his. He studied the pool table, suddenly feeling lighter, more alive than he had in a long time. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time something had piqued his interest as much as this lawyer had.
Jason leaned over the pool table and aimed. He shot and expertly fired the cue ball off the corner of his own striped nine ball, which spun and rolled neatly into the left side pocket. He straightened up and smiled confidently at Jeremy.
Game on.
THE NEXT MORNING, Taylor could feel the buzz the minute she stepped off the elevator. Perhaps it was the fact that everyone stopped and stared as she walked through the corridor on the way to her office. Or perhaps it was the gaggle of secretaries who huddled around Linda’s desk, passing a mirror between them as they reapplied lipstick and fluffed their hair. It could mean only one thing.
Jason Andrews was in her office.
Taylor headed over to Linda’s desk. When she got there, her secretary pointed to her office, then raised a finger to her lips to indicate they should be quiet.
“He’s here!” she said in an excited whisper.
“I guessed that, yes.”
Linda looked ready to burst into a million happy pieces as she babbled on. “I showed him straight to your office—I can’t remember anything I said after ‘hello’—oh my god, he’s even hotter in person—and then I shut the door because people were staring.” Then she quickly added for Taylor’s benefit, “Not that I would do anything like that.”
Taylor nodded. She realized then that she hadn’t thought he would actually show up. If anything, she had expected an angry phone call from Sam that morning, asking her what the hell kind of apology involved imitating Jason Andrews to his face.
She turned toward the closed door of her office. Time to face the enemy. She glanced back at Linda, trying to buy another minute or two. “Uh, Linda, could you reserve us one of the mock trial rooms? Maybe—”
“It’s already taken care of. You’re in conference room A.”
“Oh. Good. Lovely.”
Taylor still found herself stalling. By now the entire office was watching.
Linda gestured to the door. “Well, go on. He’s all yours,” she said with a wink. The other secretaries giggled.
Not wanting to draw any further attention to the situation, Taylor grabbed the handle to her door and strode resolutely into her office.
“Mr. And—”
Her words trailed off because Jason, who had been standing in front of her office window checking out the view, turned around when she entered. Like a shot from a movie, the morning sun shone brilliantly around him like a god—his dark hair glinted warmly in the light, and his eyes gleamed bluer than the south Pacific Ocean.
Taylor’s mind went blank. And suddenly, she couldn’t remember why the hell she ever had been angry with Jason Andrews.
But then he spoke.
“Sleeping in this morning, Ms. Donovan?” he drawled.
Moment over.
“How lovely to see you again, Mr. Andrews,” Taylor replied sarcastically. At least he wore a suit this time, she noted. No comment on how he looked in it.
From behind his back, Jason pulled out a medium-sized box with a blue ribbon wrapped around it.
“I brought you a peace offering.”
He held the box out to her.
Taylor looked over, caught off guard by this. After hesitating for a moment, she took the box from him and sat down at her desk. Jason took a seat in one of the chairs across from her.
“I guessed you’re not the flowers type,” he said. Taylor glanced sharply at him, wondering how he knew that from their short interactions.
“This seemed more appropriate for you. I thought you could wear it the next time you’re in court.”
She raised a suspicious eyebrow at this. Oh really? But Jason’s face gave nothing away.
Curiosity got the better of her, so Taylor opened the box. She rifled through the tissue paper until she found a T-shirt. When she pulled it out, she saw two words printed on the shirt in perfect reference to her infamous court argument: SHIT HAPPENS.
Taylor laughed out loud.
She looked over at Jason, reluctantly amused by the joke, and smiled.
“Okay, Mr. Andrews,” she conceded. “Let’s get started.”
Seven
“I DON’T CARE what the script says. That’s not how it works.”
Taylor stood in front of the lawyer’s table peering stubbornly down at Jason. They were in their tenth hour of work. She had been shocked when she checked her watch a few minutes ago and saw how late it had gotten. She supposed things would go faster if he didn’t insist on fighting her over virtually every change she suggested to the script. See, for example, their current debate.
“And I don’t see what difference it makes,” Jason replied defensively. He held his script in his hand, waving it at her.
“It makes a big difference,” she argued back. “While you might think you look ‘pensive’ and ‘unimpressed’ ”—she finger-quoted the words he had used just moments before—“by remaining seated during your opposing counsel’s argument, that’s not the way it works in a real courtroom. You have to stand every time you argue before the judge.”
Then she gestured at the script and said for the umpteenth time that day, “Didn’t anyone talk to a real lawyer before writing this?”
My, my, Jason observed. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who was a little cocky.
He watched as Taylor positioned herself at the corner of the jury box farthest from the witness stand. Earlier, she had gone and ruined their lovely “Shit Happens” moment by turning all serious the minute they stepped into her firm’s mock trial room. But Jason figured there had to come a point when her armor would crack again—even if just for the slightest moment. Not that he particularly minded watching her strut sassily around the courtroom for ten hours.
“Now, we were talking about the differences between direct and cross-examination,” Taylor called over from the far end of the jury box, back in teacher mode. “Unlike cross, when doing a direct examination you want to stand by the jury, so that you force the witness to look at the jurors when answering questions. That way you draw in their attention, almost as if the witness is talking directly to them.”
Jason frowned at this, peering down at one of the pages in his script.
“But if I’m all the way across the courtroom, how am I supposed to throw a book at the witness?”
Taylor whirled around, appalled at such a mocking insult to the practice of law.
“The script says you’re supposed to throw a book at a witness?” She stormed across the room and grabbed the script from him. She skimmed furiously, turning the pages back and forth as she searched for the offensive passage.
After a few moments, she looked up at Jason, confused. “That’s not what it says.”
He smiled. Gotcha.
Taylor folded her arms across her chest. “Very funny.”
“It’s just too easy.” He laughed. Then he braced himself for the expected stinging retort.
But instead Taylor was silent, having already turned her attention back to the script. She flipped through several pages.
“This dialogue . . .” She trailed off, as if troubled. She sat down at the table next to Jason.
He looked over and saw the particular section of the script she was focused on: the midpoint of the screenplay, where his character destroyed a key witness for the opposition with a brutal cross-examination. The scene was one of his favorites, so he was surprised she seemed bothered by it.
“What’s wrong with the dialogue?” he asked, peering over her shoulder. “I didn’t think
it was bad.”
“It’s not that it’s bad,” she replied. She glanced up at him and blushed slightly, hesitating.
“Never mind. I’m being too much of a lawyer here.”
Jason gazed firmly at her. He never compromised with acting, no matter how small the details. And for whatever reason, he found he valued Taylor Donovan’s opinion quite a bit.
“No, seriously. I want to know what you think.”
Taylor took in his earnest expression. She frankly had been surprised by his attitude during their ten hours together. Blowing off their meetings for a weekend in Las Vegas certainly had, in her mind, been a good indication of his work ethic. But, quite to the contrary, she would have to admit that Vason seemed truly interested in the various trial techniques she had demonstrated and had asked her many questions throughout the day. Some of them were even good ones.
So Taylor slid the problematic script over so that they both could read from it.
“Well, for starters, this scene is supposed to be a cross-examination, right?” She pointed to the troublesome sequence.
Jason frowned. “Yes. Why?” He moved in closer to get a better look at the script.
“See—your problem is that none of these questions are leading questions.” She saw his head tilt in confusion, so she explained further. “All of these questions are open-ended. You would never ask them on cross, because cross-examination is all about controlling the witness. You force the witness to say the things you want, and only those things. And you certainly don’t give the witness any opportunity to explain himself.”
Taylor picked up the script to demonstrate. “Like here—your character asks: ‘So what, exactly, was your intention that evening, Mr. Robbins?’ and a few lines further down you say, ‘Then tell us exactly what you were thinking when you realized your wife was dead.’ The problem is, those questions give your witness all sorts of wiggle room. You should say something more like this—”
She faced Jason to demonstrate and began to reinvent his lines.
“And your intention that evening was to tell your wife about the affair you were having, wasn’t it?” She slipped easily into the part. “Weren’t you, in fact, relieved when you saw your wife’s lifeless body floating in the swimming pool, Mr. Robbins?”
As she proceeded to demonstrate—off the top of her head, no less—a modified cross-examination, there was no doubt in Jason’s mind that she had just made the scene about five times stronger. He watched, impressed, and it struck him how much he liked looking at her while she worked.
In fact, he realized, he just liked looking at her.
At that moment, Taylor seemed to notice that he was staring at her. She stopped and smiled in embarrassment.
“Sorry. I’m completely boring you with all this, aren’t I?”
That smile did the craziest things to him. Jason tried to brush this off, clearing his throat. “No, not at all,” he told her. “Please—continue.”
Taylor cocked her head, curious.
“You’re awfully serious about this, aren’t you? I mean, playing a lawyer can’t exactly be your most challenging role.”
Jason studied Taylor for a long moment, considering her question. Then he leaned in—close enough so that his arm brushed lightly against hers.
“How long have you been practicing law?” he asked, seemingly out of nowhere.
Taylor blinked, a bit surprised by the transition. “Six years. Why?”
“How many cases have you won?”
She smiled matter-of-factly. “All of them.”
“Do you prepare any less now, just because you’re more familiar with what you’re doing?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I always want to do the best possible job.”
Jason looked at her pointedly. “Ditto.”
Taylor tilted her head in concession. “Fair enough.”
Jason smiled with her, and for a moment they were just two people being themselves, without anything else mattering.
Until the ring of his cell phone shrilly interrupted the mood, that is.
With a good deal of reluctance, Jason turned his attention away from Taylor and pulled his phone out of his jacket. He checked to see who was calling, then glanced over in explanation. “Sorry—it’s my publicist, Marty. He has a fit if he can’t reach me.” He rolled his eyes in exaggeration.
Taylor smiled. Kind of like partners, she thought.
“Marty! How are you?” Jason answered his phone with affection, knowing full well that he drove the man crazy. As Jeremy liked to joke, Jason’s publicist was the busiest man in show business.
Taylor watched as he listened to whatever news his publicist conveyed. She saw that his expression turned strangely serious.
“I understand,” Jason said, sounding very disappointed. Taylor wondered if he had just lost out on some part. “I guess it was to be expected.” With a terse good-bye, he hung up the phone.
Taylor noticed that Jason stared at his cell phone for a moment longer. When his eyes looked up and found hers, she could’ve sworn he seemed angry.
“Well, Ms. Donovan. It seems we have a problem.”
TAYLOR STARED OUT the lobby windows of her office building, at the enormous mob of paparazzi that had gathered outside. Hovering like vultures and perched with their cameras, they waited in anticipation for their five-hundred-thousand-dollar shot to emerge. She saw that a few photographers had even gone so far as to climb the trees that flanked the building’s courtyard.
“It’s a madhouse out there,” she murmured in amazement, taking in the scene. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many cameras in one place.”
Jason stood behind her, not amazed in the slightest.
“Any idea how they found out I’m here?”
Mesmerized by the media circus, Taylor didn’t notice the sharp edge to his voice.
“Probably one of the secretaries, if I had to guess.”
She looked away from the windows and noticed that the office building was deserted. She had worked late many evenings since coming to Los Angeles, so she was familiar with the routine.
“They lock the other doors after seven,” Taylor said. “This is the only way out.”
“How convenient.”
Jason didn’t bother to hide his bitterness. For some reason, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut since the moment Marty had called to let him know that someone had tipped off the media to his whereabouts. Of course, he should’ve known that Taylor Donovan would inevitably use his name to make one for herself. How typical. He just couldn’t figure out why it bothered him so much this time.
She suddenly turned away from the windows and faced him. This is the part, Jason thought, where she feigns annoyance, then asks how she looks as she primps for the cameras. Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.
And so Taylor shrugged, as if accepting the fate of their situation. “Well, I guess this is where you do your thing,” she said, gesturing to the door that was their only way out. “Have fun.” And with that, she did the unthinkable.
She walked away.
She had gone only a few steps when she glanced back at Jason, apparently with one final thought. “It’s been . . . interesting, Mr. Andrews,” she said. Then she hurried off toward the elevator bank.
Jason stood there, speechless. Funny how he seemed to be like that quite a bit whenever he was around her.
He watched for a few moments, thoroughly confused, as Taylor walked away. Then he finally managed to find his voice.
“Wait!”
She stopped abruptly when he shouted and turned around. He gestured questioningly to the door.
“Aren’t you coming, too?”
Taylor stared at him incredulously. “Are you crazy? There must be a hundred cameras out there. I’ll leave later, when everyone’s gone.”
Jason’s jaw almost hit the floor. “Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You don’t want to be se
en with me?”
He then looked at Taylor with such disbelief she couldn’t help but smile. He was quite cute when utterly clueless.
“I have a trial in one week,” she told him. “I can’t risk being accused of trying to bias the jury pool by being seen in the media with a celebrity. The judge could throw me off the case for that.”
Then she looked at Jason pointedly. “Besides, my client is trying to beat sexual harassment charges. They need to look as morally upright as possible. It would border on malpractice for me to link them to you.”
Jason blinked and almost laughed. No offense taken.
And it was in that moment, at her refreshing disinterest in the publicity that constantly surrounded his life, that Jason felt the strangest sensation—a slightly panicky, breathless feeling, like riding on a roller coaster.
It was an odd feeling for him—something he couldn’t quite identify—but he knew one thing.
He didn’t want her to leave.
“But what about the film?” he blurted out, trying to think of something, anything, to keep her from walking away. “You said it yourself, there are problems with the script.” He looked at her pointedly as his words tumbled out in a rush. “And how about me? We didn’t cover all of my courtroom scenes—I need to be sure I look like I know what I’m doing.”
Taylor turned all the way around to face him. She took him in for a moment, then smiled.
“You will make a great attorney. Jason.”
It was the first time she said his name.
Then, just like that, she turned and sprinted off to the elevator bank. And before Jason could say anything further, she was gone.
He stood alone in the lobby, staring after her. Oblivious to the fact that the paparazzi were on the move, that they had caught sight of him and were beginning to descend with their cameras. They lined the windows and surrounded him, moving in as a pack. But Jason didn’t notice the bright, burning flashes that exploded all around him, because he had only one thought on his mind.
There was no way this was over.
Eight
JEREMY WAS ABSOLUTELY correct in calling Jason’s publicist the busiest man in show business. Marty Shepherd, cofounder of the Shepherd/Grillstein Company—the top publicity firm in Los Angeles—could not recall the last time he had slept more than four hours in a row.