Taylor glared at him. “Do you have a point somewhere in this?”

“The point is,” Jason said, “that you say I’m too confident. But I say the odds are heavily in my favor that you’re attracted to me.”

There it was, all the cards laid out on the table.

“But you said it yourself,” Taylor told him, “that’s just the part you play. Your image. But what about the women who see behind the curtain to the real you? Are they just as infatuated?”

Something about her question seemed to strike a nerve, and Jason fell oddly silent. Realizing she was onto something, Taylor’s eyes probed his from across the low glow of the table’s candlelight.

“Maybe they never have a chance to see behind the curtain,” she said. “Maybe you’re always gone too quickly for that.”

Jason’s eyes met hers, and for a moment neither of them said anything. Without all the ridiculous bravado, Taylor thought, he actually seemed kind of human.

Then he tossed his napkin onto the table.

“That’s it—you’re paying for dinner tonight,” he declared.

Jason gestured to the waiter hovering attentively off to the side. “Bring us another bottle of the Screaming Eagle.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and pointed at Taylor. “The lady’s paying.”

“Of course, sir,” the waiter replied. With a flash, he was off to the restaurant’s private cellar.

Satisfied, Jason turned back to Taylor, his arms folded across his chest. “Seven hundred dollars per bottle, counselor. Let’s see how sassy you are when you’re back in the kitchen, washing dishes.” He paused, giving her a second look. “Not that your feminist ass knows what to do in there.”

At this, Taylor couldn’t help but smile. There was something about that sarcastic sense of humor of his. Sometimes, she liked it very much.

LATER THAT EVENING, Jason turned to Taylor as they were leaving the restaurant, eager to hear her verdict.

“So? What did you think of your first official Los Angeles dining experience?”

She grinned in acknowledgment. “This by far takes the award for the best place I’ve gone on a business dinner.”

Jason stopped abruptly.

“Wait—are you billing your time for this dinner?

Taylor stopped, too, seemingly surprised that he was surprised by this. “Well, yes. At least the part we spent talking about the script.”

Her answer bothered Jason. Quite a bit, actually.

Taylor shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry—is there a problem with that?”

What could he say in response? Jason tried to keep his words from sounding terse. “No, of course not—this was a work dinner for you. I’m sorry I kept you so long.”

He held the door open for Taylor, hoping to get them out of the restaurant and off this topic as quickly as possible.

She looked at him, confused. “Jason, I hope you didn’t—”

She suddenly was cut off by the blinding flash of a hundred cameras. She jumped in surprise, as Jason turned and saw an enormous mob of paparazzi gathered on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. At the sight of him, the photographers screamed his name and clamored to get closer.

Instinctively, Jason pushed Taylor back into the restaurant and slammed the door behind them. He took a peek through the window at the circus that had gathered outside. To him, it was a pretty typical sight.

Taylor, on the other hand, appeared to be seriously freaking out. While she paced, she stayed as far from the windows as possible, as if they were dealing with sniper rifles outside instead of cameras.

“This is . . . not good,” she said worriedly. “Really, really not good.” She turned to Jason with a hopeful look. “We were only outside for a second. Maybe they didn’t get a picture of us?”

Glancing out at the multitude of perfectly aimed cameras held by men with hair-trigger reflexes, Jason shook his head.

“At this point, I think the best you can hope for is that they didn’t get one like this . . . ” He made a shocked, oh-my-god-who-the-fuck-are-all-these-people face, trying to make her laugh.

It didn’t work.

Taylor sank miserably into a nearby chair. “I am so going to get kicked off my case.” She despondently rested her chin in her hands. “I’m under a court order,” she explained. “I can’t be seen in the media.”

As he walked over to her, Jason couldn’t help but notice again how much she wanted not to be seen with him. “I’m sure the judge wasn’t referring to this type of publicity.”

Taylor shook her head. “No, he was very clear on the issue—no press attention. Period.” She looked down at the ground.

Seeing her upset, Jason felt that strange feeling tugging at him again. He knelt before her and started to reach out to take her hands in his. But then, something instinctively stopped him from touching her. He rested his arms on his knees instead.

“I can fix this,” he said gently.

Taylor peered up at him hopefully. “Really?”

“But I want something in return.”

Her green eyes narrowed. She folded her arms over her chest. “What might that be?”

Jason’s gaze was unwavering.

“One night.”

Taylor’s eyes widened.

Jason smiled and spoke quickly, before she slapped him. “I meant one evening that’s not work-related. You let me take you somewhere fun.”

She shook her head definitively. “No.”

Jason stood up reluctantly. “Okay—have it your way.” He pointed to the front of the restaurant. “There’s the door. Don’t let the paparazzi hit you on the ass on your way out.”

Taylor peeked at the mob outside. Apparently finding this option unappealing, she turned back to Jason.

“If I agree to this, there would have to be certain parameters.”

Jason shook his head. “This isn’t a negotiation, Ms. Donovan. You have my offer—take it or leave it.”

Taylor glanced outside one last time, then sighed dramatically. Jason bit back a smile. All women should have such problems.

“Does anyone ever say ‘no’ to you?” she asked him resignedly.

“No. But if it makes you feel any better, you try a lot harder than anyone else. So we have a deal?”

“Fine. Whatever. Just fix this.”

With that, Jason whipped out his cell phone. He hit the speed dial, slipping into crisis mode.

“Marty!” he exclaimed affectionately into the phone. Never mind that it was almost midnight on a Friday. “Listen—I need you to do something for me. I’m at Mr. Chow’s with a bunch of paparazzi outside. They just got some photographs that I would appreciate they not publish. I don’t care about me, but tell these guys that if anyone prints the name of the woman I’m with, or a picture of her face, they won’t get one word from me ever again.”

Jason waved off all his publicist’s protests. “It’s your job to make sure they understand,” he said firmly. “Tell the editors, the publishers, whoever you need to talk to, that this comes directly from me.”

He paused at Marty’s next question.

“Do I at least have a comment on the mystery woman?” Jason’s eyes darted over to Taylor as he summed her up succinctly.

“Yes. Difficult. ”

IT WAS ALL over the front page the following Monday.

“Jason’s Mystery Woman!”

Of course, Taylor—apparently the only person in Los Angeles who did not have a subscription to Us Weekly—had no knowledge of this until she got to work and found Linda and the secretarial cohorts camped outside her office. Because of Taylor’s connection to one Mr. Jason Andrews, her secretary had become the queen bee of the administrative staff.

Linda was agog. In her whole life, that word had never come to Taylor’s mind, but it really was the only way to describe her secretary on that particular morning.

“Have you seen it?” she asked as soon as Taylor walked in.

Taylor thought perhaps the judge had sua sponte granted summary judgment in her case. “Seen what?” she asked excitedly.