“Did you have a good time tonight?” It was the fourth time Jason had asked her that since they’d landed.

She nodded. “Yes.”

For once, conversation seemed to elude them. Luckily, they arrived at her front door. Taylor was careful to keep a good distance between her and Jason as they said good-bye.

“So, thank you, again, for the gambling lesson and, you know, everything else,” she said lamely.

Jason, too, seemed to be struggling for something to say.

“So . . . okay, then.” He shifted uneasily.

When another awkward moment passed, Taylor nodded efficiently. “Good-bye, Jason.” She turned and unlocked her door and was just about to step inside her apartment when—

“I’m having a party next Saturday.”

Taylor glanced back over her shoulder. Jason stood there, on her doorstep, wearing the same lost-but-adorable expression he’d had that first evening when she’d left him alone with the paparazzi outside her office building.

“You should come,” he said, shrugging with a boyish grin. “If you don’t have other plans, that is.”

“Next Saturday?” Taylor quickly tried to think of an excuse.

Jason nodded. “June twenty-first. Mark it in that little BlackBerry you carry everywhere.”

The words hit Taylor with a shock, like a bucket of icy water that had been dumped over her head.

“June twenty-first?” she repeated.

Her wedding day.

Or rather, her former wedding day, before she called it off after finding Daniel in flagrante doggie-stylo with his assistant. With everything going on, the date had completely slipped her mind.

Jason saw the expression on her face. “Do you have other plans that day?”

Taylor shook her head slowly. “No. Um, not anymore.”

Jason smiled, the matter having been settled in his mind. “Great. Then I’ll see you there.”

HE HAD MADE up the whole thing about the party, of course.

Jason had been struggling, trying to think of anything to say to get a second nonwork date/meeting/whatever with Taylor, and he’d just blurted the words out. He hadn’t hosted a party in years (he hated having people in his house), but it had been the first thing that had come to mind that wouldn’t so obviously convey to her exactly what he was trying to do.

“A party?” Marty was surprised the next morning when Jason stopped by his office on the way to the set to pass along the news.

Jason nodded. “I’ll let you handle the list.” He relaxed on the couch that fronted the wall of windows in Marty’s office.

“Is there anyone special I’m supposed to put on this list?” Marty asked.

“Whoever. The usual people.” Jason’s tone was casual. “And Taylor Donovan.”

Marty paused at this. Then he nodded. “Sure, sure, Ms. Donovan—of course. But I also think we should invite some of the other actors from In the Dark,” he said, referring to the legal thriller Jason was shooting. “Like Naomi Cross.”

Jason shot Marty a knowing look. His publicist had been pushing Naomi Cross on him since the day she’d been cast. It would create great buzz for the film, Marty had urged repeatedly. One of the favorite strategies of any Hollywood publicist was to leak a web of hints, suggestions, innuendos, and whispers that two costars were hooking up on set. All of which, of course, would then in turn be vehemently denied by said publicist when asked.

“I’ve talked to Naomi’s publicist, and we agree it would be great for the two of you to be seen together,” Marty continued. “Her publicist is probably having the same conversation with her right at this very moment.”

Jason sighed. Normally, he didn’t mind this part of the business. In fact, typically he didn’t have to be asked by his publicist to be “seen” with his costars because he was already sleeping with them anyway. But something didn’t feel right this time. He didn’t like the thought of Taylor reading about him and another woman in the press. He already needed to handle things delicately with her. He didn’t see any reason to add more obstacles to the mix.

“Feel free to put Naomi or anyone else you want on the list,” Jason told Marty. “But for now, this party is the only thing you should focus on.”

TRUTH BE TOLD, Marty had been a bit perturbed by Jason’s flat-out refusal to discuss the Naomi issue any further. They were costars, they both were single—of course there had to be rumors spread about them. It was the Hollywood way of things. He didn’t understand why Jason was being so damn stubborn about the whole thing.

Luckily, within twenty-four hours, Marty’s annoyance with his number one client dissipated as word spread around town that Jason Andrews was having a party that weekend. All of Los Angeles seemed to be talking about it. Funny, even Scott Casey mentioned it to Marty when the two of them met for lunch at Ago a few days later to discuss the possibility of Marty becoming his new publicist. Over their steak salads, Scott casually mentioned that he had always been curious to see Jason Andrews’s famous mansion.

Of course, since Scott was now a potential client, Marty was more than happy to put his name on the invite list.

WHEN SATURDAY EVENING rolled around, as many of Hollywood’s biggest names and most beautiful faces were presumably being primped and dressed, and as frantic publicists undoubtedly raced around coordinating the all-important last-minute details of who would arrive exactly when and with whom, Taylor sat quietly alone in her apartment.

She wasn’t going.

She took the Terrace Snafu as a warning sign that Jason Andrews plus alcohol (she still blamed the vodka) was not a good mix, and that things between them should remain on a purely professional level from here on out.

Yes, true, not going would mean spending another Saturday night by herself while the one person she knew in Los Angeles threw what appeared to be the biggest party of the year. And yes, not going would mean pathetically sitting home alone on what was previously supposed to be the night of her wedding, while being forced to listen to the long and pitiful messages Daniel kept leaving on her machine (he had called three times that day already).

And not going also meant not seeing Jason.

This was a good thing, Taylor reminded herself. After their night in Las Vegas, she had a pretty good idea what Jason was after and—judging from her completely unthinking reaction to him on the terrace—she worried that she couldn’t keep him at bay forever. Or rather, that she wouldn’t want to.

And she worried that this seemed to be worrying her less and less.

Taylor had replayed that moment on the Bellagio balcony a thousand times in her head. Actually, it wasn’t just in her head—the shots the paparazzi had gotten of her and Jason, right before they had almost kissed, had made the covers of all the tabloid magazines. “Jason and the Mystery Woman: It’s On!”; “Hot Desert Nights: Jason with Mystery Woman in Vegas!”; “Romance at the Bellagio!” Every morning, Linda left a different tabloid on Taylor’s chair. And every morning, she promptly tossed them in her garbage can.

Possibly after taking a quick peek or two.

She had paused the first time she’d seen one of the photographs of them on the terrace. Her back had been to the cameras, but Jason’s face could be seen as clear as day. Something about his expression had struck her, something about the way he had been looking at her right then. Like nothing existed except for her and him, in that moment.

But that was a ridiculous thought. A ridiculous and dangerous thought, and one that could get her into a whole mess of trouble.

And that was why she wasn’t going to the party.

SHE WASN’T COMING.

Jason stood on the balcony outside the living room of his Beverly Hills home. The party was crowded and wild, with people everywhere—around the pool, by his guesthouse, even spilling onto his basketball court. At least the security staff had done a good job of keeping everyone outdoors. So far.