Just the Sexiest Man Alive
Table of Contents
GAME ON
“Am I correct in understanding that you dislike me, Ms. Donovan?” he asked coyly, circling around her in amusement.
Taylor followed him with her eyes, her voice even. “I won’t let my feelings about you compromise my career, Mr. Andrews. You got me in a lot of trouble at work, you know.”
Jason stopped, surprised to find himself uncomfortable at the thought. “I’ll tell you what,” he said magnanimously. “Let me buy you a drink. We can start over—get to know one another properly.” He flashed her the smile that made hearts flutter worldwide. Five and a half billion dollars in lifetime box office gross for his “little projects.” Take that.
Taylor cocked her head, appearing to consider his offer. Then, with her arms folded across her chest, she took a few steps toward him. When she was close enough that they were practically touching, she stared up at him, her green eyes boring deep into his. Jason could feel the warmth of her body, and he wondered if she knew what he was thinking right then.
Apparently, she did.
“Let’s get something straight, Mr. Andrews,” she said steadily. “This is business. Nothing else.”
Before Jason could get in one word edgewise on the matter, Taylor backed away and turned to leave. “And I’ll expect you to be at my office first thing tomorrow morning. Do try not to be late.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
JUST THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / October 2008
Copyright © 2008 by Julie Koca.
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To my grandfather
for inspiring me to start the journey,
and to my husband
for being my partner along the way.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I would like to thank my film agent, Dick Shepherd, who believed in this story, and me, from the very beginning, and without whom none of this would have happened.
I would also like to express my deepest appreciation to all my family and friends for their love and continuing encouragement.
I am forever grateful to my earliest readers who took the time to read this story back when it was called
The Andrews Project
, and especially to Ami Wynne, Brian Guarraci, Brendan Carroll, and Karen Schmidt for their thoughtful input, and to Mason Novick for his advice on the value of conflict in romantic comedies.
A special thanks to my literary agent, Susan Crawford, whose passion and enthusiasm are truly inspiring, and also to my wonderfully supportive editor, Wendy McCurdy; her assistant, Allison Brandau; and everyone at Berkley.
Finally, and most importantly, I want to thank my husband, Brian, for tirelessly reading every draft, being my toughest critic, and making it all possible.
One
TAYLOR DONOVAN MAY have been new to Los Angeles, but she certainly recognized a line of bullshit when she heard one.
It was 8:15 on a Monday morning—frankly, a bit early, in Taylor’s mind anyway, to be dealing with this latest round of nonsense coming from her opposing counsel, Frank Siedlecki of the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. But hey, it was a gorgeous sunny morning in Southern California and her Starbucks had already begun to kick in, so she was willing to play nice.
Frank’s call had come in just as Taylor had pulled into the parking garage of her downtown L.A. office building. After answering, she had let her opposing counsel go on for several minutes—without interruption, she might add—about the righteousness of his clients’ position and how Taylor and her utterly nonrighteous client should consider themselves lucky to be given the chance to make the whole lawsuit go away for a paltry $30 million. But at a certain point, one could only take so much nonsense in one Monday-morning phone call. Luscious Starbucks or not.
So Taylor had no choice but to cut Frank off mid-rant, praying she didn’t lose the signal to her cell phone as she stepped into the lobby elevator.
“Frank, Frank,” she said in a firm but professional tone, “there’s no way we’re going to settle at those numbers. You want all that money, just because your clients heard a few four-letter words in the workplace?”
She noticed then that an elderly couple had gotten into the elevator with her. She smiled politely at them as she continued her phone conversation.
“You know, if the EEOC’s going to ask for thirty million dollars in a sexual harassment case,” she told Frank, “at least tell me somebody was called a ‘slut’ or a ‘whore.’ ”
Out of the corner of her eye, Taylor saw the elderly woman—seventy-five years old if she was a day—send her husband a disapproving look. But then Frank began rattling on further about the so-called merits of the plaintiffs’ position.
“I have to be honest, I’m not exactly impressed with your case,” she said, cutting him off. “All you’ve got is a sporadic string of some very minor incidents. It’s not as if anyone slapped an ass or grabbed a boob.”
Taylor noticed that the elderly couple was now subtly but quickly moving away from her, to the opposite end of the elevator.
“Of course I’m not taking you seriously,” she said in response to her opposing counsel’s question. “We’re talking about thirty million dollars here!” Instead of shouting, her voice had a laughing tone, which experience had proven to be far more infuriating to her opponents.
Not seeing any reason to waste another minute, she summarized her position with a few simple parting thoughts.
“Frank, this case is a publicity stunt and a shakedown. My clients did nothing illegal, and you and I both know I’ll have no problem proving that to a jury. So there’s no reason to discuss your ridiculous settlement offer any further. Call me when somebody sees a penis.”
Taylor slammed her cell phone shut for emphasis. She slipped the phone into her briefcase and smiled apologetically at the elderly couple. They had their backs pressed against the elevator wall and were staring at her, mouths agape.
“Sorry about the whole ‘penis’ thing,” she said, trying to make amends. “I guess I get desensitized to it.” She shrugged innocently as the elevator announced its arrival at the twenty-third floor with a high-pitched ding. She glanced over at her grandparently co-riders one last time.
“It’s an occupational hazard.”
Taylor winked.
And with that, the elevator doors opened and she stepped out onto the busy office floor that awaited her.
TAYLOR LOVED THE sounds of a bustling law office. The phones ringing off the hook, the furiously righteous conversations that spilled out behind closed doors, the printers busily shooting out fifty-page briefs, the mail carts wheeling by as they dropped off court orders—this was all music to her ears. They were the sounds of people working hard.
And no associate—or so Taylor hoped the senior partners agreed—worked harder than she did. From the moment, now seven years ago, she had first set foot in the Chicago office of Gray & Dallas, she had done her best to make sure everyone knew she was an associate who was going places. And now the firm had sent her to Los Angeles to litigate a highly publicized class-action sexual harassment case involving one of the nation’s most upscale department stores. She was fully aware it was a test to see exactly what she was capable of.
And she was more than ready.
That morning, Taylor strolled through the hallway to her office, gliding by her secretary’s desk just as she had done every morning for the past two weeks since coming to Los Angeles.
“Good morning, Linda. Any messages?”
Linda sprung to attention at her desk. There was something about Taylor that apparently made others around her feel as though they needed to look busy.
“Good morning, Ms. Donovan,” Linda replied efficiently. “You do have one message—Mr. Blakely would like to see you in his office as soon as you’re available.”
Taylor paused briefly. That was odd—she hadn’t planned to meet with Sam that morning.
“Did he say what it’s about?”
“Sorry, no, Ms. Donovan.”
Taylor headed into her office as she called back a message to Linda. “Call Sam’s secretary and let him know I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Then she poked her head back out the door and smiled at her new assistant.
“And Linda, remember—it’s
Taylor
.”
TAYLOR COULDN’T HELP but pause in the doorway to admire Sam’s office before knocking to announce herself. It was a gorgeous corner office with a massive cherrywood desk and matching bookcases, plush cream carpet, and floor-to-ceiling windows covering two walls.
To her, the richly decorated partner’s office constituted far more than a mere status symbol designed to impress clients and other lawyers. It was an indication of true success. And one day, in the hopefully not-too-distant future, she would have such an office of her own—the sign that she had accomplished the one primary goal of her adult life.
Years ago, Taylor’s parents had made sacrifices in order for her to get where she was standing on that Monday morning. Growing up in Chicago in a decidedly blue-collar neighborhood, her three rambunctious and not particularly academically oriented older brothers had gone to the local boys’ Catholic high school. Taylor, it was first assumed, would similarly go to the local girls’ school. But after seeing their only daughter’s remarkably high grade-school aptitude test scores, Taylor’s parents decided that she deserved the best education money could buy, even if that meant spending money they didn’t have. So, in order to make the annual eighteen-thousand-dollar University of Chicago Lab School tuition payments (while still supporting four kids), her parents took out a second mortgage on their house and her father sold the 1965 Corvette Stingray convertible he had been restoring in the garage.
Deeply appreciative of these sacrifices, Taylor promised her parents that they would never regret the investment they had made in her education. This was a promise that guided her all through high school and college, and eventually on to Northwestern Law. It was a promise that still motivated her to this day. After law school graduation, Taylor had chosen to work at Gray & Dallas for the simple reason that it was the top-ranked law firm in Chicago and one of the best worldwide. It gave her a sense of pride to be part of such a machine.
And she would do whatever it took to succeed there.
Fortunately for Taylor, unlike so many of her law school classmates who had turned to the practice of law because med school was too hard and took too long to make any money, or out of family pressure, or because they simply couldn’t think of anything better to do, she genuinely loved being a lawyer. From the moment she’d conducted her first mock cross-examination in her law school trial advocacy class, everything felt like it clicked into place.
And so, as she stood in the doorway of Sam’s plush partner’s office, she couldn’t help but smile not only in admiration but also in anticipation of what she hoped was soon to come.
One day, Taylor vowed silently to herself. One day.
She straightened her suit and knocked on Sam’s door. He looked up from his computer and smiled warmly in greeting.
“Taylor! Come on in.”
She took a seat at one of the chairs in front of Sam’s desk. In the style of all shrewd attorneys, the guest chairs were positioned six inches lower than Sam’s own, giving him the advantage of looking down on his visitors.
“Settled in yet?” Sam inquired.
Taylor grinned guiltily at the question, thinking of the unpacked boxes scattered along the hallway outside the living room of the two-bedroom apartment the firm had rented for her. “Almost.”
“Moving’s a pain in the ass, isn’t it?”
“It keeps me busy when I’m not here.”
Sam studied her. “Yes, I’ve seen you burning the midnight oil already. You should take some time to settle in before your case gets going full throttle.”
Taylor shrugged determinedly. For her, there was no speed other than full throttle. And Sam Blakely—the head of the litigation group in Los Angeles—was a man she very much wanted to impress.
“I just want to hit the ground running, that’s all.”
Sam had sharp, fox-like facial features that became even more pronounced as he grinned approvingly at Taylor’s all-business style.
“Then tell me how the case is going.”
Taylor eased back in her chair as she gave Sam her summary. “It’s going very well. We have the call for our motions in limine this week—I think we’ll be able to keep out nearly half of the EEOC’s evidence. And one of their lawyers called me this morning to discuss a settlement.”
“What did you say?”
Taylor tilted her head coyly. “Let’s just say they understand we’re not interested.”
Sam chuckled. “Good. Keep me posted, and don’t hesitate to stop by if you need any guidance.”
Taylor nodded agreeably, appreciating Sam’s hands-off approach to their case. So far since she’d come to L.A., he had been more than happy to let her take the ball and run with it—a management style she thrived under.
She assumed that would be the end of their meeting. But instead of dismissing her, Sam shifted in his chair as if he had more to say.
“Something else on your mind, Sam?”
His body language right then seemed a little . . . odd. She didn’t know Sam all that well yet, so she couldn’t read him like she could the partners back home in Chicago. She waited as Sam eased back in his chair and stared at her with a poignant pause, creating the dramatic buildup for whatever he was about to say. Like so many trial attorneys Taylor had come across, Sam appeared to believe in acting out his entire life as if in front of a jury.
“Actually, there is another matter on which I was hoping to get your assistance,” Sam began carefully. “I know we only have you on loan from Chicago for the harassment case, but this wouldn’t be a full-time assignment.”
Taylor was intrigued by this lead-in. She was already working nights and weekends, so she figured this mystery assignment had to be a great opportunity if Sam thought she should squeeze it into her schedule.
“Is it a pro bono matter?” she asked.
Sam leaned back in his chair as he considered this question carefully, like a trapped witness at a deposition. “Well . . . not exactly. I’d call it more of a favor.”
Taylor’s bullshit radar instantly went into high alert. So-called “favors” for partners generally meant wasted non-billable hours preparing a bar association speech or researching the DUI laws of Natchitoches, Louisiana, to help out a wayward-but-good-hearted nephew.
“What kind of favor?” Taylor asked, although she already knew exactly what Sam’s response would be. “It’s a very interesting situation . . .” he’d begin. All partners described the criminal activities of their ne’er-do-well relations as “interesting situations.”
Sam leaned forward in his chair. “It’s a very interesting situation . . .” he began.
Bingo.
Taylor tried to appear enthusiastic as he continued.
“It’s a favor to one of the partners here, Bill Mitchells,” Sam said. “I’m sure you’re familiar with him—he’s head of the tax group. One of his clients asked him for a favor.”
Taylor could barely keep from rolling her eyes. Great—
client
criminal relations. The only thing worse than the spoiled prep-school offspring of rich partners was the spoiled prep-school offspring of
insanely
rich CEOs. She steeled herself for the rest of Sam’s pitch.
But what he said next surprised her.
“As you likely are aware, Bill does tax work for most of the big names in Hollywood. One of his clients, an actor, is about to start filming a legal thriller. He’s asked to work with one of our litigators to get a feel for how real lawyers act in the courtroom. You know, demeanor, where to stand, those kinds of things.”
Sam paused once again for dramatic effect. This provided Taylor an opportunity to digest what he was saying.
Babysit an actor when she was just three weeks from trial?
Preposterous.
It had to be a practical joke. Ha ha, yank the chain of the new associate from the Midwest who thinks everyone in Los Angeles is obsessed with celebrities.
Taylor smiled and shook her finger at Sam to let him know she was in on the gag.
“I’m guessing you’re joking.”
But Sam’s face turned serious, and he gave her that “what’s the problem?” look partners give associates when assigning a three-month document review.
He wasn’t joking.
Balls.
“Let’s be honest, Taylor,” Sam said in his best we’re-all-buddies-here tone. “I’m not going to put a partner on this. I’ve got better uses for those of us that bill out at eight hundred dollars an hour.” He winked at her. In public and around clients, partners loved to put on a big show of feigning embarrassment over their ridiculous billing rates. But behind closed doors, they were a source of great pride.
“However, it’s an excellent client development opportunity,” he went on, “so I need an associate who will make a good impression. You.”
