Just the Sexiest Man Alive(78)

Scott took Taylor by the hand and led her into the party. He looked great in his tux; there certainly was no disputing that. He headed straight for one of the bars, saying something about needing a drink. Taylor balked when she spotted some photographers hanging off to the side.

“What’s wrong?” Scott asked her. Then he saw the source of her hesitation. “Oh that . . . don’t worry, those are just industry photographers. They cover these charity events for the trade papers. Nothing your trial judge would ever see.”

Taylor continued to hesitate. “I don’t know . . . why don’t you go ahead and get us drinks? I’ll just wait here.”

She could’ve sworn she saw a flicker of—disappointment? anger?—in Scott’s eyes right then. But then he smiled.

“Don’t be so paranoid, Mystery Woman.” He held up his hand in a mock-solemn vow. “Your secret identity is safe with me. I promise.”

But there was something about his smile that Taylor didn’t quite trust . . . She was trying to figure out what that something was, when someone grabbed Scott from behind.

“You wouldn’t be trying to sneak by without saying hello, would you, brother?” an Irish voice said.

Turning, Taylor saw two guys in their midtwenties who she recognized as Scott’s costars from A Viking’s Quest.

“Hey—who the hell let you scrubs in here!” Scott shouted at them. In his excitement, his Australian accent was more pronounced than ever.

Taylor had heard the tales—everyone had—about how close Scott and his A Viking’s Quest costars had grown during their grueling thirteen-month shoot. There were even rumors that the cast had gone out one night after filming and gotten “AVQ” tattoos in “secret” places. Valerie had been highly disappointed to learn that Taylor had not gotten any confirmation of this.

Taylor watched as Scott’s boys pulled him into a rough tumble of inebriated man-hugs.

“Scrubs? Ahh . . . look here at this guy, such a big shot,” said the British actor. He, like Scott, had gotten his first big break with A Viking’s Quest, and he too was doing well for himself, having landed a role as a recovering alcoholic on a new primetime television show that boasted the biggest ratings of the season.

“What the f**k is this shit?” demanded the Irish actor, the word coming out as “shite.” As far as Taylor knew, he had done absolutely nothing since A Viking’s Quest. “You got no drink—what’s up with that?” he asked Scott in his thick brogue. “We need to address that situation immediately.”

Before Taylor knew what was happening, the two actors dragged Scott off to the bar for a round of shots. Leaving her standing alone on the veranda.

Taylor looked around and recognized no one. Somehow, this kept happening to her at these Hollywood parties. Probably because she was the no one.

Not wanting to stand on the veranda forever, Taylor headed off in search of a washroom, thinking it was the only place for a girl to be alone at a party like this without looking pathetic.

WHAT TAYLOR DIDN’T realize, as she cut through the crowd, was that people at that party were paying attention to her. Very much so, in fact.

She never knew it, but the reason no one dared approach her was because they all assumed she was somebody they should know and were too embarrassed to admit they didn’t. So instead, they turned to one another in low whispers. Remind me—I know this, but the name escapes me right now—who is that woman?

And with each person that couldn’t quite place Taylor, the mystery surrounding her deepened.

She came with Scott Casey, someone said. No, no—they just happened to walk in at the same time. See—there he is, over there, laughing with the other actors from that movie. If Scott Casey was here with her, wouldn’t he at least get her a drink?

And then something magical happened.

The voices dropped to a hushed awe.

Wait—look over there, isn’t that Jason Andrews? Over by the other bar, sitting by himself. Look at how he’s watching her.

A quiet frenzy swept across the party. Do you think it could be—yes, yes, you can tell by the long, dark hair, it’s the same as the photographs in the magazines, I think you might be right . . .

It was the Mystery Woman.

In person, right there at their party. The crowd couldn’t help but stare. It was generally agreed she had been expected to be a little taller.

The whispers quickly worked their way to the photographers who hovered along the edges of the party, snapping relatively unexciting shots of Alec Baldwin sneaking another cheese puff off a passing waiter’s tray, or Salma Hayek spilling champagne on her Manolos while toasting Brad Grey.

Catching word of the whispers, paparazzi heads shot up in a state of ready alertness, like a herd of gazelle that had caught wind of a lioness lurking in the grass nearby. Their ears twitched and their eyes darted side to side as they scanned the vast Serengeti of the Bel Air mansion until they spotted her.

The Mystery Woman! Now there was the money shot—easily worth twenty times another photograph of one of them Gyllenhaal jokers. But not alone—she needed to be with him.

So now the paparazzi watched, along with the interested party guests, as the Mystery Woman made her way into the house. They stood by, ready, as Jason set down his drink and got up from the bar as if to follow her.

The crowd nudged one another. Such drama! Such excitement!