Just the Sexiest Man Alive(91)

It didn’t work.

Taylor nervously cleared her throat. “Anyway, as a point of fact, his assistant called me yesterday and mentioned something to the effect that I was, um . . . specifically uninvited to this premiere.”

The guard eyed her warily.

“It’s really kind of a long story,” Taylor explained.

“And I’m sure it’s quite touching.” Dismissing her with a look, the guard moved on to the person standing behind her, some slick-looking schmoe with sunglasses and some kind of special pass around his neck. Taylor fought the temptation to rip the schmoe’s pass right off him and make a run for the theater doors.

As she was shoved up against the red rope by the impatient crowd, Taylor contemplated her options. But as she took in the enormous security guards, all she could come up with were different versions of a distract-then-scramble-through-the-legs maneuver of the Tom and Jerry variety.

But then fate intervened on her behalf.

That is, “fate” in the form of Jeremy Shelby.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the illustrious Taylor Donovan,” he said haughtily, strolling over on the “in” side of the rope. He looked slightly uncomfortable in his “dress” clothes, meaning a shirt that actually had buttons. From the way he eyed her warily, Taylor guessed he had heard all about her and Jason’s argument.

Jeremy took a cigarette out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. Taylor’s new bodyguard friend quickly put the kibosh on that.

“Hey, buddy—there’s no smoking around here,” he said.

Jeremy gave the guard a look, then put the cigarette back in his pocket and turned to her.

“So what brings you out this evening, Taylor? I thought I heard you were specifically uninvited.”

Taylor moved as close as she could get with the red-rope barrier between them. “Help me out here, Jeremy,” she said pleadingly.

He gave her a look. “Why should I do that?”

“Because once, nineteen years ago, you were wrong about him, too.”

Jeremy stared at her stoically. After a long pause, his face broke into a smile.

“Aw, hell, you crazy kid, you knew I was gonna let you in—I’m a sucker for this stuff.” He turned to the security guard and gestured for him to let Taylor in. “It’s okay, she’s cool.”

The security guard perked his head up. “Oh, that’s nice to know. And who are you?”

At the tone of condescension in the guard’s voice, something inside Jeremy snapped.

“Who am I? Who am I?” he asked in annoyance. “I’ll tell you who I am—eleven of the scripts I’ve written have been produced as feature films by major studios.”

The guard looked Jeremy over skeptically. “What films?”

“Well, for starters, I wrote Vampire Nation,” Jeremy said, proudly referring to one of the prior summer’s biggest block-busters.

The guard smiled enthusiastically. “You wrote that? Man, I loved that movie! Holy shit, I do remember you now—I saw you speak at Comic-Con last year!”

Jeremy folded his arms across his chest and threw Taylor a wink. “So? Now do you think you can let her in?” he asked the guard, gesturing to Taylor.

The guard held out his hands helplessly. “I’d love to, buddy, really. But . . . well, come on. You’re a writer. It’s a miracle you somehow got yourself into this premiere.”

Taylor tried to stifle her smile as Jeremy’s face fell.

As the guard started to turn away, Jeremy reluctantly changed tactics. “Fine. I also happen to be Jason Andrews’s best friend,” he said grumpily.

The guard grinned. “You and about five hundred other people, buddy.” He gestured to the teeming crowd trying to push their way past the red-rope brigrade.

Jeremy glanced over at Taylor and sighed. “I really hate this town sometimes. Fuck it—we’re gonna have to call in the big guns.” He waved to a man in a suit who stood about twenty feet away. “Marty! Marty!”

Taylor watched as the infamous Marty Shepherd, publicist to the stars and eighth most powerful person in Hollywood (excluding talent and studios heads), turned around and slowly walked toward her and Jeremy. He was shorter than she had expected, and older. His hair was gray around the temples, but his eyes were dark and shrewd.

As Marty walked over, he carefully looked her up and down. “You must be Taylor Donovan,” he said before Jeremy could introduce them. He cocked his head questioningly. “I thought I heard you were specifically uninvited.”

Taylor glanced over.

“There was a memo,” Jeremy explained.

“I have a problem, Ms. Donovan,” Marty continued. “This is a movie premiere. The world premiere of a film that is predicted to be the blockbuster of the summer, starring my number one client.” He pointed up the red carpet. “But right now, my number one client is out there, rudely snapping at reporters, refusing to smile for the cameras, and generally being a tremendous prick.”

He gave her a hard stare. “I have never seen him act like this before, Ms. Donovan. I suspect it has something to do with you.”

“Marty, if you could just let me inside for a minute—”

“Why on earth would I want to do that?”

Taylor bit her tongue. If one more friggin’ person asked her that . . .