“The Black and Pink Ball!”

Val screamed so loudly, Taylor had to hold the phone away from her ear.

“Taylor Donovan you are the luckiest goddamn woman in the world! I’d cut off my right arm to go to the Black and Pink Ball!”

“Then I’d recommend a strapless gown for you when the time comes.”

“Taylor!” Valerie yelled warningly. “You are not taking this seriously enough! Your dress, your shoes, your hair and makeup—your very existence—needs to be planned down to the absolute last detail.” Then Val began to fret, mumbling distractedly on her end of the line. “You call and give me three days’ notice? It can’t be done—there’s no time. All right, fine then—yes, I will help you, you’ll be gorgeous, and your fabulous movie star boyfriend will be unable to speak at the very sight of you.” She paused pointedly. “Wait—who is it you’re going out with this week?”

Taylor smirked. Ha ha. “Couldn’t resist throwing in that last part, could you?”

“Without the snide comments, I might have to kill you, I’m that jealous.” Then Val got down to business. “Okay—so for the Black and Pink Ball, we need to think classic Hollywood. Glamorous old-school Hollywood. Think Ava Gardner. Think Ingrid Bergman, Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly. You will wear black—”

“But I always wear black,” Taylor interrupted. “I was thinking—”

“Taylor! Are you trying to kill me? We don’t have time for you to run around looking for shoes that will match some peach nightmare you plucked off the clearance rack at Saks!”

Taylor was highly insulted by this. As if she would ever wear peach.

“Speaking of shoes,” Val continued, “you will go to Christian Louboutin—write this down, Taylor . . .”

And so it went.

Thanks to the wonders of technology, Taylor felt as though Valerie was shopping right alongside her when she stopped off at Rodeo Drive Thursday evening after her trial. When the salesclerks weren’t looking, she snapped photos with her cell phone of the various dress and shoe contenders and sent them to Val for immediate comment.

The two women exchanged several phone calls over the next two days. During their final conversation early Saturday evening, when Taylor was just about to start getting ready, Valerie heard the hesitation creeping into her voice and asked about it.

“I feel guilty about going to the party,” Taylor admitted. “I think I might be leading Scott on.”

“Think of it this way,” Val told her, “by going with Scott Casey to the Black and Pink Ball, you saved our friendship. Because if I had ever heard you turned down such an invitation, I never would’ve spoken to you again.”

Taylor smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Val, for that.”

Valerie sighed wistfully. “Now go to your big fancy party, and call me tomorrow and tell me every detail. And Taylor—knock him dead.”

Although it went unsaid, Taylor knew full well that the “him” Valerie had been referring to was not Scott Casey.

LATER THAT EVENING, when Taylor stepped out onto the veranda of Tony Bredstone’s mansion, she instantly saw why the Black & Pink Ball was one of the hottest tickets in Hollywood. She tried to take in every detail of the grandness of the party, thinking how she would describe it to Val in the morning.

The studio head’s home sat on a sprawling five-acre estate in Bel Air. The grounds behind the house had been elaborately transformed into an outdoor ballroom, complete with white linens and crystal-set dining tables. Low candlelight was sprinkled throughout, creating a warm glow. Twinkling lights were strung along the sculptured topiaries that surrounded the main dance floor. Waiters with bow ties carried silver platters of champagne, and a string quartet played classical music from the upstairs balcony.

To Taylor, it looked like a scene right out of a movie. Which was an appropriate thought, considering a good number of the guests mingling throughout were actors and actresses she had seen in those very movies. For a lawyer from Chicago, it was like being at the Academy Awards. Only without the whole I’m-just-honored-to-have-been-nominated rigamarole.

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.