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she wants you to prove . . . with her?”
    “She wants the most famous man she can find to do it with her,” he said with deepening disgust. “And until George Clooney starts answering her calls, I’m it. Not that I answer her calls.”
    “Well, she’s just fired me,” said Zaza shyly. In spite of herself, the tears began to well again. “And it was only my first day.”
    The hand was back on her shoulder. “What did you do? Breathe wrong?”
    “Something like that. And now she wants me to—to go and tell Babylona myself. And I’m never going to be able to do it.” It struck her for the first time that she could just walk out. She was fired, anyway. But that would be so irresponsible. It would only prove Valerie had been right.
    Then, to her amazement, Jared Vairy was hugging her. At first, she froze, only distantly feeling the hard, wonderful planes of his body. She tremblingly put her arms around him and in an instant dissolved into pure, helpless bliss. Jared Vairy was hugging her! No matter what else happened, for the rest of her life she would always be a person Jared Vairy had hugged. In her arms, he felt better than she could have imagined, warm and big and knee-meltingly male. She wondered if he could smell the sex on her. Surely that would be a good thing?
    Then he was standing back from her, still holding her by the shoulders. He said, “Listen. I’ll go talk to Babylona. I’ll bet you can get a job on some other show.”
    “But—”
    “Ssh.” He put his finger to her lips. “You’ve just saved my life. I would have gone in there and shouted at Valerie in front of everyone. I might have even done it on camera,” he said with a grim humor in his voice. “So one good turn deserves another, right?”
    Before she could stop herself, she had kissed his fi nger. That deliciously fatal smile spread over his face again. “Thanks,” he said. He put the finger to his lips and kissed it—kissed her kiss. Then he was turning and heading off down the corridor again, leaving Zaza slumped against the wall in a half faint of wondering joy.

THREE
     
     
     
     
    W hen Emily had first met Ralph Anderman, it was in his office in Lower Manhattan. The building was a beautiful prewar edifice with a mosaic in the lobby of nymphs in a stream. The elevators still had cages, and his office itself was a modest-sized room that looked like a Victorian gentleman’s study. She spent five minutes gushing about how much she loved the place before he cut her off with:
    “I’m sorry, but I have to break in. You should know that I’m not going to be on the show.”
    A month’s work on the part of her researchers and producers evaporated. It was the first time it had gone so far before a refusal was issued, and Emily was surprised at how hurt she felt. When she got the news thirdhand, she sometimes felt a little twinge of embarrassment, imagining that the celebrity involved might have specifically not wanted to sleep with her. But having someone say it to her face was ten times worse.
    Unfortunately, the embarrassment came out as irritation. “So,” she said, “let me guess. You wanted to meet me from curiosity?”
    “Not exactly.” He looked uncomfortable. “At least, that’s not how I would put it.”
    “You thought you might get a free sample? Because—”
    “Not at all.”
    “ Don’t tell me you’re a fan.”
    “I’ve never seen the show.”
    She was about to say Oh, you’re too good for my show? but she caught herself in time. Then she was blushing. Why should he watch her show? If Emily hadn’t been the star, she probably never would have seen it, either.
    He was looking at her with a contained amusement, and for the first time she was struck by his looks. He was blond, with a face that might have been too pretty if it weren’t for his brawny physique. Blond with deep brown eyes—it was a striking combination that somehow emphasized the cool intelligence in his face. But perhaps he just looked