by Jane Porter
“Watching you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Why?”
“Because I want to.”
“Wolf.”
“Can you just do that with a little more passion in your voice?”
“No!” Alexandra started to slam the phone down and then, remembering she had an audience, hung the receiver up more gently. Phone down, she watched Wolf slowly saunter toward her through the rows of desks.
She heard the girls whispering excitedly as he passed. Wolf had to have heard the whispers, too.
Reaching her desk, he stood over her, his linen shirt half open, giving her and everyone else a glimpse of burnished bronze skin and hard, toned muscles. His dark eyes half smiled down at her, and yet there was nothing sleepy about him. He had the silent, watchful air of a wolf before it attacked.
“I’m stealing you away,” he said.
Alexandra hadn’t expected to see Wolf for days. She’d thought maybe by the weekend he’d call her, contact her, set something up for the future, and yet here he was, at her desk, causing trouble.
And she wasn’t ready for trouble. Didn’t think she’d be ready for his kind of trouble for a long time. Last night had taken something out of her. Last night had been a tease, a torment. She’d had so much fun with him that she’d imagined he’d been enjoying her company just as much. Instead he’d been acting.
Acting.
Alexandra smiled her brightest, most confident smile to cover her trepidation. “I wish I could go. But I’ve so much work. I’ve a million things to do and Daniel—”
“Has already given you permission to take off early.” Wolf smiled down at her, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So get your purse and let’s go.”
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS A GORGEOUS afternoon, hot, sunny, the sky a dazzling california blue. Wolf was driving a different car than he had last night, a gleaming red Ferrari that looked brand-new.
A studio head, just leaving his office and heading for his car, noticed the Ferrari, too, and wandered over to shake Wolf’s hand and compliment him on the car.
“That’s a Superamerica, isn’t it?” he said to Wolf as he shook his hand. “Hardtop convertible.”
Wolf opened the passenger-side door for Alexandra. “It is.”
“I was reading about the car’s revolving roof recently. Doesn’t it open up in ten seconds?”
Wolf was heading to the driver’s side now. “It does.”
“What are they? Half mil?” he asked as Wolf settled behind the wheel.
Wolf put the key in the ignition, started the engine. “A little less than that,” he said before putting the car into reverse.
The other man whistled. “Beautiful car.”
Wolf nodded agreement and drove away. But Alexandra sat next to him, dumbfounded.
“This car is worth half a million dollars?”
Wolf shot her an amused glance. “It’s not that much. It’s closer to a third of a million. But I can see you don’t approve.”
She studied the car’s interior. The steering wheel wasn’t exactly normal. It had paddle shifters on the wheel, but other than that it looked like an ordinary—albeit very clean—sports car. “I don’t understand why anyone would spend so much money on a car.”
“I have the money.”
“Yes, but—”
He was leaving Culver City behind and heading for Santa Monica. “But what?”
“But you could do a lot of good with that money. You could feed starving children and build houses for the homeless and things like that.” She stopped talking, bit her lip, stared at her hands, inspecting the spa manicure she’d gotten at the salon yesterday. “I know it’s none of my business. I just wish I had the means to help more people. I think we should all help more people.”
Wolf looked at her for a long, silent moment. “I agree,” he said quietly before returning his attention to the road.
They traveled in silence down Santa Monica Boulevard and then north on Highway 1 wrapping the coast toward Pacific Palisades and scenic, craggy Malibu.
Wolf drove well, fast but confidently, and with the cliffs to the right and the sea to the left, Alexandra felt as though she were part of a movie or some reality television show.
He had been unusually quiet since she made her comment about helping others, but she wasn’t sorry for thinking people should help others and she wasn’t sorry for thinking an expensive car like this was a waste of money. He could buy whatever he wanted and she could think whatever she wanted. They weren’t really a couple. They didn’t have to agree.
Finally Alexandra couldn’t take the silence any longer. She made a pitiful stab at conversation by asking him, “Are you excited about the new film?”
“Excited?” Wolf repeated, his upper lip curling. “I wouldn’t say I’m excited, but I will be glad to work again. Working distracts me. Keeps my mind off other things.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. She’d imagined he enjoyed acting, thought he would have found a certain fizz factor from being one of the most highly acclaimed actors in the business. “What things?”
His eyebrow arched as he glanced at her. “We all have ghosts and demons.”
“And you won’t tell me yours.”
“No.”
Alexandra didn’t know if it was his expression or the caustic curve of his sensual mouth, but she felt the strangest flutter inside her middle as though she were nothing but naked nerve endings.
“Do you ever go home?” she asked suddenly, not sure where the question came from but curious about him, curious about his past as well as those ghosts and demons he’d just mentioned.
He shot her a long, assessing glance from beneath his lashes. He knew what she was doing, too. “Ireland or Spain?”
“Which is home?”
“Both, I suppose. I’m bilingual and was raised in both countries.”
“Your mother was Spanish.”
“From Cadiz,” he answered, slowing for the traffic light looming ahead. “I was born in Cadiz, but when I was twelve my parents divorced and I moved with my father to Dublin. Spain is home in ways Ireland could never be, but I’m comfortable in Ireland, I like the people.”
“And yet now you’re here, in America.”
“It’s what the career dictated.”
Alexandra stole a glance at him from beneath her lashes. “Do you ever regret becoming an actor?”
He hesitated before answering, shifting gears down and then, after the light changed, accelerating until he pulled into the parking lot for the Malibu Coffeehouse.
Turning off the engine, he turned to look at her. “Every day,” he said grimly.
After getting their coffee, Wolf drove to one of the scenic turnouts on Highway 1 and parked. Climbing from the car, they moved to the cliff’s edge to savor the view.
Wolf drew a deep breath, breathing in the stinging salty air off the Pacific Ocean. He loved the ocean, loved the cliffs of Malibu and Pacific Palisades. This area reminded him of Ireland’s southern and western coasts, especially when the soupy fog rolled in, covering everything in a misty, mournful gray.
If it weren’t for the ocean, Wolf didn’t think he would have survived so many years in Southern California. He hated L.A. He hated the falseness, the superficiality, the attitude and airs. People in his business—like so many people in Los Angeles—were afraid to be real, human.
They were afraid of their bodies, their age, their flaws, their frailties. Women here went to ridiculous lengths to be beautiful: nipping, tucking, tightening, enlarging, enhancing, sucking, smoothing. They worked on themselves endlessly, refusing to age naturally, fixated on how they looked, how others perceived them, how attractive they were in comparison to other women.
God, he missed real women. He missed wit and banter, laughter and smiles that made the eyes crinkle and foreheads wrinkle instead of ghastly BOTOX-frozen faces. He’d love to share a drink with a girl who could tell a proper story, eat a b
ag of chips and not immediately worry about her thighs. Sometimes Dublin seemed too far away, and in those moments he missed his old life—the ordinary life before he’d become a celebrity—more than he could say.
Alexandra watched Wolf sip his coffee as they leaned against his half-a-million-dollar car. She felt wrong leaning against a car that cost so much, but he did it so she supposed it was okay for her to do it.
Ever since they’d left the Malibu Coffeehouse Wolf had been quiet, and his expression was unusually pensive now. Always enigmatic, he seemed even more distant than usual. Again she wondered why he didn’t enjoy being an actor and why his success—and the accompanying fame—didn’t mean more to him.
Was he really so spoiled? Was it arrogance that made him fail to appreciate his achievements? Or was it something else?
“There’s nothing planned after this, is there?” she asked, wind blowing, tousling her hair. She tried tucking strands behind her ears, but they wouldn’t stay there.
“We’ve a dinner tonight at Spago.”
Any other time Alexandra would have been excited about the idea of eating at Spago. Wolfgang Puck’s name and reputation spoke for itself. But she was tired—she hadn’t been sleeping well lately—and after the tense afternoon she craved a quiet night at home. Alone. Preferably curled up on her couch with a good book.
“Do I have to go?” she asked in a small voice.
“Yes.”
“Why?” she asked in an even smaller voice.
He glanced at her, expression blank. “It’s Rye Priven’s birthday.”
Rye Priven was the newest heartthrob in Hollywood, a gorgeous Australian that had just co-starred in a film with Wolf. The film was in the editing stage now and was supposed to be released at Christmas, when all the big Academy Award contenders were released.
“But Rye Priven doesn’t know me—”
“Everyone’s coming as a couple,” Wolf answered roughly. “You’re supposed to be the other half of my couple.”
She ducked her head, stared sightlessly at her cup. She was hating being part of the couple right now. Wolf was so intense. And unpredictable.
“Rye’s hosting the party himself. He’s keeping it low-key,” Wolf added. “I think he’s only invited six friends, so my absence would be conspicuous, particularly as I already told him I’d be there.”
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t go,” she doggedly replied. “It’s just that I don’t feel like it.”
He looked at her over the rim of his coffee as he took another sip. “You don’t like me much, do you?”
“No,” she blurted and then winced at her bluntness.
“Why not?” Wolf paused, waited for an answer. “It’s a shame you can’t be more articulate in naming my faults.”
Alexandra shot him a swift assessing glance, but he didn’t look the least bit injured. “Your morals and values are deplorable. You could be someone truly great, someone … heroic. But instead you just use people. Take advantage of them. I hate it.”
“And you hate me, too.”
“I—” she started to protest but then fell silent. She didn’t want to start lying to him, because then the lies would never end. It was bad enough she’d agreed to do this, but to become as fake as her role? No. She wouldn’t sell out. She couldn’t. “Hate is a strong word,” she conceded. “But I don’t like you and I don’t respect you. You just seem so bored and spoiled and arrogant. Selfish, too.”
“You’re a hard woman, Alexandra Shanahan.”
She suddenly felt her anger start to melt. She didn’t want to be angry, didn’t like feeling angry. “You’re just used to women falling all over you, desperate to impress you, please you. It’s too bad, too, because you’ll never know if people like you for you or because you’re a famous movie star.”
“Or if they like me for my body or my face.”
Alexandra nearly choked on her sip of her now lukewarm coffee. “And that’s exactly why I don’t like you. You’re so incredibly …” she drew a rough breath “… so …”
“Yes?”
“Conceited.”
“Conceited,” he repeated.
“You have so much—you’ve virtually everything—and you don’t even appreciate it.”
“And just what is everything?”
She gestured, her hand sweeping up and down. “This. You. Looks, wealth, fame, intelligence, success. You have it all, you have more than anyone else I know. But do you even feel grateful? Do you even have any idea how blessed you are? I don’t think so.”
“I hired you to play my girlfriend. I’m not paying you to be my conscience.”
“I don’t think you’ve even got a conscience!” Alexandra shrugged. “And you’re right, none of this is my business. Just like who you pick up and take home isn’t my business. Or the number of women you have in a week, that’s not my concern either. You’re free to take women and use them and abuse them, because as long as they give themselves over to you, you’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Right.”
“Wrong!” Alexandra furiously tossed her cup into the trash bin and spun to face him. “Just because women will let you have them doesn’t mean you should take them. Just because women get blinded by your good looks and fame, just because they hope a night of sex will turn into true love, doesn’t mean it’s okay for you to take advantage of them.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Maybe I’m not taking advantage of these women. Maybe they’re taking advantage of me. Maybe they know one night of sex is just that, one night of sex, and when they leave me in the morning they leave happy to have had one night with me. They’ve got bragging rights, a chance to talk big—”
“That’s horrible.”
“To you.”
Her hands balled, nails pressing hard against tender skin. “Not just to me but to all women. It’s a lack of respect, a lack of awareness of how women think and feel, of how making love makes them think they’ve fallen in love …”
“You’re sounding as though this is pretty personal.”
Her chest felt hot and tight, too hot and tight. She felt absolutely undone, beyond her own level of self-control. “Women aren’t tissues, to be used and discarded.”
“Have I somehow hurt you, Miss Shanahan?”
She turned away, stared out across the busy lights of the boulevard.
Yes.
Yes. Four years ago, you parked your fancy car and we kissed and made out. And then when I fumbled with your damn trousers and belt buckle, you realized I was inexperienced. You realized I didn’t know how to touch you or give you pleasure and you got rid of me so fast afterward. If I couldn’t give you what you wanted …
Tears filled her eyes and she squeezed her fists against her ribs, pressing hard against her sides, pressing skin to bone. “No,” she whispered. “You’ve done nothing to me.”
“Are you sure? Because it’s almost as though you’ve some personal experience—”
“No.”
“Good. Then you’ll have no objections going to Rye’s party tonight?”
Alexandra reached up and swiped away a tear before it could fall. “You still want me to go?”
“Want?” His shoulders lifted. “I don’t know if it’s want, but you did sign a contract, and regardless of your personal feelings—or even my own—you’ll fulfill the contract.”
“Even if I hate you,” she whispered.
His mouth quirked, eyes dark and granite-hard. “Especially if you hate me. Fewer complications, remember?”
The party that night at Spago was less stressful than she’d feared.
The stylist had dropped off clothes for her to wear—a smart black cocktail dress that was both simple and sexy, very high stiletto heels and a pretty gold charm bracelet that was girlish and fun.
The stylist had shown Alexandra how to pile her hair on top of her head in a messy twist with loose tendrils falling here and there. With small gold studs in her ears and neutral makeup, she looked
nothing like the office assistant she was.
Good, she thought, joining Wolf in the car. Because she wasn’t going to be an office assistant or production assistant for long. She was going to learn how to direct. She was going to make movies.
Wolf was driving a different car again tonight. This one was a sleek pewter Ferrari from the ‘60s. Even she could see it was a classic that had been lovingly restored.
“I’ve seen three cars so far,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat. “Are there more?”
Wolf waited for her to buckle her seat belt before driving off. “An entire warehouse full.”
“A warehouse?”
“I collect cars.” White teeth flashed, and Alexandra couldn’t be sure if it was a smile or a snarl. “Something else for you to disapprove of.”
Dinner was less tense than the drive to the restaurant. Nearly everyone attending the dinner was a celebrity. She counted four actors, two actresses, a comedian and an R & B singer, along with their respective dates. During dinner Wolf discussed politics with Rye and the R & B singer, and Alexandra was rather surprised by his depth of knowledge regarding world economics and the U.S. trade policy.
“Do I know you?” the man to her left asked when Alexandra turned from Wolf’s conversation to her dinner salad.
She recognized the man—an actor named Will Cowell—but they’d never met before. “No,” she answered, cutting the apple in her salad.
“Are you sure?”
She stabbed her fork into lettuce, apple, and blue cheese. “Quite sure.”
“Hmm.” Will studied her, elbow on the table, expression teasing. “Then I should know you.”
She chewed her salad diligently, hoping he didn’t see her blush. Swallowing, Alexandra wiped her mouth with her linen table napkin. “Why is that?”
“Because you don’t look like a bimbo—and God knows I need a break from bimbos.”
Alexandra laughed. She couldn’t help it. “What makes you think I’m not a bimbo?”
“No fake boobs or collagen-plumped lips.” He smiled charmingly. “I’m an expert in those things, you see.”
