by Jane Porter
She felt stiff, sick, puppetlike, her legs and arms disjointed. “No.”
In her room, Jason closed her bedroom door and Alexandra’s legs gave out. Jason pulled her up, pressed her against the wall. “One kiss, baby,” he crooned.
It was then she realized how drunk he was—or drugged he was—because this wasn’t the Jason she’d met at the studio office a month ago and this wasn’t the Jason who offered to drive her home from the party.
But now this Jason was trying to kiss her, and the more she struggled to escape, the more excited he became.
“Stop it. Let me go,” she choked out, turning her head away from his wet mouth.
“Why? You like me. I know you like me.”
“No, I don’t like you.” Alexandra sucked in a breath, fighting to stop her head from spinning, fighting to regain strength in her limbs.
“Don’t be that way,” he answered, leaning against her, holding her immobile. “I want you. I’m crazy about you.”
“Get off—”
But he’d cut her words off with another hard kiss that repulsed her so much her stomach turned inside out. He’d pinned her to the wall, his body leveraged against her, his knee slammed between her legs, his hands groping over her.
“Jason.” She choked, violently twisting. “Stop.”
But her struggles only enticed him, her shuddering body inflaming his. “Come on, Alex, kiss me,” he whispered, grabbing at her face. “Kiss me properly. You know how.”
But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, just as she couldn’t find the strength she needed to break away.
Wolf was nearing the front porch of Alex’s small house when he heard the scream.
Alexandra.
Heart pumping, he took the three steps at one time. He was prepared to break the door down but was relieved to discover it’d been left unlocked. With a shove of his shoulder he had the door open.
In the bedroom, Alexandra screamed as Jason’s hands slid across her.
“Come on, baby,” Jason crooned, shifting his weight, and suddenly she felt his bare legs against her own as he battled to part her thighs.
He’d dropped his trousers.
She tried to scream again, but before she could make a sound, his head dipped and his mouth covered hers once more, smashing her nose, her mouth, cutting off air. Frantic, she bit savagely into Jason’s lip, felt him stiffen even as she tasted a spurt of blood.
Stunned, Jason lifted his head and then his fist, and Alex squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to be hit, when suddenly Jason was off her, being hauled away by a massive, shadowed shape.
Even though the room was dark and spinning, even though she could barely see, much less stand, she knew it was Wolf.
Somehow she had known he would come.
“Alexandra.” He ground out her name in the dark, and in his voice she heard fury that turned her blood cold.
An icy shiver raced up and down her spine. Wolf sounded angry enough to commit murder. “I’m okay,” she choked out, pressing her black dress down, trying to cover the length of her bare legs. It was so odd, so strange. Her body could have been anybody’s body. Her body didn’t even seem to recognize her. She couldn’t move from the wall, couldn’t walk, couldn’t function.
What in God’s name was wrong with her?
And as she heard Wolf speak, his voice low and harsh, his accent stronger than she’d ever heard it, Alexandra fell back, hit the wall and slid all the way down, passing out before she touched the ground.
Alexandra was having a nightmare and she couldn’t wake up. Someone, something, was hurting her, jabbing something down her throat, shoving something down into her middle. She tried to pull away but couldn’t. Hands held her still. There was no relief.
And then she was gagging, vomiting, and she wasn’t sure if it was real or a dream. The pain felt real enough, but nothing seemed clear, nothing made sense. But finally the gagging stopped and she was left alone and she slept.
While Alexandra slept, sedated, Wolf paced next to her bed. The doctor had said the drugs were finally out of her system thanks to gastric lavage with activated charcoal.
As Wolf paced, he watched her sleep but was far from calm. She hadn’t liked having her stomach pumped, and when she woke, she’d be confused. She wouldn’t remember much of last night.
Wolf clenched his teeth in mute outrage.
What was she thinking, going home with Jason?
His gut churned. Burned. His temper felt lethal.
He continued to pace, battling to contain his anger when all he wanted to do was find Jason and annihilate him. He could, too. He could make Jason suffer—and more.
Many successful screen and television actors were short, even slight, and they’d learned to use the camera close-up to their advantage, the zoom lens capturing carved jaws and handsome clefted chins.
But Wolf wasn’t small or slight. He had the size and height of the professional boxer he’d once been. He’d made a name for himself in Ireland as the Dublin Devil—a furious, fire-fisted street fighter who leveled all his opponents within just one round. He hit that hard. His blows were that accurate.
And now he wanted to do what he did best—fight.
On the inside, he wasn’t an actor, he was still an athlete, a boxer. Hollywood had never been in Wolf’s sights. Being half Irish, he was as steeped in the great Irish literary tradition as the next snot-nosed kid, knew the Irish playwrights and poets and had seen his share of theater by the time he turned sixteen. But be in a play? Put on makeup, learn lines, be fitted by a costume designer? Never.
It wasn’t until an independent film company from America came calling, looking to cast an Irish boxer in a small role in an even smaller film, that Wolf got noticed.
The casting director loved him, but the film couldn’t find proper funding and never opened in theaters, going straight instead to America’s booming cable business. But it turned out Wolf didn’t need a box-office hit to turn his fifteen minutes of fame into a huge career.
Anyone who had seen the film had come away with two impressions—the script was a convoluted mess and the tall, dark, brooding boxer, Wolf Kerrick, was unforgettable.
A year and one finished major motion picture later, critics were falling over themselves, gushing praise.
Fast forward ten-plus years and he was even more of a Hollywood heavyweight than anyone imagined he’d ever be.
He’d certainly surpassed anything he’d ever dreamed he’d be. But then, he’d never dreamed. He’d wanted little. Preferred even less.
Growing up, his parents had fought bitterly, and their divorce when he was twelve had been something of a relief. At least the long, drawn out screaming matches had ended. There’d been no more broken dishes or doors. At first Wolf’s dad had disappeared. But then, when Wolf’s mom hadn’t been able to take care of Wolf or even keep a job, his dad had abruptly returned and moved Wolf back to Ireland with him.
Wolf knew his dad wasn’t a bad man, but his dad wasn’t a talker, and the changes, coupled with silence, made a confused kid angry. But Wolf soon discovered he liked being angry. Anger gave him power, anger made him strong, anger gave him a reason to go to bed at night and then wake up the next morning.
Being angry had filled his days, fueled his runs, helped him train.
Being angry had allowed him to take hits and, even more importantly, dish it out. Angry, he could pound his opponents, mash them. Punish them.
Which is what he’d do to Jason as soon as he knew Alexandra would be fine.
Hours later, Alexandra slowly opened her eyes, stared up at the lavender-tinted ceiling above her. It was lavender, wasn’t it? But why lavender?
She narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out where she was and why the ceiling would be this color. She didn’t know anyplace with a ceiling like this or walls papered in soft swirlies of lavender, cream, gold and gray.
What ugly paper.
Looking the other way, she saw the table next to her bed with the
plastic water pitcher and plastic cup and straw jostling for prominence among vases of flowers and sprays of white orchids.
Hospital.
She was in the hospital.
Alex tried to swallow but stopped when it hurt like hell.
Her throat was unbelievably sore and her stomach felt just as bad. There was an IV taped to the back of her left hand, and a black paper had been taped over the window in her door.
Why was she here? What was going on?
Alex stirred, turning onto her side to find the call button, but before she could push it the door to her room opened. Wolf entered, carrying a cup of coffee.
He looked at her, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. “You live.”
“Barely,” she croaked, watching him close the door and then approach her side.
He said nothing, and for a long moment neither did she, lying there against the stiff hospital pillow feeling fragile and strangely broken. She hurt, her insides hurt, and not knowing what had happened and not having anyone here but Wolf made her feel even more defenseless.
“Look at me. I don’t know what happened,” Alex whispered, vocal cords bruised. “Jason gave me a ride home to change so I could return to the party. While I was changing, he made us a drink and then—” She broke off, bit her cracked lower lip. “He … he … got weird.”
“You were screaming when I arrived,” Wolf finished roughly.
“I was scared.” She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath. “Thank you for coming to look for me.” Opening her eyes, she reached out, caught Wolf’s pinkie finger between two of hers. “You saved me.”
He said nothing, his head averted, his narrowed gaze fixed on the wall.
She tugged on his hand, trying to persuade him to look at her. “Thank you, Wolf.”
Slowly his head turned and he gazed down at her, a deep furrow between his thick brows, his dark eyes more black than brown. “What if I hadn’t come? What if I hadn’t left the party when I did?”
She stared up into his eyes. The black depths burned. But it wasn’t just anger blazing in his eyes. It was fear.
“But you did,” she whispered.
“If I’d been five minutes later—”
“But you weren’t.” She squeezed his hand. “Please, let’s forget about it.”
Wolf abruptly pulled away. He walked from the bed, went to the window, where he looked out. “Forget?”
“Yes, forget. Move on. There’s so much more that’s important—”
“Not to me.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “God, you’re so innocent! So naive. You were drugged. Attacked. You had an allergic reaction to the pharmaceutical cocktail he put in your drink. Alexandra.” His voice deepened, fell, vibrating with fury and outrage. “You could have died from the drugs alone.”
Her heart thumped. She felt dizzy all over again. “I only had a drink with him, Wolf. I wouldn’t take anything. I know it’s dangerous.”
“As we discovered.”
“Please believe me.”
He took a breath, his broad shoulders tensing, and then he exhaled in a slow, hard stream. “I believe you.”
“You do?”
He nodded slowly, rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Jason likes to mix pills with his liquor—cocaine and temazepam are favorites of his.” He fell silent a moment as he considered her. “Do you have family we should call? Someone I should contact?”
Her eyes widened. She shook her head. “There’s no one,” she whispered.
“You’ve no family?”
She stared up at him, terrified he’d discover the truth. No family? Alexandra had the most protective, overbearing family in the universe. “No.”
“Do you want me to get you legal counsel then?”
“Legal counsel for what?”
“Because you’ll want to press charges.”
She was beginning to wish she hadn’t woken up. This was too much, too overwhelming. “Do you want me to press charges?”
He exhaled in a harsh whoosh. “I don’t know. I just want to beat the hell out of him. Want to make him—” He broke off, his beard-darkened jaw jutting tautly.
“Wolf, you could destroy him,” breathed Alex. “And whatever he did, I don’t want that.”
He towered above her, his dark eyes frosted with ice, his features glacier-cold. “I would not be a man if I stood by and allowed him to go unpunished for hurting you.”
“I won’t let you! Someone has to think about your reputation. The press.”
Wolf made a harsh sound in the back of his throat. “Press? You want to talk about press?” He laughed, but the sound was like fingernails down a chalkboard. “Alexandra, it’s a little late to worry about bad press.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re the topic of this morning’s talk radio, and there was a blurb in the gossip section of the morning paper, too.” He leaned over, kissed her forehead, his lips warm against the iciness of her skin. “And I can guarantee we’ll be all over the news segments on the entertainment shows tonight,” he murmured.
His words made her go numb all over. “What are they saying?”
“They’re reporting that you were hospitalized for a drug overdose.”
Her gaze lifted, found his. “What?”
“A photographer caught the ambulance wheeling you out of your house.” He sighed. “The photo has me right there at your side.”
“What is the paper saying?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She’d begun to tremble. “Tell me.”
He hesitated so long she wasn’t sure he would. And then he took her hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed the backs of her fingers. “That you tried to kill yourself.”
“Oh, my God.”
His silence was deafening, and Alexandra closed her eyes, shrinking inwardly. All their joint efforts, everything they’d tried to do … gone.
Over.
“And this was in the paper?” she asked, imagining the reaction her family would have if they got word of this.
“Today’s Los Angeles Times.”
She exhaled gradually, trying to calm herself. If it was just the Los Angeles Times, maybe none of her family would hear. None of her brothers lived in L.A. anymore.
“And USA Today,” Wolf added quietly.
Her stomach heaved. Her throat sealed closed. USA Today was a huge national paper. “No.”
“No is right. Our publicity-stunt relationship has made headline news.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY KEPT ALEXANDRA for most of the day to give her sufficient opportunity to rest and recover. They would have kept her overnight again but Wolf feared that the media frenzy outside would only grow if she wasn’t discharged.
The hospital administration, as fed up with the paparazzi as Wolf, allowed Alexandra to exit the hospital late that evening from a side door into the waiting limousine, avoiding the main entrance where photographers and reporters still lurked.
“You’re not taking me home?” Alexandra said as the limousine left UCLA’s medical center, traveled down Wilshire Boulevard to the 405 Freeway on-ramp.
“Not with those vultures watching your house.”
“But I need clothes, pajamas, a toothbrush at least.”
“You can manage one night without all that.”
She pressed her lips together to hold back the protest. She didn’t have a leg to stand on anyway. She’d gotten them into this mess, and Wolf, considering the circumstances, was braving the spate of bad press very well.
Wolf’s home in Malibu was tucked among other celebrity homes, each hidden behind massive walls, shrubbery and gates. It wasn’t until the limo passed through the gates and around one of the tall white stucco walls that the house, lit by a spotlight, came into view.
The house, a sprawling modern cube with enormous windows that faced the sea, was as serene as the beach and blue watery horizon beyond.
Wolf unlocked the front door and swung it open before steppi
ng back to let her enter.
The surfaces were sleek, glass, chrome. The couches were low and white, oversize and covered in white chenille. The cocktail table and end tables were equally huge, low thick slabs of exotic wood hand carved and crafted. Even the walls—where there were walls—were plastered white, and the artwork was selective, modern oil paintings by some of the contemporary masters of the day. One painting, more violet than purple, hung above the smooth stucco fireplace. Another vast gray-and-pewter canvas hung on the opposite wall, above a Brazilian-wood console.
“Your room,” he said, opening the door to a guest room down the hall from his. “And you can sleep in this,” he added, tossing a large gray T-shirt in her direction.
“You’ve done this before,” she answered, clumsily catching the T-shirt.
He acted as though he hadn’t heard. “A new toothbrush is on the counter in your bath. Toothpaste is in the drawer. Fresh towels are on the towel rack.”
Alexandra headed into the bathroom and, stripping off her clothes, took a long hot shower and worked at peeling off the adhesive strips from the IV that still remained on her arm.
Once finished, she dried off, tugged Wolf’s T-shirt over her head and brushed her teeth.
When she left the bathroom, she saw that his bedroom door was now closed and she could hear him talking in a low voice on the phone. She overheard bits of the conversation, phrases like Soon I’ll be there and There’ll be lots of time in Africa.
Joy.
He was talking to Joy about shooting the movie in Africa because soon he’d be there. Another couple of weeks and he’d be on location.
With Joy.
Alexandra swallowed the stab of jealousy. Wolf had said there’d been no affair, he’d said they were only friends, but somehow Joy and Wolf’s relationship made her feel insecure. Like an outsider. Wolf and Joy were both actors and celebrated and beautiful, while she was …
Ordinary.
Sighing, Alexandra returned to her room, shut the door and climbed into the guest bed. It was a huge bed for a guest room and she felt very small in it.
The small feeling only grew worse as she struggled to relax. Sleep was a long time coming. She’d spent too much time in bed the past twenty-four hours as it was.
