Infamous: Hollywood Husband, Contract Wife / Pure Princess, Bartered Bride. Jane Porter

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 stepping 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.

      And as she lay there, thoughts churning, stomach in knots, she realized she wasn’t just upset about Joy. She was also really upset with herself for thinking she could compete with Joy, live in Wolf’s world without getting hurt.

      Alexandra felt a bittersweet ache inside her chest, a tug on her heartstrings. Sometimes Wolf reminded her of the cowboy of her girlish dreams. He was every bit as big, and handsome and strong. Capable of looking out for her without smothering her. Sure enough to let her be without trying to change who she was or what she dreamed.

      If only he were that hero …

      If only those happy Hollywood endings really came true. But she knew better. Once you visited Los Angeles you realized that Hollywood wasn’t a place but an intersection of streets. You realized that the golden sun in California postcards was rarely seen due to a disgusting layer of smog. It’s not that happy endings aren’t possible in Hollywood, Alexandra told herself, pulling her pillow close to her cheek, it’s just that they’re highly unlikely.

      Alexandra thrashed in bed much of the night but woke up to the smell of freshly ground coffee and felt almost like a new woman.

      Unable to face putting her party dress back on, Alexandra dragged her hands through her hair and headed to the kitchen in the gray T-shirt. Fortunately it was long on her, hitting her midthigh, and it covered her better than any silky baby-doll pajamas would.

      It was Wolf in the kitchen making coffee, and when Alexandra appeared in the doorway he offered her a cup.

      “Please,” she answered, watching him take another big white glazed mug down from the glass-fronted cabinet.

      He filled her cup, and she added a spoon of sugar before clasping the mug between both hands and taking a sip. It was strong and very good. “Thanks.”

      “My pleasure.”

      She took another sip and covertly watched him as he sliced several oranges and squeezed fresh juice into two tumblers. Once he finished with the juice he turned his attention to making toast.

      “Butter, marmalade, strawberry jam?” he asked, rummaging through his huge stainless-steel refrigerator.

      “Just butter,” she answered, wondering exactly what his timeline was for getting her home. She’d missed work yesterday and now today was Saturday, and although she hadn’t anything planned, she felt a need to establish some control again. Get back to her usual routine.

      He grabbed the newspaper from the kitchen counter. “I always have my coffee outside on the deck. Care to join me?”

      Her eyes narrowed a fraction. He was being polite. Too polite. Something was up. “Only if you’ll share some of the newspaper,” she answered, suddenly on guard.

      His mouth curved. It wasn’t a friendly smile. “Depends on the section.”

      She was beginning to think that she’d woken to a potentially explosive situation. “I like Arts & Leisure,” she said.

      “Yours.” He held the glass door for her, and as Alexandra stepped outside she blinked at the bright morning sunshine. Here in Malibu the sky was blue and the sun was shining and long, smooth bottle-green waves crashed on the white beach.

      She took the seat he offered and he divided the newspaper, but unlike Wolf, she didn’t start reading. She watched him for several minutes, curious that he could be so absorbed in the paper when life seemed so confusing. “Wolf.”

      “Hmm?”

      “Are we going to talk about what happened?”

      “No,” he answered without looking up.

      Seagulls swooped low overhead and her stomach thumped with nerves. “Why not?”

      “Because there’s nothing to discuss.”

      She pulled her section of the paper closer to her but still couldn’t read. Sitting outside on the deck, drinking coffee, sharing the paper, watching the seagulls and listening to the waves break, they looked like a typical Malibu couple, and theirs was such a normal domestic scene, that Alexandra found herself hoping that maybe, just maybe, yesterday’s headlines had already been forgotten.

      That no one remembered her suicide attempt from a drug overdose.

      She exhaled, the stream of air blowing a wisp of hair up and out of her eyes.

      She hoped … until she glanced up from the paper and spotted a photographer on the beach with a camera focused in their direction. Her heart fell with a sickening thud. “There’s a photographer on the beach.”

      “Really?” Wolf asked, turning the page in the paper. He didn’t sound surprised or worried.

      “You knew?” she demanded.

      He