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

      “It’s for Matt Silverman’s fiftieth birthday party.”

      “Ah.” Matt Silverman was the most innovative director and producer in the business today, and everything he did—whether it was a futuristic sci-fi or a historical drama—became a blockbuster, guaranteed to garner a half dozen Academy Award nominations, including the coveted Best Picture. “When is it?”

      “Thursday.” Wolf glanced out the window. Traffic was slow through the 405 and 10 intersection. “It’ll be a big party. Black-tie, live band, sit-down dinner in his Bel Air estate’s garden. Nearly everyone in the business will be there.” He leaned back against the seat, smiled crookedly if not a bit wearily. “But we’ve got to get through today’s premiere and parties first.”

      She nodded, noticing the shadows under his eyes. “Do you ever get tired of the parties and events?”

      The creases deepened at his eyes. His expression turned wry. “All the time.”

      “But …?”

      “Every movie needs publicity, and publicity requires me being out there, doing the interviews, the talk shows, the premieres, the award shows, the parties and fund-raisers.”

      “And that doesn’t even include making the films or the weeks on location,” she added.

      “You’re right, it doesn’t.”

      She’d never really thought about the life of a star like Wolf, imagining that fame, fortune and success made life easier, but she wasn’t so sure anymore. “No wonder you’re not in love with your career.”

      He shrugged. “It’s a job, and I understand it’s a job.”

      “You don’t make it look like a job. You’re incredibly talented.”

      His expression almost gentled. “You don’t have to make points with me, Alexandra. I know how you really feel.”

      She waved her hand, batting away his comment. “If you made one less film a year, that would be less PR, fewer interviews and press junkets and parties, right?”

      “One would hope.”

      “So do that. Make one less film. Or two. Find a way to have more time for yourself. I’m sure there are things you’d like to do.”

      The corner of his mouth lifted, but his dark eyes were deep, intense. “You’re sounding an awful lot like you want to save me. But, love, I can’t be saved.”

      “Yes, you can.”

      “This isn’t a challenge, Alexandra.”

      She pressed her lips together, held tight to her opinion—and her temper—realizing now wasn’t the time to debate him.

      Instead she changed topics. “So what would you do if you had more free time? Would you pick up a hobby? Want to travel? Are there places you’re anxious to go? What’s top of your to-do list.”

      His eyes narrowed. “Ending world hunger.”

      Alexandra did a double take. Was he serious? She couldn’t be sure, but he wasn’t smiling, wasn’t making light of his lofty ambition.

      “Erasing Third World debt,” he continued.

      She simply stared at him.

      “Stopping the spread of AIDS in Africa.” His hard features softened, his expression turning rueful. “Sorry you asked?”

      There was something in his face she’d never seen before, something behind the slightly bored, rather cynical mask he usually wore. Something fierce and raw and real. Real. For the first time she saw a man, not an actor or star.

      Alexandra felt a tug inside her chest, a twinge of muscle that was almost pain. “No.”

      And then whatever fierce, raw emotion—passion—she’d seen disappeared, replaced by that public mask he wore to keep the world at bay.

      With mask firmly in place, Wolf turned, glanced out the window and spotted the crowds lining the sidewalks. “We’re here.”

      The morning after the premiere, Wolf flew to New York for a Monday-morning appearance on Good Morning America to promote The Little Toy Soldier and then an afternoon taping for the David Letterman show at the Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway between Fifty-third and Fifty-fourth Streets. If things went well, he hoped to have dinner with friends Tuesday and then return to Los Angeles Wednesday morning.

      He’d said maybe they’d have dinner Wednesday night—he’d let her know once he was back in town.

      It was odd with Wolf out of town. Alexandra went to work Monday morning thinking she’d feel liberated, but instead she felt rather lost.

      Wolf had been taking up so much time—physically and mentally—she didn’t quite know what to do with herself now that he was gone for the next three days.

      Alexandra tuned in to Good Morning America at the studio, caught the tail end of Wolf’s interview—he looked so amazing on TV, it wasn’t fair at all—and then turned the TV off once the interview ended to get back to work.

      Tuesday she wondered if he’d call.

      Wednesday she wondered if he’d caught his morning flight and was heading back to L.A.

      Instead flowers arrived for her Wednesday noon, four dozen white roses with a stiff white embossed card that read, Have been held up in NY, will pick you up tomorrow for party. Apologies. Wolf

      Alexandra hid the card before anyone else could see.

      He wasn’t coming back until tomorrow, until just before the party. And she didn’t mind, not really, not until Kristie in the office casually dropped a newspaper on her desk, opened to the Entertainment section with the celebrity gossip column.

       The VIP Room

      Wolf Kerrick was seen having a cozy dinner Tuesday night with former flame, actress Joy Hughes, at Manhattan’s celebrity favorite, Nobu. Are Wolf and Joy back together again?

      Alexandra read the gossip item over and over again until her eyes began to burn and a lump formed in her throat. She felt almost … betrayed. Which was stupid since she and Wolf weren’t a real couple, but still, they’d been spending so much time together lately that in some ways she did feel as if she was part of Wolf’s life. Felt almost like Wolf’s woman.

      Quickly, before anyone could see, Alexandra wiped away tears, stood up, trashed the paper and went to make her third coffee run of the day.

      Wolf picked her up in the limo fifteen minutes after the party officially started, but even then they were among the first arriving at Matt Silverman’s fabulous Bel Air estate.

      Although it was a private party and media hadn’t been invited, dozens of photographers had still set up their cameras on tripods across the street from the Silverman mansion.

      Walking through the gardens next to Wolf, Alexandra recognized nearly half the people there. And the other half were probably the really important people—the producers, directors, power agents like Benjamin Foster.

      “Did you get my flowers?” Wolf asked as they stopped near the pool to take in the hundreds of floating water lilies illuminated by just as many floating candles.

      Alexandra’s stomach immediately knotted. “I did.”

      He turned his head, looked at her. “I’m sorry I was held up—”

      “No apologies or explanations required.”

      She was trying to be poised, but the tartness of her answer gave her pain away.

      “You saw the photograph of Joy and me at Nobu,” Wolf said.

      Had