Infamous. Jane Porter

felt the blister of his anger, as well as his underlying scorn. Yet she was angry, too. He must think she was stupid or naive to take everything he said at face value. And she might be naive, but she wasn’t stupid. Alexandra met his gaze squarely. “Everyone knows you and Joy have been involved for the last year.”

      Wolf and Joy Hughes were both megastars. Bigger than film stars, larger than life, they personified Hollywood power and glamour. So much so that when they’d secretly linked up earlier in the year, their affair—Joy was still married to another Hollywood heavyweight—made headline news and had remained there for nearly six months.

      Even now she remembered how their photos had been on every cover of every weekly tabloid—for months. “It’s not exactly a secret,” she added.

      The planes of Wolf’s face hardened, his high cheekbones growing more prominent. “The media fabricated the relationship. I thought the interest would die. I told Joy as much. It didn’t.”

      He paused, considered his words. “The public’s fickle. Today they’re enthralled by rumors and gossip, tomorrow they’re appalled. But the stories have gotten out of hand. The bad press will soon influence the box-office takings. I can’t take that chance, not when it’ll hurt every single person who works on my films.”

      He was right about that much, she agreed, biting her lower lip. She’d been in Hollywood four years, had worked for Paradise Pictures for nearly three and knew that a low-grossing film impacted everyone. A low-grossing film left an ugly black mark on everyone’s résumé.

      Rubbing at a tiny knot of tension throbbing in her temple, she tried to see her part in this. “But to generate new press by pretending to have a relationship with me? It’s such an old Hollywood trick. I didn’t think it was done anymore.”

      His long black lashes lifted and his dark gaze searched hers, his scrutiny so intense it left her feeling strangely exposed. “The studio wants proof that Joy and I aren’t an item. Being seen with you would be the proof they need.”

      “Just by being seen with me?”

      “That’s how the tabloids work. They snap their photos, run their stories and publicly speculate about celebrities’ happiness and future, often without interviewing one reliable source.” His tone was rueful, his expression mocking. “After one week of being together in public, we’ll be an item.”

      “That’s all it takes?”

      “Sometimes only one photo is necessary.” His mouth slanted. “But I should warn you, the pressure will be intense. The paparazzi are everywhere, photographers camp outside my door. Once reporters learn your name, they’ll hunt down information on you—where you work, what you do, who you’ve dated—” He broke off, looked at her from beneath arched brows. “Do you have any scandals in your past, anything the press can dredge up?”

      Stunned to silence, she shook her head.

      “Old boyfriends with an axe to grind?” he persisted.

      Again she shook her head. She’d hardly ever dated. Growing up on an isolated ranch, there hadn’t been many chances to date, and moving to Los Angeles at nineteen had nipped her desire to date in the bud. The men she’d met in Los Angeles were often shallow, materialistic and crass, nothing like the men she’d been raised with, none revealing any of the male qualities she admired, like strength, courage, confidence, generosity.

      Men in Los Angeles loved cars, tans and expensive restaurants. Oh, and women with fake breasts.

      “There’s nothing in my past worthy of tabloid interest,” she said, briefly thinking of her mom who’d died when she was young and her oldest brother’s wife who’d been killed in a car accident. But those weren’t the kinds of things the gossip magazines would be interested in. Those were the personal heartbreaks that lay buried between the covers of photo albums, baby books and high school graduation diplomas.

      But those personal heartbreaks were also one of the reasons she’d left Montana. Having grown up in the shadow of five older brothers, Alexandra needed space. Independence. She needed to be her own person and have control over her life.

      Playing Wolf Kerrick’s new love interest would strip her identity as well as her control.

      She’d be followed, photographed, harassed.

      “I’ll make it worth your while,” Wolf said quietly, as if able to read her mind, or the emotions flickering over her face. “I’ve met with Daniel and your studio. They’re willing to offer you a significant promotion if you take the position. And when the assignment ends, you’ll be offered an A.D. position with Daniel.”

      “Assistant director?” she repeated under her breath, dazed by the idea of really being involved in making pictures and not just taking coffee orders.

      “Yes.”

      For the first time since Wolf had presented her with the proposal, she was tempted to accept, she really was. To escape from photocopy hell and actually do something on a film … to leave the office behind and go on location … to be involved with real decision making versus how much liquid sugar was needed to properly sweeten the lighting technician’s doubleshot iced coffee …

      But looking at Wolf, she knew her decision wasn’t quite so simple. Wolf was a man. An actor. A very popular actor as famous for his skills in the bedroom as his talent on-screen.

      And maybe Wolf was notorious for bedding lots of women, but she couldn’t do that—wouldn’t do that. It’s not who she was.

      But what if Wolf expected that?

      She shot an uncertain glance up into his face. “Mr. Kerrick, I think you should know right now, up front, that I don’t do the casting-couch routine.” Her heart raced as she considered his hard features, his firm, sensual mouth. “I won’t do it. It’s not how I was raised.”

      His lips curled up, a flicker of wry amusement touched his dark eyes before just as swiftly disappearing. “I’ve never needed to convince or pressure a woman into bed.”

      “Yes, I know,” she said, pulse still pounding like mad. “But I wouldn’t want you to think that later I’ll do things—”

      “Miss Shanahan, rest assured that there’s no risk of that. Forgive my bluntness, but you’re not my type.”

      Her face flooded with heat even as her blood turned to ice. Oh, God. How humiliating. But she’d practically asked for that, hadn’t she?

      Painfully embarrassed, Alexandra felt her insides curdle and cramp. Of course she wasn’t his type. Of course he wouldn’t want to take someone like her to bed. He could have any woman in the world, why would he want to be with her?

      “I’m sorry,” she said, voice noticeably husky, “but I don’t think this is going to work. I’m not who or what you need.” She fumbled for her purse, finally finding it at her feet, next to her chair. “And I’m not about to try to change to please you or anyone else.”

      She rose to escape, but Wolf reached out, caught her hand, kept her from fleeing.

      “That’s where you’re wrong.” His deep voice, pitched low, vibrated inside her as his dark eyes, a glittering onyx, held her transfixed. “You’re exactly what I want and need.”

      His words shook her, but it was his touch, that scalding press of skin on skin, that made her knees buckle. With his hand around her wrist, she felt electric, charged, different. “I know I’m no beauty queen, but there’s no reason for you to be cruel—”

      His fingers tightened around her wrist. “Cruel? I’m paying you a compliment. I’ve picked you to play the role of my lover.” His voice deepened, betraying his Dublin roots. “I wouldn’t ask just anyone—”

      “And I’m to be flattered by that?”

       “Yes.”

      She tugged at her hand, hating the ruthless edge in his