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

“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?”