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

“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 folded the paper in half, glanced up at her, his expression shuttered. “There is always someone somewhere, lurking with a camera. You learn to get used to it, ignore the cameras as best as you can and get on with life.”

She stared at him suspiciously. “You’re sure we’re not here for a photo op? A get-well shot for the paparazzi?”

He smiled grimly. “It’s a nice idea. I wish I’d thought of it.” He folded the paper yet again so it was a quarter of its original size. “As it happens, this is my house and this is the deck where I have breakfast every morning. And you, Alexandra, just happen to be here.” He returned to his paper and resumed reading, but Alex couldn’t read—or focus.