Hollywood Husband, Contract Wife

Juan Carlos had told her he was giving her warm amber highlights and promised to make her a Hollywood golden girl.

Alex wasn’t so sure about the golden part.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she battled her nerves, drew a deep breath and counted to ten.

At ten, she opened her eyes, caught a glimpse of her silver-wrapped alien like self in the mirror and closed her eyes again.

This was not going to work.

Back at home five hours later, Alexandra looked in the mirror at the new, improved version of her. Her hair shimmered with a multitude of highlights, precision-cut to fall in thick, sexy waves around her face, playing up her black-lashed blue eyes and the strong cheekbones she didn’t know she had.

The makeup artist had shown her how to use color and liner to subtly darken and define her lips, her brows, her eyes.

And studying the new, improved Alexandra, she thought she looked good. Pretty. Pretty in a way she’d never been before. Feminine but smart. And confident. Strong. And that’s the thing she hadn’t known she could be on the outside. On the inside, she liked to roughhouse with the best of them, riding bareback, helping in the roundups, slinging barbwire along with the ranch hands. She’d learned early that she had to keep up with her brothers or she’d be left behind, relegated to the kitchen and the laundry room at home, and if there was anything Alex didn’t want, it was woman’s work. Housework. Domestic chores that kept her locked inside when the sky was huge and blue beyond the windows of the house, where the land stretched endlessly, waiting for exploration and hours of adventure.

Alex’s lips half curved, and she stared, fascinated, at the face of a woman she realized she barely knew.

She really was pretty, almost pretty like the girls in magazines. And maybe it was makeup and expensive hair color and a professional blow-dry, but she wasn’t the fat girl she’d been at eleven and twelve and fifteen. She wasn’t even the sturdy, healthy nineteen-year-old who’d arrived in Hollywood eager to make movies.

Reaching up, she touched the mirror, touching her reflection, the shimmering tawny lips, the dusty glow of cheeks and eyes that looked midnight-blue in the bathroom lights.

“Be confident,” she whispered. “Be brave.”

And with one last small, uncertain smile, she turned away from the mirror and left the bathroom, hitting the light switch on her way out.

In the living room she turned on the front porch light, and before she could decide if she should turn on the stereo or the TV or pick up a magazine to read, the doorbell rang.

Butterflies danced through her middle, spinning up and into her head.

God, she was nervous. Scared.

Why was she so scared? It wasn’t as though she’d never been out with Wolf before. It’s not as if she hadn’t ever been alone with him either.

Hands pressed to her sides, she took a deep breath and reminded herself of all the reasons why she’d come to L.A. and all the things she wanted to learn, to do, to prove. Maybe Wolf Kerrick was way out of her league and maybe this was going to be a rocky couple of weeks, but doing this, playing this part, would help her succeed.

Wiping her damp hands on the side of her black trousers, she moved to the door and opened it.

And then he was there, even bigger than she remembered, taller, more intimidating. And twice as beautiful.

Maybe that’s the part she found so disconcerting, too. Because she’d been around big men all her life. Brock was six-four, and Cormac a half an inch below that. But her brothers were more rugged—handsome but lacking the dark Latin sensuality that made Wolf’s eyes just a little too dark and his lower lip a little too full and his black lashes a little too long. It’d be one thing if he didn’t know his effect on women, but he did, and it only made him more dangerous. Wolf wasn’t so much charming as lethal.

“I just need to get my purse,” she said, opening the door wider and doing her best to hide her nerves. “Do you want to come in?”

“If you’re just getting your handbag, I can wait here.”

She silently disappeared, legs distinctly trembly as she went to the couch to scoop up the little evening bag she’d laid out earlier. The bag was so pretty, a small, black, handsome couture bag that looked simple but cost a fortune. Alexandra had seen the price tag when the stylist had presented it and gasped. The stylist had merely winked. “It’s covered in your budget,” she’d said.

Now Alexandra clutched the bag beneath her elbow, feeling briefly like a glamorous celebrity herself. She knew it was all hair and makeup and wardrobe, but still, it was such a treat, such a delight to feel genuinely pretty for a change.

“So what are we doing tonight?” she asked, returning to join Wolf at the door.

“Thought we’d have some drinks, get a bite to eat.”

Alexandra nodded and closed the door behind her. She turned to head down the front steps, but Wolf hesitated and, reaching behind her, checked the door, giving the knob a twist, making sure it was locked.

She shot him a quick glance as they walked toward his Lamborghini. The fact that he’d double-check her door touched her, made her feel surprisingly safe.

She was still looking at him when his head turned and his dark eyes met hers. She shivered inwardly and amended her last thought. Make that as safe as one could feel with a wolf.

It was a warm night and the fog hadn’t yet moved in. Wolf headed to Santa Monica, where he pulled in front of the luxurious Hotel Casa del Mar, which stood next door to its famous sister property, Shutters on the Beach.

The Casa Del Mar, built in 1926, was once the grandest of the opulent Santa Monica beach clubs and hotels, and a recent fifty-million-dollar renovation had returned the historic property to its former magnificence.

Although she’d never been there until tonight, Alexandra knew that the Veranda, the elegant lobby lounge, was famous for its literary crowd. Screenwriters and novelists hung out in the celebrated bar, with its enormous windows overlooking the sea and the plush velvet chaises and chairs scattered for comfortable seating.

The Veranda was packed when they entered, but miraculously an alcove opened up for Wolf and the cocktail waitress immediately took their drink orders.

Alexandra had thought the lounge was crowded when they walked in, buzzing with laughter and conversation, but the buzz seemed even louder now that Wolf had entered the room.

Everyone was looking their way, men and women alike watching Wolf, openly fascinated.

“I forgot. You’re such a star,” Alexandra said, sitting on the edge of her red velvet chair, afraid to relax and possibly ruin her artfully styled hair or carefully applied makeup.

“You forgot?”

“Well, I forgot it was like this.” She pressed her hands against the chair’s edge. “Everyone always looks at you. They watch everything you say and do. It’s incredible. I guess that’s what star means. You’re the focus of everyone and everything.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “People are curious. They want to know if I’m as interesting as the characters I play.”

“Are you?”

He laughed softly. “No.” Reaching out, he took her hand, brought it to his lips. He kissed her fingertips and then curled her fingers over his and kissed the back of her hand, all while his gaze held her transfixed. “I’m sorry to say, I’m really quite boring.”

She didn’t believe him, not for a second.

Not when his eyes, glowing with an inner fire, belied his words, and Alexandra felt her belly clench as his lips moved across her skin.

He was not boring. Not now. Not ever.

Wolf tugged her hand, pulling her up and out of her chair, drawing her firmly toward him.

“Wolf,” she whispered in protest.

He ignored her, pulling her down into his chair so that she sat awkwardly on his lap.

“Wolf,” she repeated fiercely, blood surging into her face, darkening her cheeks.

“You were too far away,” he said.