And as she lay there, thoughts churning, stomach in knots, she realized she wasn’t just upset about Joy. She was also really upset with herself for thinking she could compete with Joy, live in Wolf’s world without getting hurt.
Alexandra felt a bittersweet ache inside her chest, a tug on her heartstrings. Sometimes Wolf reminded her of the cowboy of her girlish dreams. He was every bit as big, and handsome and strong. Capable of looking out for her without smothering her. Sure enough to let her be without trying to change who she was or what she dreamed.
If only he were that hero …
If only those happy Hollywood endings really came true. But she knew better. Once you visited Los Angeles you realized that Hollywood wasn’t a place but an intersection of streets. You realized that the golden sun in California postcards was rarely seen due to a disgusting layer of smog. It’s not that happy endings aren’t possible in Hollywood, Alexandra told herself, pulling her pillow close to her cheek, it’s just that they’re highly unlikely.
Alexandra thrashed in bed much of the night but woke up to the smell of freshly ground coffee and felt almost like a new woman.
Unable to face putting her party dress back on, Alexandra dragged her hands through her hair and headed to the kitchen in the gray T-shirt. Fortunately it was long on her, hitting her midthigh, and it covered her better than any silky baby-doll pajamas would.
It was Wolf in the kitchen making coffee, and when Alexandra appeared in the doorway he offered her a cup.
“Please,” she answered, watching him take another big white glazed mug down from the glass-fronted cabinet.
He filled her cup, and she added a spoon of sugar before clasping the mug between both hands and taking a sip. It was strong and very good. “Thanks.”
“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.
“They think I was distraught over Joy, don’t they?” she whispered, holding her large ceramic mug between both hands.
“Mmm.”
“But you weren’t even with Joy at the party,” Alexandra continued faintly, staring at the top of his head because that’s all he’d give her.
“No,” he answered, face still buried in the Times. “But getting the facts right isn’t a priority for the tabloids. They’re concerned with selling newspapers, not the truth—” He broke off as the phone began to ring in the house. “Let me grab that. It could be the studio. The producers are holding an emergency meeting this morning. They’re discussing recasting the lead roles for the film. Sometime in the next hour we’ll find out if it’s me or Joy that’s being replaced.”
Alexandra’s eyes widened with alarm. “Oh, Wolf—”
“Please don’t.” He paused in the doorway as the phone continued to ring. “It’s too late for that, Alexandra. Let’s just enjoy what’s left of the morning, shall we?”
Alexandra watched Wolf hang up the phone and open the door and walk toward her where she still sat outside. “Bad news?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer. He just stared down at her. “You’re always so curious, so full of questions,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s time I got to know you better.”
His expression filled her with unease. “What do you want to know?” she asked, trying to find a smile. He was acting strangely, had been acting strangely all morning, but the phone call had only heightened the tension another notch.
“Who you really are.”
Her mouth opened to protest and then she snapped it closed. She owed him no explanations. They might have a contract, but it was going to end soon. Wolf would be leaving in two weeks for Africa, and once he was gone he’d be out of her life for good.
“Do I get to go home soon?” she asked, standing, wanting to put herself on more equal footing.
“Mmm … no.”
“Why not?” she asked, trying to keep her tone reasonable. Maybe if she humored him, he’d finally send her back to her house.
“I’ve a lunch date and I’d very much like your company.”
She glanced down at his gray T-shirt she was still wearing and then at her bare feet. “I have to go home to change. I’ve nothing here to wear.”
“Benjamin is sending the stylist.”
Alexandra stilled. “That was Benjamin on the phone?”
“Mmm.”
Wolf’s ambiguous answers were beginning to trouble her. “What’s going on, Wolf?”
“Lunch.”
“Why lunch?” she persisted, arms folding across her chest, pulling the T-shirt taut across her breasts.
His gaze dropped, sweeping slowly across the outline of her breasts and the pebbled nipples. He smiled,
his cool, fierce, predatory smile. “I’m hungry,” he answered. “And we need to do some damage control.”
An hour and ten minutes later they were in Wolf’s navy Lamborghini, a classic V12 sports car from the late ‘60s. It was the same car Wolf had originally picked her up in for their first official date as a couple at Casa Del Mar’s Veranda lounge.
Alexandra had fun that night but somehow she didn’t think she’d be having fun today.
As Wolf drove down Highway 1 south toward Los Angeles, Alexandra smoothed the snug skirt on her gray Michael Kors dress the stylist had brought her. The dress was fitted with thin spaghetti straps, a plunging sweetheart neckline and a beautiful black lace-and-satin-ribbon belt at the waist. Her heels were black, her clutch was black and her thick hair had been curled and left loose.
She looked great. Sexy. Polished. She should have been confident.
She wasn’t.
“Where are we going to lunch?” she asked, fixing one of the delicate gold hoops at her ears. It’d twisted and caught in her hair.
“Asia de Cuba,” he answered, briefly taking his eyes off the road.
Asia de Cuba, she silently repeated, crossing her legs and noting that her French pedicure could use a touch-up. “I don’t know that place.”
“It’s a nice restaurant.”
“Where is it?”