Hollywood Husband, Contract Wife. Jane Porter
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she said lowly.
“I know.”
“The bar is the other direction—”
“You know I’m waiting for you.”
Alexandra drew a quick, shallow breath. She was exhausted. Emotionally flattened. All her excitement, all her good feelings about meeting Wolf Kerrick were long gone. “There’s no point. There’s nothing more for either of us to say—”
“There’s plenty. You can say yes.”
My God, he was arrogant and insensitive. “I don’t want to say yes.”
“Why not?”
She flinched at his curt tone. It was clear he was used to getting his way and didn’t like being thwarted. “I’d never sell myself—”
“This isn’t slavery. I’m offering you a salary.”
“And I want to make it in Hollywood my way.”
“And what is your way?” he taunted. “Making copies? Answering phones? Getting coffee?”
Alexandra’s cheeks flamed. “At least I have my self-respect!”
“You might respect yourself even more if you had a job that actually challenged you.”
“My goodness but you’re insufferable. You should fire your managers, Mr. Kerrick. They’ve got you believing your own PR, and that’s a huge mistake.”
He shocked her by bursting out laughing, eyes creasing with humor. “You really don’t like me, Miss Shanahan, do you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“Why?” she retorted fiercely, spinning to face him, hands balled at her sides. “Does everyone have to be a fan? Do you want everyone lining up for your autograph?”
Still smiling, his dark eyes raked her. “No.”
“Because I’d be lying if I said I liked you. Maybe once admired you, lined up to see your movies, but that was before I met you. Now I see who you really are and I don’t like you or your chauvinistic, condescending attitude.”
He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets, rocked back on his heels. “Your honesty’s surprisingly refreshing.”
“Were you ever nice?”
His lips pursed, black brows pulling as he mulled over her question. Reluctantly he shook his head. “No.” Then the corner of his mouth tugged into a sardonic smile. “But you don’t have to like me to date me.”
“That’s revolting.”
“Alexandra, if you’re not an actress and you don’t date actors and you can’t get yourself promoted out of the copy room at Paradise Pictures, why stay here in Hollywood? Why not just pack your bags and go home?”
She felt a pang inside her, the muscles around her heart tightening. She’d asked herself the very same question many times. “Because I still want to make pictures,” she said softly. “I hope to one day be more involved, hope I can somehow make a difference.”
He studied her a long moment, his expression closed, eyes hooded. “You can make a difference,” he said finally. “You can help make a picture—and save the jobs of dozens of people. We’re to start filming The Burning Shore in a little over a month’s time. Work with me. Let’s get the film into production.”
Alexandra bit down, pinched her lip between her teeth. She’d love to make a difference, do something positive, learn something new. She’d love to be challenged, too, but she didn’t trust Wolf. “You think we could generate positive press together?”
He’d never looked so somber. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here now.”
CHAPTER TWO
WOLF ACCOMPANIED Alexandra to the front of the hotel, where she’d left her car with the valet attendant.
Lush purple bougainvillea covered the hotel’s pink stucco entrance, and the fragrant blossoms of potted lemon and orange trees perfumed the air, but Wolf gave his surroundings scant attention.
Alexandra could feel the weight of Wolf’s inspection as they waited for her car to appear.
The problem wasn’t only the offer. And the issue wasn’t just her morals or her values. It was her lack of experience.
She didn’t know how to manage a man like Wolf Kerrick and couldn’t imagine how one would even date a man like him.
But they won’t be real dates, she reasoned. They’re pretend dates. It’s not as if you’ll really have to kiss him or touch him or be physically involved.
Heat washed through her at the very idea of getting physically close. She really did need more experience. “If you gave me some time,” she said after a moment, “allowed me a chance to think about your offer properly, I might say yes.” She looked up, met his gaze before quickly looking away. “But I don’t want to be pressured.”
She drew another deep breath, flexed her fingers to ease her tension. “And if I did agree, how would this work?”
If he felt any elation or sensed that he’d won, none of it showed on his face. “We’d draw up a contract, include a generous financial compensation, as it’s probable you’ll miss some workdays due to events and premieres, and then begin going places together to be seen.”
He made it sound so simple, she thought, and yet she wasn’t a glamour girl, the sort to be invited to fancy parties or industry premieres. No, she was the girl raised by her dad, grandpa and five older brothers. There hadn’t been a woman in the house, not since her mom died when Alexandra was five. Growing up, she was the original tomboy.
“And what makes you think people will believe you…and I…are together?” she asked, pushing thoughts of Montana and the Lazy L ranch from her mind. “I’m not your…usual choice in dates.”
“Lots of stars date makeup artists, casting directors, the like.”
She hesitated. “Some actors do, but not you.”
“You can’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.”
Maybe, she thought, and maybe not, but she’d seen the pictures of the women he dated. He liked starlets and models, topless dancers and magazine centerfolds, his taste typically running toward women with more cleavage than brains. And Alex didn’t even have to look down at her not-so-impressive chest to know her strength was not in her cup size.
Years ago, back in junior high school, she’d learned that there were only two avenues open for women: the one for pretty girls and the one for smart girls. Even in high school it had been one or the other—cheerleaders and beauty queens or bookworms and future librarians. Girls certainly couldn’t be both. And since Alexandra knew she wasn’t pom-pom-girl pretty, she’d decided then and there to be smart. Damn smart. “We both know I’m not pretty enough to be taken seriously as your new love interest.”
“You could be if you tried to do something with yourself,” Wolf answered with brutal candor. “Alexandra, you don’t even try.”
She bit down, not knowing where to look. “I don’t try because I know already what I am and who I am. And I don’t need makeup or fake hair or nails or a tan to make me something I’m not.”
“Which is what?” he asked quietly.
“A bimbo. I’m not going to be a bimbo. I want to be respected. Taken seriously. And if I change myself—”
“You’re changing your hairstyle, not your soul.”
Her head jerked up.