Hollywood Husband, Contract Wife. Jane Porter
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Every time he looked at her she felt sparks on the inside, little bits of hot fire flaring here and there. It was like being a human sparkler, only worse because the heat didn’t die.
“I just don’t want to be laughed at,” she said after a moment. “People can be unkind. I know the tabloids are famous for publishing unflattering photos and pointing out celebrities’ flaws.”
“Before we go public, you’ll meet with stylists, receive wardrobe consultation. I have a team of professionals who will help ease you into the transition.”
Alexandra was intrigued despite herself. “When would that happen?”
“As soon as you signed the contract.”
Alexandra tried to imagine being groomed by top Hollywood stylists but couldn’t. She might have lost twenty pounds since moving from Montana to California, but she still thought of herself as the sturdy country girl who’d worn cowboy boots before high heels. “A beautiful starlet would be far easier to introduce to the public,” she said in a small voice.
“I’m not interested in squiring around a young actress desperate to make a name for herself—”
“But in real life—”
“This is real life, and I’m quite aware that I’m responsible for dozens of people’s jobs. I just want to get The Burning Shore made and I want to do it without emotional complications.”
She fell silent, digesting this. “You don’t want anyone to fall in love with you.”
His dark eyes creased, his mouth compressed. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Thankfully her practical little blue Ford Escort appeared that moment in the famous hotel drive.
The uniformed valet climbed from the driver’s seat and held the door for her.
Wolf walked her to the car. Alexandra slid behind the steering wheel. “I’ll call you,” she said.
“You’ve my number?”
She stared up into his dark eyes, seeing the hard, beautiful lines of his face, and her panic grew. No one had a face like Wolf. No one had his charisma either.
It’d be suicide to do this, she thought, absolute disaster—if not for him, then for her. She wasn’t as sophisticated as he was, nor did she have his experience.
“I still have the card Daniel gave me. He wrote your cell number on the back.”
Smiling faintly, Wolf closed her door and stepped away from the car. “Take your time, think about your options and call me when you’re ready.”
She hesitated and then leaned through the open window. “You think I’m going to say yes, don’t you?”
His faint smile grew. “I know you will.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a smart girl and you’ll soon realize this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
The opportunity of a lifetime, she repeated over and over driving home, her hands shaking on the steering wheel and her insides doing nonstop flips.
The opportunity of a lifetime, she repeated yet again as she parked her car in the tiny garage adjacent to her California bungalow, one of the tiny nondescript row houses built in Culver City during the forties and fifties.
Her house was small, and until recently she’d shared it with another girl. But since the girl had a job transfer to Boston, Alexandra was now covering the rent by herself and it was tight. She’d considered getting another housemate but was so enjoying having the space all to herself that she hadn’t gotten anybody yet.
And if she did sign the contract to play Wolf’s new love interest, she wouldn’t have to get a roommate, she’d be able to pay the entire rent herself.
Alexandra loved the thought of that.
Since moving to Los Angeles she’d really struggled, both financially and emotionally.
She’d taken a job waitressing and then a part-time job temping for an independent film studio, answering phones, handling mail, playing general office errand girl, which was mainly going to Starbucks and getting everyone’s favorite espresso and latte.
Alex discovered that she liked being useful in the office. She was good in the office—quick, smart, agile, she could multitask and never needed to be told anything twice.
After a year working for the independent film company, she answered a Paradise Pictures ad she saw in Variety and was hired to assist intense, brainy directors and producers with whatever needed to be done.
She’d worked for Paradise for nearly three years now and she thought she’d proven herself on more than one occasion, but the promotion had never come.
Why?
It wasn’t as though she couldn’t handle more responsibility. She actually needed the risk, craved change.
In the kitchen, Alexandra took out the business card Daniel had given her several days ago, the one with Wolf’s private number. She tapped it on the counter, flipped it over to the personal cell number scribbled on the back and tried to imagine the next four weeks.
New clothes. Input from a stylist. Exciting parties.
Smiling nervously, she bit her lip. It’d be scary but also fun.
Then she thought of Wolf Kerrick and the whole concept of fun went out the window, leaving her unsure of herself all over again.
But it’s an opportunity, she reminded herself sternly, and that’s what you want.
Quickly she picked up the phone, dialed Wolf’s number.
“It’s Alexandra Shanahan,” she said when he answered, dispensing with any preamble. “And I’ll do it. But before anything else happens, I want the offer—and the studio’s promise about the assistant director position—in writing.”
“Of course.”
She held the phone tighter. “And working on B-rate flicks doesn’t count. I want to work on major studio films. Big-budget films.”
“Certainly.”
She folded one arm over her chest and pressed a knuckled fist to her rib cage. “I want to be clear that this is a job, and I’ll treat it like a job. I’ll do what I have to for the cameras, but I won’t do anything inappropriate.”
“And what is inappropriate?”
“Kissing, touching, sex.”
“There’s got to be a certain amount of intimacy for the camera.”
“Only for the camera, then, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Mr. Kerrick.”
“I’ve got it all down, Miss Shanahan. You’ll get the contract tonight. It should be there by seven.”
The contract did arrive at seven. But a courier service didn’t deliver it. Instead Wolf Kerrick brought it himself.
She hadn’t expected Wolf and she’d answered the door in her faded blue sweatpants, cropped yellow T-shirt and bare feet in dire need of a pedicure. Without her contacts, and in her glasses, with her hair in a messy knotted ponytail on top of her head, Alex knew she looked more like a librarian than the sex symbol required.
“Hi,” she said awkwardly, tugging on her ponytail, trying to at least get her hair down even if she couldn’t make the glasses vanish.
“Cleaning house, are you?” he asked.
“I didn’t expect you.”
“Mmm. But maybe I should come in. Two photographers tailed me. Red car on the right