Hollywood Husband, Contract Wife. Jane Porter
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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.
She felt the hard heat of his lap through her thin black trousers and it threw her, flustered her so that she tensed, going rigid in his arms. “And now I’m a little too close,” she choked, her breath catching in her throat as his hand moved to the small of her back, holding her more securely.
“I think you’re perfect.”
“I feel ridiculous.”
“Have I told you how much I like your hair?”
She felt as though everyone in the Veranda lounge must be looking at her. “Please let me off. People will talk.”
“But isn’t that the point? Don’t we want them to?”
He was right, of course, but even knowing why she was on his lap didn’t change the way she felt or how her body was responding—because it was responding. Her nerves were jumping and strange things were happening inside her, sharp hot streaks of sensation starting with the tight coil in her tummy and then racing to her breasts as well as lower, deeper, making her legs twitch and her mind wander.
“Stay here for our drink and then I’ll let you off,” he said, rubbing the small of her back as though it were perfectly ordinary for her to be on his lap with his strong hands casually caressing her, and maybe he could pretend ease, but Alexandra felt as though she’d pop out of her skin any moment.
His touch wasn’t soothing and she wasn’t relaxing. She couldn’t relax, not when he was stirring dormant feelings and even more dormant nerve endings.
Her lower back was tingling, sizzling with heat and pressure, warming to life beneath the dizzying touch of his hand, and that burn was starting to make her ache in places she didn’t want to ache. Her breasts were already growing fuller, more sensitive, and her belly was coiling hot and tight, making her think of escape. Relief.
She looked up into his face.
Had he had this effect on her four years ago? Somehow she didn’t think so. She couldn’t imagine it. Would she have very different feelings about him today if he had? “I think that’s long enough,” she whispered.
“Not even close.” And then his hands were on her waist, fingers sliding up toward her breasts, and she sucked in air, eyes widening in mute fascination.
He was turning her on. Really turning her on—and in public, too.
“Wolf. Let me go. Now.”
“We’re supposed to be lovers.”
Her mouth was parched, her lips painfully dry, and she licked her lips, trying to moisten them. “I know, but does this have to be in public?”
“If it’s not public, no one will know.”
Alexandra thought she’d run to the bar and make her own drink if the cocktail waitress didn’t return soon. “But maybe…maybe we can be one of those mysterious couples that don’t really do PDAs.”
“PDAs?” he asked, his head tipping back against the velvet chair as he watched her with lazy interest.
His hair was thick, glossy black, and he wore it a little long. And in a way it reminded her of a wolf pelt—thick, dense, male.
And Wolf was very male.
Alexandra struggled to swallow. She couldn’t remember ever being this thirsty before. Her body was burning and her throat felt absolutely parched. She pressed her lips together, feeling her teeth beneath.
“PDAs?” he prompted again.
“Public displays of affection.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “But I’ve no problem with public displays of affection if I like my woman.”
He’d trapped her in his eyes, and she gazed helplessly into the deep brown depths, a color somewhere between cocoa and black coffee, thinking they seemed endless, so dark, so deep, so alive with that unique fire of his.
One of his hands trailed up her spine, tracing her backbone and the little vertebrae between.
She shivered beneath the light caress, aroused despite her fierce desire not to be.
He had exactly the right touch, not too firm, not too delicate. And there was something about him, about his size and strength, about the tilt of his head and the mocking glint in his eyes that made her feel small and pretty and feminine. But not just feminine. Desirable. As though she were the only one in the room. The only woman in Los Angeles. California. Make that the planet.
Her pulse quickened and she found herself staring into his dark eyes, eyes that from far away were black but close like this had the smallest splinters of silver. Those shards of silver made her wonder if it was the lounge’s soft light or the fire that burned within him that made his eyes glow, turning him into some fierce and beautiful work of art.
Fire and ice.
The words whispered through her head and wrapped uncomfortably tight around her heart.
Because that was really who he was, she realized, looking at his face, the hard but expressive sensual features, the glossy black hair, the equally strong black brows.
“Now you’re staring,” he teased, his hand sliding higher up her back to rub between her shoulder blades, finding the little knots and balls of fear and tension. And magically he smoothed the knots away, rubbing firmer and then lighter, heating her, melting that resistance within her.
She wasn’t sure when she began to lean into him, seeking his touch, his warmth, but somehow his chest was where she wanted