Jane Porter - Infamous

“Excited?” Wolf repeated, his upper lip curling. “I wouldn’t say I’m excited, but I will be glad to work again. Working distracts me. Keeps my mind off other things.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. She’d imagined he enjoyed acting, thought he would have found a certain fizz factor from being one of the most highly acclaimed actors in the business. “What things?”

His eyebrow arched as he glanced at her. “We all have ghosts and demons.”

“And you won’t tell me yours.”

“No.”

Alexandra didn’t know if it was his expression or the caustic curve of his sensual mouth, but she felt the strangest flutter inside her middle as though she were nothing but naked nerve endings.

“Do you ever go home?” she asked suddenly, not sure where the question came from but curious about him, curious about his past as well as those ghosts and demons he’d just mentioned.

He shot her a long, assessing glance from beneath his lashes. He knew what she was doing, too. “Ireland or Spain?”

“Which is home?”

“Both, I suppose. I’m bilingual and was raised in both countries.”

“Your mother was Spanish.”

“From Cadiz,” he answered, slowing for the traffic light looming ahead. “I was born in Cadiz, but when I was twelve my parents divorced and I moved with my father to Dublin. Spain is home in ways Ireland could never be, but I’m comfortable in Ireland, I like the people.”

“And yet now you’re here, in America.”

“It’s what the career dictated.”

Alexandra stole a glance at him from beneath her lashes. “Do you ever regret becoming an actor?”

He hesitated before answering, shifting gears down and then, after the light changed, accelerating until he pulled into the parking lot for the Malibu Coffeehouse.

Turning off the engine, he turned to look at her. “Every day,” he said grimly.

After getting their coffee, Wolf drove to one of the scenic turnouts on Highway 1 and parked. Climbing from the car, they moved to the cliff’s edge to savor the view.

Wolf drew a deep breath, breathing in the stinging salty air off the Pacific Ocean. He loved the ocean, loved the cliffs of Malibu and Pacific Palisades. This area reminded him of Ireland’s southern and western coasts, especially when the soupy fog rolled in, covering everything in a misty, mournful gray.

If it weren’t for the ocean, Wolf didn’t think he would have survived so many years in Southern California. He hated L.A. He hated the falseness, the superficiality, the attitude and airs. People in his business—like so many people in Los Angeles—were afraid to be real, human.

They were afraid of their bodies, their age, their flaws, their frailties. Women here went to ridiculous lengths to be beautiful: nipping, tucking, tightening, enlarging, enhancing, sucking, smoothing. They worked on themselves endlessly, refusing to age naturally, fixated on how they looked, how others perceived them, how attractive they were in comparison to other women.

God, he missed real women. He missed wit and banter, laughter and smiles that made the eyes crinkle and foreheads wrinkle instead of ghastly BOTOX-frozen faces. He’d love to share a drink with a girl who could tell a proper story, eat a bag of chips and not immediately worry about her thighs. Sometimes Dublin seemed too far away, and in those moments he missed his old life—the ordinary life before he’d become a celebrity—more than he could say.

Alexandra watched Wolf sip his coffee as they leaned against his half-a-million-dollar car. She felt wrong leaning against a car that cost so much, but he did it so she supposed it was okay for her to do it.

Ever since they’d left the Malibu Coffeehouse Wolf had been quiet, and his expression was unusually pensive now. Always enigmatic, he seemed even more distant than usual. Again she wondered why he didn’t enjoy being an actor and why his success—and the accompanying fame—didn’t mean more to him.

Was he really so spoiled? Was it arrogance that made him fail to appreciate his achievements? Or was it something else?

“There’s nothing planned after this, is there?” she asked, wind blowing, tousling her hair. She tried tucking strands behind her ears, but they wouldn’t stay there.

“We’ve a dinner tonight at Spago.”

Any other time Alexandra would have been excited about the idea of eating at Spago. Wolfgang Puck’s name and reputation spoke for itself. But she was tired—she hadn’t been sleeping well lately—and after the tense afternoon she craved a quiet night at home. Alone. Preferably curled up on her couch with a good book.

“Do I have to go?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asked in an even smaller voice.

He glanced at her, expression blank. “It’s Rye Priven’s birthday.”

Rye Priven was the newest heartthrob in Hollywood, a gorgeous Australian that had just co-starred in a film with Wolf. The film was in the editing stage now and was supposed to be released at Christmas, when all the big Academy Award contenders were released.

“But Rye Priven doesn’t know me—”

“Everyone’s coming as a couple,” Wolf answered roughly. “You’re supposed to be the other half of my couple.”

She ducked her head, stared sightlessly at her cup. She was hating being part of the couple right now. Wolf was so intense. And unpredictable.

“Rye’s hosting the party himself. He’s keeping it low-key,” Wolf added. “I think he’s only invited six friends, so my absence would be conspicuous, particularly as I already told him I’d be there.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t go,” she doggedly replied. “It’s just that I don’t feel like it.”

He looked at her over the rim of his coffee as he took another sip. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“No,” she blurted and then winced at her bluntness.

“Why not?” Wolf paused, waited for an answer. “It’s a shame you can’t be more articulate in naming my faults.”

Alexandra shot him a swift assessing glance, but he didn’t look the least bit injured. “Your morals and values are deplorable. You could be someone truly great, someone … heroic. But instead you just use people. Take advantage of them. I hate it.”

“And you hate me, too.”

“I—” she started to protest but then fell silent. She didn’t want to start lying to him, because then the lies would never end. It was bad enough she’d agreed to do this, but to become as fake as her role? No. She wouldn’t sell out. She couldn’t. “ Hate is a strong word,” she conceded. “But I don’t like you and I don’t respect you. You just seem so bored and spoiled and arrogant. Selfish, too.”

“You’re a hard woman, Alexandra Shanahan.”

She suddenly felt her anger start to melt. She didn’t want to be angry, didn’t like feeling angry. “You’re just used to women falling all over you, desperate to impress you, please you. It’s too bad, too, because you’ll never know if people like you for you or because you’re a famous movie star.”

“Or if they like me for my body or my face.”

Alexandra nearly choked on her sip of her now lukewarm coffee. “And that’s exactly why I don’t like you. You’re so incredibly …” she drew a rough breath “… so …”

“Yes?”

“Conceited.”

“Conceited,” he repeated.

“You have so much—you’ve virtually everything—and you don’t even appreciate it.”

“And just what is everything?”

She gestured, her hand sweeping up and down. “This. You. Looks, wealth, fame, intelligence, success. You have it all, you have more than anyone else I know. But do you even feel grateful? Do you even have any idea how blessed you are? I don’t think so.”