down a chalkboard. “Alexandra, it’s a little late to worry about bad press.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re the topic of this morning’s talk radio, and there was a blurb in the gossip section of the morning paper, too.” He leaned over, kissed her forehead, his lips warm against the iciness of her skin. “And I can guarantee we’ll be all over the news segments on the entertainment shows tonight,” he murmured.
His words made her go numb all over. “What are they saying?”
“They’re reporting that you were hospitalized for a drug overdose.”
Her gaze lifted, found his. “What?”
“A photographer caught the ambulance wheeling you out of your house.” He sighed. “The photo has me right there at your side.”
“What is the paper saying?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She’d begun to tremble. “Tell me.”
He hesitated so long she wasn’t sure he would. And then he took her hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed the backs of her fingers. “That you tried to kill yourself.”
“Oh, my God.”
His silence was deafening, and Alexandra closed her eyes, shrinking inwardly. All their joint efforts, everything they’d tried to do … gone.
Over.
“And this was in the paper?” she asked, imagining the reaction her family would have if they got word of this.
“Today’s Los Angeles Times.”
She exhaled gradually, trying to calm herself. If it was just the Los Angeles Times, maybe none of her family would hear. None of her brothers lived in L.A. anymore.
“And USA Today,” Wolf added quietly.
Her stomach heaved. Her throat sealed closed. USA Today was a huge national paper. “No.”
“No is right. Our publicity-stunt relationship has made headline news.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY KEPT ALEXANDRA for most of the day to give her sufficient opportunity to rest and recover. They would have kept her overnight again but Wolf feared that the media frenzy outside would only grow if she wasn’t discharged.
The hospital administration, as fed up with the paparazzi as Wolf, allowed Alexandra to exit the hospital late that evening from a side door into the waiting limousine, avoiding the main entrance where photographers and reporters still lurked.
“You’re not taking me home?” Alexandra said as the limousine left UCLA’s medical center, traveled down Wilshire Boulevard to the 405 Freeway on-ramp.
“Not with those vultures watching your house.”
“But I need clothes, pajamas, a toothbrush at least.”
“You can manage one night without all that.”
She pressed her lips together to hold back the protest. She didn’t have a leg to stand on anyway. She’d gotten them into this mess, and Wolf, considering the circumstances, was braving the spate of bad press very well.
Wolf’s home in Malibu was tucked among other celebrity homes, each hidden behind massive walls, shrubbery and gates. It wasn’t until the limo passed through the gates and around one of the tall white stucco walls that the house, lit by a spotlight, came into view.
The house, a sprawling modern cube with enormous windows that faced the sea, was as serene as the beach and blue watery horizon beyond.
Wolf unlocked the front door and swung it open before stepping back to let her enter.
The surfaces were sleek, glass, chrome. The couches were low and white, oversize and covered in white chenille. The cocktail table and end tables were equally huge, low thick slabs of exotic wood hand carved and crafted. Even the walls—where there were walls—were plastered white, and the artwork was selective, modern oil paintings by some of the contemporary masters of the day. One painting, more violet than purple, hung above the smooth stucco fireplace. Another vast gray-and-pewter canvas hung on the opposite wall, above a Brazilian-wood console.
“Your room,” he said, opening the door to a guest room down the hall from his. “And you can sleep in this,” he added, tossing a large gray T-shirt in her direction.
“You’ve done this before,” she answered, clumsily catching the T-shirt.
He acted as though he hadn’t heard. “A new toothbrush is on the counter in your bath. Toothpaste is in the drawer. Fresh towels are on the towel rack.”
Alexandra headed into the bathroom and, stripping off her clothes, took a long hot shower and worked at peeling off the adhesive strips from the IV that still remained on her arm.
Once finished, she dried off, tugged Wolf’s T-shirt over her head and brushed her teeth.
When she left the bathroom, she saw that his bedroom door was now closed and she could hear him talking in a low voice on the phone. She overheard bits of the conversation, phrases like Soon I’ll be there and There’ll be lots of time in Africa.
Joy.
He was talking to Joy about shooting the movie in Africa because soon he’d be there. Another couple of weeks and he’d be on location.
With Joy.
Alexandra swallowed the stab of jealousy. Wolf had said there’d been no affair, he’d said they were only friends, but somehow Joy and Wolf’s relationship made her feel insecure. Like an outsider. Wolf and Joy were both actors and celebrated and beautiful, while she was …
Ordinary.
Sighing, Alexandra returned to her room, shut the door and climbed into the guest bed. It was a huge bed for a guest room and she felt very small in it.
The small feeling only grew worse as she struggled to relax. Sleep was a long time coming. She’d spent too much time in bed the past twenty-four hours as it was.
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
