THE WEDDING WAS NOT supposed to happen.
This was a charade, a job sheâd been hired to do. But the charade was supposed to have ended long before they ever went to the altar.
Long, Alexandra Shanahan silently repeated, clenching her bouquet of lilies, blue hydrangeas, white orchids and violet freesias tighter between stiff clammy hands.
This was all such a horrible mistake she couldnât even concentrate on the ministerâs words.
My God, she didnât even like Wolf Kerrick. Even four weeks of being squired around Hollywood as his newest love interest hadnât endeared the man to her.
In fact, four weeks of playing his girlfriend had only made her dislike him more. He was horrible in every sense of the word.
He was too rich, too successful, too powerful. He was too much of everything, and that alone made her uncomfortable, but the fact that he didnât respect women infuriated her. He treated women like playthings, taking what he wanted, when he wanted, and discarding without remorse when inexplicably bored.
And now she was his wife.
Alexandra swallowed, stunned, silenced, undone.
She, who could handle anything, she who never wavered in the face of danger, she who took risks and loved challenge, welcoming adversity with open arms, was now married to the worldâs most famous film star.
Spots danced before Alexandraâs eyes and she gulped in air, trying to clear the fog from her head. If she didnât know herself better, sheâd think she was going to faint.
She couldnât faint.
It was too much of a photo opportunity.
She must have inhaled too sharply, because suddenly Wolfâs hand was at her elbow.
âYou better not faint,â he growled in his rough accented English, a sexy combination of Irish and Spanish vowels that left women weak at the knees. But that was Wolfâs magic.
He was the quintessential bad boy, times a thousand, and everybodyâs celluloid dream.
Six feet three and impossibly broad through the shoulder while lean in the hip. He looked as good naked in love scenes as he did in a tuxedo shooting the latest James Bond thriller.
Alexâs jaw jutted and she tugged her arm from Wolfâs touch. âI wonât,â she whispered defiantly, even though she wasnât sure she wouldnât faint. Truth be known, she was scared, scared in a way she hadnât been since first moving to Los Angeles four years ago.
Itâd been a long four years, too.
Four years of struggle, attempting to crawl up the ladder of Hollywood fame. And now she was here. Sort of.
Wolfâs grip on her arm tightened. âThen smile. You look as though youâre dying.â
âIf only I were so lucky.â Then she forced another tight smile just in case any of the guests could see her face. This was her wedding, after all.
âIâm your dream man. Remember?â
Those had been her words, too, her exact words, but theyâd been uttered in a moment of panic, at the height of a crisis. She would have never claimed him otherwise.
Alexâs stomach rose, threatening to embarrass her right then and there. Oh, God. What had she done?
Biting her lower lip, Alexandra battled the second wave of nausea even as the Santa Barbara breeze lifted her veil, sending the lace and her long, artfully styled curls blowing around her face. Married to Wolf Kerrick. Mrs. Wolf Kerrick.
Alexandra Kerrick.
Her eyes squeezed closed, her hand shook where it rested on Wolfâs arm.
Why had she thought she could play his girlfriend?
How could she have ever thought sheâd be able to manage him?
And why had she come to Hollywood in the first place?
Beverly Hills, California
Five weeks earlierâ¦
ALEXANDRA SHANAHAN had thought being invited to lunch with Hollywoodâs most powerful actor was too good to be true.
She was right.
âYou want me to what?â Alexandra Shanahan asked incredulously, staring at Wolf Kerrick as though heâd lost his mind.
âPlay my new love interest,â he repeated, his deep voice nearly flat.
Wolf Kerrickâs love interest. How ludicrous. Beyond ludicrous.
Wolf Kerrickâ¦and her? Alexandra would have laughed if her stomach wasnât doing wild cartwheels.
Everything, she thought woozily, about the lunch was wrong. The impossible-to-secure reservations at the famous Beverly Hills Hotelâs terrace restaurant. The bright blue sky overhead. The dizzying fragrance of the terrace gardenâs roses and gardenias.
When sheâd first sat down at the table, sheâd introduced herselfâsilly, but since theyâd never officially met, itâd seemed like the right thing to do.
Wolf had repeated her name thoughtfully. âShanahan. Sounds familiar.â
âThereâs a famous football coach by the same name,â sheâd answered nervously, trying to ignore the excited whispers of the other restaurant patrons. Everyone had been watching them. Or at least watching Wolf. But then, he was a megastar and sinfully good-looking, so she couldnât really blame them.