LITMIR.BIZ

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      “No, no, you’ll be fine. I’ll just take you to bed, darling.”

      “Call Wolf,” she repeated, struggling to resist him as he dragged her toward the bedroom.

      “You’ll feel better in bed. Trust me.”

      She felt stiff, sick, puppetlike, her legs and arms disjointed. “No.”

      In her room, Jason closed her bedroom door and Alexandra’s legs gave out. Jason pulled her up, pressed her against the wall. “One kiss, baby,” he crooned.

      It was then she realized how drunk he was—or drugged he was—because this wasn’t the Jason she’d met at the studio office a month ago and this wasn’t the Jason who offered to drive her home from the party.

      But now this Jason was trying to kiss her, and the more she struggled to escape, the more excited he became.

      “Stop it. Let me go,” she choked out, turning her head away from his wet mouth.

      “Why? You like me. I know you like me.”

      “No, I don’t like you.” Alexandra sucked in a breath, fighting to stop her head from spinning, fighting to regain strength in her limbs.

      “Don’t be that way,” he answered, leaning against her, holding her immobile. “I want you. I’m crazy about you.”

      “Get off—”

      But he’d cut her words off with another hard kiss that repulsed her so much her stomach turned inside out. He’d pinned her to the wall, his body leveraged against her, his knee slammed between her legs, his hands groping over her.

      “Jason.” She choked, violently twisting. “Stop.”

      But her struggles only enticed him, her shuddering body inflaming his. “Come on, Alex, kiss me,” he whispered, grabbing at her face. “Kiss me properly. You know how.”

      But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, just as she couldn’t find the strength she needed to break away.

      Wolf was nearing the front porch of Alex’s small house when he heard the scream.

      Alexandra.

      Heart pumping, he took the three steps at one time. He was prepared to break the door down but was relieved to discover it’d been left unlocked. With a shove of his shoulder he had the door open.

      In the bedroom, Alexandra screamed as Jason’s hands slid across her.

      “Come on, baby,” Jason crooned, shifting his weight, and suddenly she felt his bare legs against her own as he battled to part her thighs.

      He’d dropped his trousers.

      She tried to scream again, but before she could make a sound, his head dipped and his mouth covered hers once more, smashing her nose, her mouth, cutting off air. Frantic, she bit savagely into Jason’s lip, felt him stiffen even as she tasted a spurt of blood.

      Stunned, Jason lifted his head and then his fist, and Alex squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to be hit, when suddenly Jason was off her, being hauled away by a massive, shadowed shape.

      Even though the room was dark and spinning, even though she could barely see, much less stand, she knew it was Wolf.

      Somehow she had known he would come.

      “Alexandra.” He ground out her name in the dark, and in his voice she heard fury that turned her blood cold.

      An icy shiver raced up and down her spine. Wolf sounded angry enough to commit murder. “I’m okay,” she choked out, pressing her black dress down, trying to cover the length of her bare legs. It was so odd, so strange. Her body could have been anybody’s body. Her body didn’t even seem to recognize her. She couldn’t move from the wall, couldn’t walk, couldn’t function.

      What in God’s name was wrong with her?

      And as she heard Wolf speak, his voice low and harsh, his accent stronger than she’d ever heard it, Alexandra fell back, hit the wall and slid all the way down, passing out before she touched the ground.

      Alexandra was having a nightmare and she couldn’t wake up. Someone, something, was hurting her, jabbing something down her throat, shoving something down into her middle. She tried to pull away but couldn’t. Hands held her still. There was no relief.

      And then she was gagging, vomiting, and she wasn’t sure if it was real or a dream. The pain felt real enough, but nothing seemed clear, nothing made sense. But finally the gagging stopped and she was left alone and she slept.

      While Alexandra slept, sedated, Wolf paced next to her bed. The doctor had said the drugs were finally out of her system thanks to gastric lavage with activated charcoal.

      As Wolf paced, he watched her sleep but was far from calm. She hadn’t liked having her stomach pumped, and when she woke, she’d be confused. She wouldn’t remember much of last night.

      Wolf clenched his teeth in mute outrage.

      What was she thinking, going home with Jason?

      His gut churned. Burned. His temper felt lethal.

      He continued to pace, battling to contain his anger when all he wanted to do was find Jason and annihilate him. He could, too. He could make Jason suffer—and more.

      Many successful screen and television actors were short, even slight, and they’d learned to use the camera close-up to their advantage, the zoom lens capturing carved jaws and handsome clefted chins.

      But Wolf wasn’t small or slight. He had the size and height of the professional boxer he’d once been. He’d made a name for himself in Ireland as the Dublin Devil—a furious, fire-fisted street fighter who leveled all his opponents within just one round. He hit that hard. His blows were that accurate.

      And now he wanted to do what he did best—fight.

      On the inside, he wasn’t an actor, he was still an athlete, a boxer. Hollywood had never been in Wolf’s sights. Being half Irish, he was as steeped in the great Irish literary tradition as the next snot-nosed kid, knew the Irish playwrights and poets and had seen his share of theater by the time he turned sixteen. But be in a play? Put on makeup, learn lines, be fitted by a costume designer? Never.

      It wasn’t until an independent film company from America came calling, looking to cast an Irish boxer in a small role in an even smaller film, that Wolf got noticed.

      The casting director loved him, but the film couldn’t find proper funding and never opened in theaters, going straight instead to America’s booming cable business. But it turned out Wolf didn’t need a box-office hit to turn his fifteen minutes of fame into a huge career.

      Anyone who had seen the film had come away with two impressions—the script was a convoluted mess and the tall, dark, brooding boxer, Wolf Kerrick, was unforgettable.

      A year and one finished major motion picture later, critics were falling over themselves, gushing praise.

      Fast forward ten-plus years and he was even more of a Hollywood heavyweight than anyone imagined he’d ever be.

      He’d certainly surpassed anything he’d ever dreamed he’d be. But then, he’d never dreamed. He’d wanted little. Preferred even less.

      Growing up, his parents had fought bitterly, and their divorce when he was twelve had been something of a relief. At least the long, drawn out screaming matches had ended. There’d been no more broken dishes or doors. At first Wolf’s dad had disappeared. But then, when Wolf’s mom hadn’t been able to take care of Wolf or even keep a job, his dad had abruptly returned and moved Wolf back to Ireland with him.

      Wolf knew his dad wasn’t a bad man, but his dad wasn’t a talker, and the changes, coupled with silence, made a confused kid angry. But Wolf soon discovered he liked being angry. Anger gave him power, anger made him strong, anger gave him a reason to go to bed at night

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