Infamous. Jane Porter

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      “Have a headache, doll?”

      She didn’t like his tone or the way he was looking at her. But Alexandra didn’t close her eyes until the room started to spin. “What’s going on?” she demanded huskily as soon as she could open her eyes again.

      Jason was standing in front of her. “Hi, big eyes.” He reached up, pushed a long lock of hair from Alex’s eyes. “How are you feeling?”

      “Dizzy.”

      “Are you? Maybe we need to get you to your bedroom so you can lie down.”

      “No.” She put out a hand and immediately thought she’d fall. She needed Wolf here. She shouldn’t have left Wolf. “Call … call … Wo-Wolf.” She forced the words out, squinting her eyes to try to slow the spinning, but it didn’t help. Nothing was working right. She wasn’t working right.

      “You don’t need Wolf,” Jason answered, taking her hand, fingers wrapping around hers. “I can help you. I’ll get you into bed, don’t worry.”

      “I need a doc-doctor. Call doctor.”

      “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.

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