The Wedding Band (4 page)

It was unprecedented. Completely off script.

So he improvised. Touching a palm to the small of her back, he slid smoothly into the dressing room alongside her.

By movie-­star standards, it was cramped. He took it in with one glance. Faded Levi's and a pink tee draped over a chair. Flip-­flops kicked underneath it. Department-­store cosmetics spilling onto the dressing table from a worn canvas bag.

Offstage, it seemed, Christy Gray was no diva.

“So, I guess you're seeing somebody,” he said, continuing the conversation as if he hadn't barged into her space.

“No, I'm not seeing anyone.” Slightly annoyed.

“In love with a married man? Saving yourself for Jesus?”

She half smiled, half smirked. “I know the usual line is ‘It's not you, it's me.' But this time, it's not me. It's you.”

“Ouch.” He rubbed his chest like she'd punched him.

“Sorry, but I'm allergic to celebrities.”

“Why? We're just ­people.”

“And the bird flu's just a virus.”

“What if I wasn't a celebrity?”

“What else would you be?”

“A veterinarian.” He threw it out there.

“That takes brains,” she said, like they were lacking.

He dunce-­scratched his head. “Now you're just confusin' me.”

She laughed again. It was killing him by inches.

He went all in. “Listen, Ma won't quit hounding me till we go on a date. It can be a pity-­date. I'm okay with that, as long as she thinks you're into it.” He did an aw-­shucks smile. “Make an old lady's day and date her shiftless son.”

“I don't—­”

“At least come to the after-­party. Let her get a look at you before she and Pops totter off to bed. It'll be kinda like a date, but not really.”

He smiled again, and for a minute she looked tempted, like maybe she was so incredibly turned on by him that her perfectly sensible aversion to celebrities suddenly seemed asinine.

A man could hope.

But then, like a slow-­motion action sequence, the kind where the bloodletting's drawn out for maximum cinematic effect, she started . . . to . . . shake . . . her . . . head . . .

And as if on cue, Zach called, “Knock knock,” and stuck his shoulders through the flap. Spotting Kota, he said, “Hey, man. Sounds like a kick-­ass after-­party.”

“You'll be there, right?”

“Abso-­fucking-­lutely.”

Kota bit back a grin. Sometimes just when things were going to shit, up through the manure popped a big red rose.

Christy jumped in. “Dad, really?”

“Really.” He chucked her chin. “You worry too much, honey pie. We're on in ten.”

On that note he ducked out. She swung around, glaring daggers at Kota. “You
know
he just got out of rehab.”

Of course he knew. Just like he knew she'd feel obliged to chaperone. His inner scoundrel mentally rubbed his hands. But the decent guy Ma raised made himself say, “I'll uninvite him if you want me to.”

She glared some more. Then she huffed out a sigh. “He has to get back into circulation sometime.”

A solemn nod. “You'll probably want to keep an eye on him, though.”

“Convenient, isn't it?”

“I'm just sayin'.” He shrugged.

“And I'm
just sayin' . . .”
She stuffed the crumpled envelope into her bag. “ . . . it's
not
a date. So you can wipe the smug look off your mug.”

And with a toss of her head she strode from the tent, every inch a diva.

 

Chapter Four

C
HRIS SQ
UEALED AROUND
the hairpin turn like she was racing her Eos through the streets of Monaco instead of sleepy Laurel Canyon. Screeching to a stop in her driveway, she grabbed her bag and hotfooted through the back door.

Her roomie, Raylene, leaped out of her path. “Chris! What the hell?” She licked up the Riesling that slopped over her knuckles.

“Sorry, I'm in a hurry.” Chris barreled across the kitchen and sprinted up the spiral staircase.

“No kidding. Where's the fire?”

“At Dakota Rain's,” Chris called down two flights. Her bedroom occupied the entire third floor, which wasn't as impressive as it sounded, since the whole house was a shoebox standing on end, balanced on a million-­dollar postage stamp.

Raylene followed her up the corkscrew stairs. “You're going to Dakota Rain's? Can I come?”

“No.” Chris pawed through her walk-­in closet. Off came the pink T-­shirt, replaced by a shimmery gold tank. “I have to keep an eye on my father. I can't supervise you too.”

“I'll be good.”

“You'll be trouble.”

Raylene pouted. “I'm off probation in two weeks.”

“Unless you're arrested tonight. Then you'll go to jail for six months.”

Raylene's third DUI had finally landed her in hot water. College chum or not, if she stayed on that road, Chris was kicking her out. She didn't have room in her life for two alcoholics.

While Raylene moped, Chris shucked her jeans and shimmied into a black skirt with a ruffle at midthigh.

“I want your legs,” Raylene said grumpily. “And your ass.”

“I want your tits and your triceps,” said Chris. “So we're even.”

She ducked into the bathroom to strip off her stage makeup. Raylene called through the door. “What if I promise not to drink?”

“I've heard it before, Ray. I can't deal with you tonight.”

“Fine. Be that way.” Ray clumped down the stairs.

Chris let her go. No time to smooth feathers; she had to get to Dakota's drunken orgy before Zach tumbled down all twelve steps and landed in a bottle of Beefeater.

Tail on fire, she hit her cheeks with blush, her lips with gloss, and scooped up five-­inch gold Louboutins that would cut into Dakota's vertical advantage. She was on a beeline for the stairs when Reed rang her cell.

“Pack your things,” he said without preamble, “and get out.”

She froze in midstride. “You can't fire me, I got the story!”

“I mean get out of L.A. The senator's suing the paper. The sheriff's deputy just served me, and you're next on the list.”

“Well, shit.” Chris slewed a looked around her room. No place to hide.

“If you're home, get out of the house,” Reed said. “Get out of L.A. Out of the country if you can. I'll tell everyone you're on assignment. That'll slow things down while Owen works on Buckley to drop the suit.”

Chris clutched her forehead. “What if she won't?”

Unemployment and disgrace, that's what.

“Listen, Chris, Buckley's pissed right now. She wants to turn the knife. So she'll make tomorrow's Sunday morning rounds, blast the liberal press, discredit the paper, and when she can't get any more mileage, she'll
graciously
accept our apology.” He snorted. “Trust me, no politician wants a judge scrutinizing their spending. She'll pull the plug before it gets to court.”

That sounded good, but something smelled fishy. “If you're so sure she'll drop it, why do I need to disappear?”

“Because Owen's easiest play here is to offer up a sacrificial lamb.”

“Baaaaa.”

“Exactly. So we'll remove temptation. Make him do it the hard way.”

Chris slumped against the railing. “This is all my fault. Maybe I should fall on my sword.”

“Like hell.” Reed put steel in his tone. “I'll let you know when your career's over, Christine. In the meantime, I'm not telling Emma Case I stood back while her daughter took the fall for some overeager editor trying to make a name for himself.”

That only made her sadder. “Thanks, Reed, but don't worry about Mom. She wouldn't know what you were talking about.”

“
I'd
know. Now grab your passport and get on a plane. Call me in a week. This whole thing might blow over by then, but if not, make damn sure your wedding exclusive is juicy enough to convince Owen you're indispensable.”

“No problem there. I got Dakota's toast word for word. Met his mother. Lots of good stuff.” Enough to impress Owen, especially with the potential after-­party scoop.

“Good,” Reed said. “Now turn off your phone until you call me next week. When I tell Owen you're incommunicado, I don't want my eye to twitch.”

“But Seacrest”—­Emma's facility—­“won't be able to reach me.”

“I'm second on their call list. If something comes up, I'll handle it. Now pack your bags and get the hell out of Dodge.”

Five minutes later Chris was rocketing down the mountain, suitcase in the trunk, passport in her purse, guilty conscience riding shotgun.

M
EN IN BLACK
ringed Dakota Rain's Beverly Hills mansion, a formidable perimeter even the brashest paparazzi didn't have the balls to breach.

Standing in the circular driveway—­barely inside that perimeter—­Chris chewed a Tums while the goon who'd all but cavity-­searched her gave the same top-­to-­bottom treatment to her VW.

“You'd think POTUS was on site,” she muttered under her breath.

Hell, maybe he was. The Rains were Hollywood royalty. Why wouldn't the president slobber all over them like everybody else did?

She handed off her keys to a steely-­eyed SEAL type standing in as valet, then passed under a temporary portico meant to guard against eyes-­in-­the-­sky. Making for the wide double doors, she froze when a whip-­thin woman braced her, armed with an iPad and, possibly, a Glock.

“Name,” the woman stated.

“Christy Gray.”

Flat pewter eyes studied Chris down to her pores, then lowered to the iPad. She scrolled, while ice water trickled down Chris's spine. This woman could eat the tough guys outside for breakfast. If she discovered Chris's double identity, her body would never be found.

A long moment stretched as the hangman knotted the noose, then those unnerving eyes rose again. Another ice-­cold inspection and a terse “You're good to go.”

Chris managed a nothing-­to-­hide stroll across the arena-­sized foyer, then ducked through the first open doorway, finding herself in a game room tricked out with every diversion from vintage pinball to top-­of-­the-­line gaming chairs. The current focal point was a pool table overhung by a Tiffany lamp and surrounded by a rowdy crowd.

Ignoring the hooting and hollering, Chris snagged a champagne flute from a passing tray, downed the bubbly like water, then blotted her neck with the tiny bar napkin.

Her nerves were jangling, and for good reason. She was running from the law. Worrying about her father, her mother, and her job.

And now she was undercover behind enemy lines.

“Hi, Christy.”

“Agh!” She fumbled her glass, catching it before it hit the floor.

“Sorry.” Em touched her arm. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

Funny how she'd been hearing that all day.

“Not your fault,” Chris said. “I'm a little jumpy. Nurse Ratched freaked me out.”

Em made a face; half smile, half apology. “Believe it or not, she's the goodwill ambassador in that bunch. Kota went overboard with security.”

“Threats?” A fact of celebrity life.

“Just the usual whackos. No, this whole security blitz is about keeping the press out.”

Nausea rolled through Chris's gut. “That seems extreme.”

“Kota's an extreme kind of guy.” Em took her arm. “Come on, let's move before anyone notices you're here.”

Chris turned to stone. “What do you mean?” Were they on to her already? Was Nurse Ratched locking down the estate, preparing to stuff Chris in a trunk for a trip to the tar pits?

“What I mean,” Em said with a grin, “is that you're the hottest ticket at this party. You stole the show today. Everyone wants to meet you.”

“Oh, if that's all.” Whew.

Em poked her chin at the pool table. “When that breaks up, they'll spot you. I'm sure you've been mobbed by fans before, but nobody does it like the Hollywood set.”

That wasn't good either. There was always a chance, slim but real, that someone in the crowd knew her backstory. She needed to check on Zach and get out before her cover was blown.

“Have you seen my father?”

“He's out by the pool. I'll take you.”

Em led her across the hallway into a dim room lined with bookshelves—­
Dakota Rain has a library
?—­then out through French doors into a rose garden, blooming lavishly.

“Wow.” The heady scent hung on the moist evening air. But the benches were empty. “I'm surprised no one's out here.”

“Kota made this for Verna. He keeps it private.” Em nudged her along a path that followed the line of the house. “You might've noticed I used a palm plate to get into the library. That's off limits too. Kota's all about privacy.”

Chris glanced back at the house, at the wings stretching ahead and behind. She was no stranger to wealth. Zach had millions, and she was well off herself. But Dakota was in another league. “How many rooms?”

“I'm not really sure. It's got all the usual stuff—­solarium, gallery, theater, blah blah. But Kota only uses a handful of rooms.” She shrugged. “I told him not to build this monster, but boys will be boys.”

Ahead, the enormous terrace surrounding the lake-­sized swimming pool was packed with partiers. Torchlight sparked off sequins and jewels. Waiters circulated with champagne. The bar was three deep. Chris scanned the faces for Zach's, praying she wouldn't spot a martini in his hand.

“Don't worry,” said Em. “We've got a man on him.”

Chris's head swung around. “I beg your pardon?”

“Kota knows you're worried about him, so he's got a guy positioned to run interference if anyone throws temptation in his path.”

“Oh. That's . . . nice?”

Em shrugged. “Kota's sensitive to addiction issues. He's lost ­people. And he probably feels guilty, because if I know him—­and I do—­he used Zach to lure you here.”

A lightbulb went on in Chris's brain. The nerve.

Em must have seen her eyes widen, because she shrugged again. “Yeah, he's kind of a dick that way. But surprisingly thoughtful at the same time.” She checked her phone. “Zach's about ten feet north of the grill.”

She pointed past a stainless-­steel monster as long as a limo, manned by four men in chef's hats. And there stood Zach, Pepsi in hand, bantering with the usual bevy of beauties.

As so often before, Chris envied his ease. Zach knew exactly who he was, where he fit, while she was a square peg in a world of round holes.

“He looks okay,” she admitted. Which meant it was safe to ditch Christy Gray and get Christine Case on the first plane out of LAX.

Then Em pointed again, toward the house. And Chris followed her finger.

Big mistake.

Onto the terrace strode Dakota, invading it with his presence, towering over the mere mortals in his sphere. Torchlight cast his Viking cheekbones in bas-­relief and glinted like fire off the streaks in his mane.

Chris went wet everywhere. Her armpits, her panties. Saliva pooled on her tongue.

Talk about mouthwatering.

He'd traded his tux for a simple white button-­down, tailored to his gladiator's frame. The sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms snaked with muscle, and the tails were tucked into Levi's that cupped an ass so fine his billboards sold millions of boxer briefs, mostly to women hoping to mold their man's butt into something similar.

Never gonna happen. God only made one.

And the guy who owned it had gone to some trouble to lure her to his house. Meaning she could, if she wanted, get her hands on that butt.

She wanted. Oh boy, she wanted. In fact, if she weren't two weeks away from splashing his brother's wedding across the
Sentinel
's centerfold, she might just blink her no-­celebrity rule for one night of anything-­goes sex with the hottest guy on the planet.

But damn it, given the circumstances, that would be wrong. More wrong than simply spying on him and exploiting his family.

Even
her
shaky ethics balked at screwing him, and then
screwing
him.

Still, it couldn't hurt to say a polite hello. To catch one last whiff of panty-­melting pheromones before morphing back into boring Christine Case.

She let Em propel her toward the light.

K
OTA SCANNED THE
terrace from his superior height. He'd gotten word from Mercer that Christy was on site. But where?

Craning his neck, he almost tripped over tiny Danni Devine. “Hey, Kota.” She shook back silky blond hair and winked one amber cat's eye.

“Hey, Danni.” Decency required he give her a minute. Just last month he'd carried her half-­naked body over his shoulder as they'd run from Colombian drug lords. They'd followed up the rescue with sweaty jungle sex—­on camera and off.

She'd been angling for an encore ever since, and under normal circumstances, he'd be up for it. But these weren't normal circumstances. Even when she laid the flat of her hand on his chest and cocked her head expectantly, he couldn't bring her into focus.

It was all Christy's fault. From the first moment, she'd possessed him with her gorgeousness, her curves, and her irresistibly indifferent attitude.

And then, sweet Jesus, she'd stepped onto the stage, and he'd lost his mind completely.