The Wedding Band (10 page)

 

Chapter Ten

“O
H MY
G
OD,
oh my God!” Sasha couldn't stop talking about it. “That was
amazing
.”

She clutched Tana with one hand, Kota with the other. “How do you do it? How do you get them to accept you like that, to
worship
you?”

Chris wanted to know the answer herself, but she couldn't marshal the words to ask. She was well and truly awestruck.

Tana, for once, didn't poke fun at his brother. “It's all Kota. He's got a way with animals. Always has.”

To Chris's mind, it was more than “a way.” It was mystical.

After riding breakneck for miles, they'd walked back through the meadow with the horses milling around them, as if the humans were part of the herd. The black one—­Blackie, another Kota original—­kept bumping Kota like they were schoolyard chums. The chestnut—­Sugar—­practically had her nose in his pocket. And the others, all of them, had jostled for position, trying to get next to him.

“Kota vouches for me,” Tana went on, “or they wouldn't let me near them. And considering the hellhole he saved them from, I wouldn't blame them for never trusting a human again.”

“You must be so proud,” Sasha said, beaming at Kota. “Of changing their lives. Making them whole.”

Kota shrugged. “They keep the grass cut so I don't have to mow it.”

Tana scoffed. “Don't let him kid you. He's got ranches in six states. Horses, dogs, cats, hamsters—­”

“Just the one hamster,” Kota cut in. “A friend of a friend's.”

“Not to mention that he's overrun Ma and Pops's ranch with rescues. He's the softest touch in the west.” Tana snorted a laugh. “If ­people only knew Mr. Gun 'Em Down can't watch a cute kitten video without bawling.”

“I think that's sweet.” Sasha rubbed Kota's arm. “And I happen to know your brother's just as sappy.”

She slid an arm around Tana's waist. “Don't worry, boys, your secret's safe with Christy and me. Right, Christy?” She gave Chris a wink like they were best girlfriends.

Chris managed a watered-­down smile, while inside she was going to pieces.

She'd had Kota all wrong. Sure, he was arrogant and horny, and he expected her to fall into bed with him like every other woman on earth.

But he was also loyal and generous and not dumb at all.

She'd been in denial, probably so she could justify betraying him, but the evidence was irrefutable. Her first clue was the wedding toast, an ode to family and fortitude that didn't leave a dry eye in the house. Then there was Em, the kind of woman who wouldn't have given Kota ten minutes, much less ten years, if he wasn't worthy of it.

Then his parents, so down-­to-­earth and normal, and obviously the most important ­people in Kota's world. Then Cy and Tri and Van Gogh, all of them damaged throwaways to most ­people, and that much more precious to Kota because of it.

And now . . . now this thing with the horses.

He was some kind of shaman.

Tana, the other man she was poised to betray, was kind and funny, and loved his brother and his wife and his parents wholeheartedly. And Sasha was sweet and sincere and ready to befriend Chris, never knowing she was a spy bent on exploiting every intimacy to save her own sorry ass.

They reached the guesthouse, pausing at the porch steps. “Are you okay?” Sasha asked, touching Chris's arm in a way that was friendly and comforting, and so, so undeserved by the traitor in their midst.

“I'm a little queasy.” True. “Probably too much sun.” A lie.

“I've been there,” said Sasha. “Drink lots of water. Kota, you make sure she drinks lots of water.”

“I'm on it.” He stroked Chris's shoulder, his hand so gentle she could scarcely bear it.

Tana took his wife's hand. “Don't worry, honey, Kota knows what to do.” He shot Chris a friendly smile as they arced off toward the main house. “You'll feel better in the morning,” he said.

But she doubted it. She doubted it very much.

T
HEY
WOULDN'T BE
picking up where they left off, Kota realized, not with Christy so pale.

He scooped her up in his arms and headed for her bedroom.

“Hey.” Even her protest was feeble.

“Don't worry, I won't take advantage of your weakened condition.” He kissed her wan cheek. “You need a cool shower, a tall glass of water, and a good night's sleep.”

He nudged her door with his foot, set her down in the bathroom, and turned on the shower. “You take the shower, I'll get the water, and we'll both tuck you in.”

Afraid to leave her alone for too long, he sprinted to the kitchen, poured an ice water and piled some berries in a bowl, and got back to her room before she was out of the shower.

He stuck his head in the bathroom. “Need anything?” It didn't hurt to ask. Maybe the cool water revived her and she wanted help soaping up.

“No thanks.” She still sounded peaked.

The shower turned off, and a minute later she emerged in a cotton nightie that hit her midthigh. His adrenaline spiked, but he kept lust off his face. She must really be hurting if she waltzed out in front of him without seeming to care.

She headed straight for the bed. He pulled back the cotton sheet, watching her nightie ride up as she slid under it.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed. “Drink this.” She drank it, then sank back against the pillows. Her face was as white as the linen. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head, staring up at the fan. He stroked her forehead with one hand and held her wrist with the other. Her pulse tripped crazily under his thumb.

If she'd been beautiful to him before, she was breathtaking now, her eyes dark pools, haunted and mysterious.

The need to care for her overwhelmed him. “I can stay with you, sweetheart. This bed's so big you won't even know I'm here.”

That should've prompted a snide remark, even though he meant every word. But all she said was “No thanks, I'll be okay.”

So he kissed her cheek, her palm, ran a knuckle over her jaw. And reluctantly, he left her.

In the kitchen, he tended the animals. The dogs got the dregs of Alfredo mixed into their supper. The cats got the food he'd had specially formulated and manufactured to his exact specifications. Everyone got fresh water, and he got a Corona. He took it out on the porch swing.

Twilight was his favorite time on the island. Over the ocean, stars sparkled like diamonds flung across midnight blue velvet. Creatures rustled in the foliage, coming out to hunt in the cool evening air.

As it always did, the island's serenity soothed his mind and made him more contemplative than usual.

Sipping his beer, he wondered idly what would have happened if he'd stuck with his original plans. If he'd finished college and continued on to veterinary school instead of going off to L.A. with Tana.

He wouldn't be sitting here, that was for damn sure. And God knows what would've happened to Tana, alone in the wilds of Hollywood. He shuddered to think of it. There was damn little in his life to be proud of, but he'd always taken care of his brother.

Rocking the swing with one foot, he reflected on the wedding, feeling rightfully smug. Security-­wise, it was an unmitigated success. No problems with nut jobs or overenthused fans, and not a single reporter wriggled through the net.

Take that, Em.
She loved to mock his control-­freakishness. So did Tana. But nobody complained when things went off without a hitch.

In fact, the wedding's only unforeseen complication was Christy. Their instant attraction had punched him in the gut, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

From the moment he'd met her, she'd run roughshod over his plans. He'd done everything he could think of to herd her into line, but she was completely unpredictable. Her emotions were all over the map. One minute she was hot as a pistol, the next she cut him off at the knees. He still wasn't sure where he stood with her.

In fact, the only thing about Christy that he could be sure of was that he couldn't be sure of anything.

Cy wandered over to sit in front of him, giving him the one-­eyed stare. Kota dropped one eyelid and gave it back to him.

Cy blinked first, then slunk off to lie in the doorway, hinting at bedtime. Tri was nowhere to be seen, probably snuggled in bed with his new girlfriend Christy.

The sky had gone full dark while he ruminated. The only light on the porch was what spilled from the kitchen.

Up at the main house Tana and Sasha would be banging away. Good for them. Sasha was a nice girl. He liked her. Ma and Pops liked her. So did Em.

Charlie would've liked her too.

That thought snuck out of the shadows and stabbed Kota's chest, stealing his breath. Sweat broke out on his brow.

His instinct was to flinch away from the pain, to shift his thoughts elsewhere, like he usually did.

But tonight he was tired and lonely, a deadly combination. Gloom settled on his shoulders like a shroud. What right did he have to push Charlie out of his mind? The first and best friend he'd made in L.A. was dead, and he was partly to blame.

The least he could do was respect his memory.

He drained his Corona and held the bottle up to the light. What had he been drinking the day he'd met Charlie? Something cheap, for sure, since he and Tana had just rolled into town.

They'd been half drunk when a casting agent spotted them at the bar. Recognizing fresh meat on the hoof, he made them an offer on the spot—­starring roles in the movie he was casting. All they had to do was sign on the dotted line.

Being smarter than they looked, they tried to read the contract. The agent got pissy and summoned his friend, a guy so big he made two of Kota.

Things were shaping up to get ugly when Charlie entered the scene. Pushing his Ray-­Bans to the top of his head, he said with a smirk, “Eugene, does your parole officer know you're back at it? Coercing innocent young men into making porn?”

Eugene tried to save face, but all he could come up with was “Fuck you, Charlie Brown.”

He slithered out the door with his muscle, and Charlie watched them go. Then he said, “If you boys are looking to make porn, you can do better than Eugene. If you'd rather keep your clothes on, come with me and I'll buy you a burger. Ever been to In-­N-­Out?”

And that's how Charlie came into their lives.

He was an agent, but he didn't sign them that day. He didn't sign them at all. He befriended them, and in Hollywood a friend can be harder to find than an agent.

With Charlie's help, they scored jobs as PAs on the set of a blockbuster, where they rubbed elbows with megastars and a famous director. That led to more jobs, a few minor roles, a lot of wild parties, and a mind-­blowing profusion of pussy.

And through it all, Charlie kept them from blundering. He genuinely had their best interests at heart. So much so that when another agent—­a big one—­offered to sign both brothers, Charlie urged Kota to bow out and let Tana travel the Hollywood road alone.

“Once you start making real money,” he said in words that would prove to be prophesy, “you won't be able to walk away. You can kiss vet school good-­bye.”

At the time, Kota had scoffed. But look at him now. Fifteen years in the business, zillions in the bank, his next three movies lined up, and he'd yet to finish college.

He wouldn't complain, not when so many had so little. And besides, he wouldn't do anything differently. Who knew what disaster might have befallen his brother if Kota hadn't hovered in the wings?

But things had changed. Tana was settled now. Established, mature, content.

Married.

He didn't need Kota anymore, not like he had before. And Charlie, well, he was long gone. Ten years dead and buried.

So, what now? For the first time, Kota's life had no purpose.

For the first time, the man with the plan didn't have one.

 

Chapter Eleven

W
HEN
C
HRIS WALKED
into the sunny kitchen, she found Kota on a stool, working his way through a crossword and a big mug of coffee.

“Mornin', gorgeous,” he said, and the smile that broke over his face made her heart skip three beats. He got up and poured her a mug. “Feeling better?”

“Much.” Ten hours without brooding, fretting, or lusting—­thanks to a seldom-­used sleeping pill—­and she felt almost normal.

But it wouldn't last, not unless she stayed well away from that smile. “I'll be working today”—­sequestered in her room—­“so you don't mind if I take my breakfast in there, do you? Maybe some cereal?”

His smile fell, and she felt a pang in her chest. In a perfect world, the whole week would be a sun-­soaked sex romp with Poseidon, cavorting in the sea, riding horses, riding him. She'd almost gone there yesterday, a mistake she blamed on too much wine and not enough sleep.

She could only be grateful that Tana and Sasha had appeared before she'd damned herself for all eternity. Bad enough she was a two-­faced liar. She drew the line at being a two-­faced liar who slept with the person she was lying to.

And after yesterday, there was more than just her ethics at stake. Now that she realized Kota wasn't just a pretty celebrity face but a truly extraordinary man, it was personal. She respected him. She couldn't stomach the thought that if he someday learned she'd authored the forthcoming wedding exposé, he'd believe she'd whored herself out for a story.

“Suit yourself,” he said, “but I'm making French toast.” He set a bottle on the counter. Pure Vermont maple syrup.

That was dirty pool. She bit her lip.

“With strawberries,” he said.

Mmm, strawberries. Harmless little berries, so plump and so sweet. Piled on harmless French toast. Drizzled with harmless syrup.

He pulled out a stool invitingly.

Her good intentions crouched on the windowsill, one foot in, one foot out. Then Tri tapped her ankle and—­poof—­out the window they went.

Telling herself that it was, after all, only polite to share breakfast with her host, she scooped up the little dog and parked her butt on the stool.

She'd sequester herself
after
breakfast. For the rest of the day. And night.

Meanwhile, the view. Shirtless again, Kota moved around the kitchen, pulling out flour and eggs, a loaf of French bread. When he glanced her way, she had to ask, “You used blue tile on purpose, didn't you, to bring out your eyes?”

He grinned. “Did it work?”

Like a charm.

She dropped her gaze to the mixing bowl. It looked like a toy in his hands, but he handled it like a pro. “Who taught you to cook?”

“Ma. She wanted her boys to be self-­sufficient when we went out in the world. I can press a shirt, scrub a tub till it shines, and cook damn near anything that walks, swims, or grows in the dirt.”

He smiled, a crooked curve of his lips more beguiling to her than his movie-­star smile. “I'm rusty on the pressing and scrubbing, but I keep my kitchen skills sharp.” He pointed his wooden spoon at her. “The ladies worship a man who can cook. Don't try to deny it.”

She realized she was smiling too, a little dreamy, a lot bedazzled. “I can't deny it.” What was the point, when she kept falling at his feet every time he picked up that spoon? “Does Verna know you use your cooking skills for seduction?”

He looked offended. “I've never cooked for sex. Well, not until yesterday, and look where that got me. It put you right to sleep.” He drizzled milk into the bowl. “What I cook for is
better
sex. A well-­fed woman is a happy woman, and a happy woman is more fun in bed.”

Amused, she lifted a brow. “Is that a scientific conclusion based on thousands of case studies?”

“Hundreds, not thousands. I can't cook for
all
of them. Who has the time?”

She laughed. His humor seldom came out in his movies, and never in the interviews he visibly suffered through when promoting a new film. But his timing was spot on.

“You should make a comedy,” she said.

“It would flop. ­People don't want to see me crack jokes. They want to see me crack heads.”

“I don't know about that.” She cupped her mug in both hands. “You're pretty hot when you laugh. Trust me, the ladies would pay money to see it.”

“But their boyfriends would stay home in droves. I'd lose my tough-­guy cred. Damage my badass brand. Or so my agent tells me.”

“Your agent should get a load of you now,” she said as he poured coffee with one hand and stirred batter with the other. “He'd be on the phone to the Food Network.
Cooking with Kota.
”

“Think it would catch on?” He hardened his jaw, narrowed his eyes to a squint. He
did
look like a badass. A superhot, mostly naked badass. With flour on his cheek.

She swallowed. “Yeah, I kinda do.”

Oh, she had it bad.

Tucking Tri under her arm, she went to cool off by sticking her head in the fridge, where she found a pitcher of fresh-­squeezed orange juice.

“Pour me some, will you, sweetheart?”

She did, wondering why
sweetheart
didn't piss her off like it should.

She poured herself one too, then loitered at the stove, pretending to watch his process instead of his biceps as he soaked the bread.

No harm in looking, she told herself. What could it hurt?

Nothing . . . until the first slice hit the griddle with a sizzle and pop, setting off a chain reaction. Hot butter spattered his abs. He skipped back with an “Ow.”

And then, oh God, then he curled his chin down to look at his stomach, a move that carved his three rows into six perfect bricks.

Dazzled, she watched him dab the butter with a finger, then lick it off with his tongue.

God help her, she wanted to
be
the butter.

Whirling away, she started opening random cabinets, searching for plates. Anything to stop staring. No one could really be built like him. He must be Photoshopped.

“Plates are warming in the oven,” he said, a sea of calm to her tempest. “But you can pop the champagne and pour it into the OJ. You like mimosas, don't you?”

K
OTA SMI
LED TO
himself as he walked the plates to the porch. He couldn't have planned that better if he'd tried.

Day two of “muscling” Christy into bed—­har har—­was underway. She could fight it, but it was a losing battle for sure, when a few drops of butter could take her down at the knees.

And that hadn't even been intentional. Wait till he put his back into it, so to speak.

Setting the plates on the table, he gave her a minute to get settled before he bent over for Cy's ball, twisting—­just a little—­so her eyes locked onto his abs. Then he straightened up—­a little slow motion there—­and hurled the ball all the way to the water, twisting the other way to give her a shot of his back.

He heard her breath catch. Satisfied, he took his own seat and quit posing long enough to let the French toast do its thing.

She drowned it with syrup and took a bite. Her head went back. Her eyes closed like she was coming. “Good. So good.” She drew it out in a moan.

He smiled. The next time she moaned like that, she'd be in his bed. Or his shower. Or under the hammock.

He refilled her mimosa. In a replay of yesterday, he slipped his knee between hers. Everything was working according to plan.

Until she moved her knees away.

What the—­

He played it cool. “I'll throw a ­couple more on the griddle.”

In the kitchen, he studied her through the window. Today's sundress was grape, sprinkled with tiny white flowers and their tiny green stems. Her bare arms looped loosely around Tri on her lap, and her hair, thick and glossy as mink, was caught up in another of those messy buns.

An artist could make her face a life's work, but it was the newly etched crease between her brows that caught his attention. Because it meant she was worried. About him.

As she should be. He was scaling her fortress. He'd be over the walls before dark.

Back at the table, he slid another slice onto her plate. “Thanks,” she said. “For feeding me. And for this.” She swept an arm toward the sea.

“I'm glad you're here.” He leaned back and sipped his mimosa. He enjoyed watching her eat. He liked hearing her voice, her husky laugh.

“So you live in the canyon?” he said. “Whereabouts?”

“Oh, it's hard to describe. The roads are . . .” She did a windy path with her hand.

“I know my way around. My agent's on Willow Glen. And my best friend lived in the canyon for years.”

“He moved?”

“He died.”

“I'm sorry.” She lowered her fork, sympathy in her eyes. “Was he ill?”

“Overdose.” How did they get on this topic? He didn't want to talk about Charlie.

Before he could change the subject, she said, “I lost a friend that way too. Kind of a boyfriend, or I thought he was. He was in the band—­the sax player—­back when I was barely legal.” Her finger stroked absently at the condensation on her glass. “I didn't know the signs back then. I'm smarter about it now.”

“My buddy was clean when I met him, back when I first came to L.A. But he had secrets. They got out. And instead of coming to me, he found a dealer.” Kota tipped the last drops from his glass down his dry throat. That was more than he'd meant to say about Charlie.

He refilled their glasses. “So you don't want to tell me where you live, is that it?”

She shrugged. “It's a habit.”

“I promise I won't follow you home and howl under your window.”

“I've heard that before.”

“Bad experience?”

“More than one.”

“Online dating?”

“Crazy fans. I'm sure you know what I mean, times ten.”

Did he ever. Which meant that the more he pestered her, the less likely she'd tell him. Not that he couldn't find out by other means. But now he understood that if she told him herself, it would mean something.

He wanted it to mean something.

Soft fur brushed their legs, and they both peered under the table. “Oh no.” Christy's voice broke with pity. “What happened to him?”

“That's Scar. Some fucked-­up individual dunked his tail in lighter fluid and set it on fire.” The cat's back end looked like it had been peeled and boiled.

“My God.” Christy swallowed down revulsion with a visible gulp, then reached down to stroke his orange head. “I can't fathom the mind of someone who'd do that.”

Kota couldn't either. But he knew how hard it was for most ­people—­even extremely compassionate ­people—­to accept the animals that looked so hideous.

That Christy could—­that she went further and embraced them—­made her more beautiful to him than any of the gifts lavished upon her at birth.

Emotion, raw and deep, tightened his chest. “I gotta tell you, sweetheart. I think I'm in love.”

C
HRIS'S HAND FROZE
on the orange cat's head. “You're kidding, right?”

That was a dumb question. Of course he was kidding. Nobody fell in love in forty-­eight hours.

He only smiled a crooked smile. “Another slice?”

She laid a hand on her stomach. “If I grow out of this dress, I'll have nothing to wear.”

His smile widened. “Coming right up.”

She smirked and stacked their plates. He shrugged like she didn't know what she was missing. Which was completely wrong, because she actually had a pretty good idea what she was missing.

Scooping up their glasses, he followed her inside, then waved her out of the way while he got busy cleaning up.

From her perch on the stool, she ogled his butt as he loaded the dishwasher, a drawn-­out process that involved a lot of bending and stretching and twisting, and more bending. She didn't mind a bit. “
Cooking with Kota
is my new must-­see TV.”

His quick grin told her lust must be written on her face.

She wiped it off and groped for casual conversation. “Speaking of Kota,” she said, “is Dakota your real name?”

“Yep.” He dried his hands on a towel, folded it neatly. “Our parents—­our birth parents—­got around. Mostly skipping out on the rent. I was born somewhere in South Dakota. Tana was born in Butte.”

She sensed some embarrassment there, best defused with humor. Holding Tri up in front of her face, she said to the dog, very seriously, “This explains his knack for original names. It's genetic.”

Kota looked startled. “Well, hell.”

She smiled. “Some things are coded in. Like this.” She raced up the major scale from C to C and back down.

His eyes glazed. “Do that again.”

She did it again.

He let the towel fall to the counter. “Will you sing for me?”

Men had asked her before; it wasn't unusual. The difference was that Kota's request didn't make her self-­conscious. It felt like part of the conversation.

He spread his hands. “Anything. The theme from
Cheers
.”

She sang a verse.

He grinned like a kid. “How about Adele? Or wait, do you have originals? Do you write songs—­”

She held up a hand. “No, I don't write songs. Dad's written some for me, but let's wait on that.” Singing was intimate. A funny thing to say about something she did before thousands. But one-­on-­one it was intimate.

The last thing this situation needed was more intimacy.

She set Tri down on all threes. “Thanks for breakfast, but I've got . . . stuff.”

His hands fell to his sides. “Okay. All right. I've got stuff too. Scripts and shit.”