The Wedding Band (2 page)

Then, with that humiliation behind her, she'd ride out her time in the penalty box until she got another crack at hard news.

Next time, she'd use better judgment, double-­check her sources.

Next time, she'd do her mother proud.

Refusing to meet Reed's eyes, Chris punched in her famous father's private number. He answered on the first ring.

“Hi, honey pie.”

“Hi, Dad.” She cut to the chase. “Listen, is the offer still open? Can I do the wedding this weekend?”

“Abso-­fucking-­lutely.” Zach Gray didn't miss a beat. “I'll work up a new set list and shoot it to you. We hit at two. And honey, security's tighter than a gnat's asshole. No phones, no nothing. Expect to strip down to your skivvies.”

And the hits just kept on coming.

 

Chapter Two

T
HE WEDDING G
UESTS
drifted into the reception; A-­listers, arm candy, and a few normal ­people who stood out like sore thumbs.

Through a gap in the backstage curtain, Chris watched them stake out tables with purses and wraps, then amble off in search of drinks. Like guests at any other wedding, but not.

Across the half-­acre tent, a string quartet played Mozart while wannabe actors passed hors d'oeuvres, playing the role of obsequious staff.

Well, she was role-­playing herself, wasn't she? The difference was, her role hadn't always been an act.

Long before turning herself into earnest journalist Christine Case, she'd been sultry chanteuse Christy Gray, touring with Zach and his big band, playing Europe and Vegas and zillion-­dollar weddings like this one.

Zach sauntered over. “You okay, honey pie? It's been a while.”

She forced a show-­must-­go-­on smile. “Like riding a bike.”

He rubbed her arm. “You're a pro, babe.” He left the rest unsaid, but she'd heard it before: “
That's why you belong in the spotlight, singing for thousands instead of churning out boring stories a hundred ­people might skim.
”

Easy for him to say. He didn't know what it was like to be Emma Case's daughter. To Zach, Emma was just another one-­night stand, noteworthy because she'd been a great lay, twice his age at the time, and a famous journalist, in that order of importance.

He likely would have forgotten all about her if she hadn't given him Chris: his first child, his only daughter, and, as he frequently told her, the best torch singer he'd ever had the pleasure to work with.

He wanted her to follow in his footsteps every bit as much as Emma wanted Chris to follow in hers. The upshot was that Chris's life had never been her own, just a choice to be made between their two extremes.

Today, though, Chris and Christy shared the stage, the singer and reporter rubbing against each other like wool and silk, making static. Making her sweat.

With one hand, she squeezed the knots in her neck. If she was going to get through this without disgracing herself, she had to stay calm. Avoid surprises, complications, and messy entanglements—­

Zach peeked through the curtain and broke out in a grin. “Well, well. This should be interesting.” He stepped back.

The curtain parted and a big man strode through.

A big man.

In her heels, Chris stood six feet tall, but this man had four inches on her, a chest like a billboard, and shoulders that could hold up the tent if it started to fold.

Dakota Rain.
Wow.

“Zach, right?” He stuck out a hand built to wield Thor's hammer. “I'm a big fan.” His deep drawl rumbled like distant thunder.

Then his eyes—­bluer than a Highland sky—­shifted from Zach to her. And popped.

For a moment those startled eyes stared. Then down they inched, peeling her gown to her ankles, leaving it in a puddle while they cruised back up, erasing her panties, her bra. Igniting her skin, lingering on her lips, until finally they settled on her eyes and held there while his Adam's apple bobbed.

“My daughter, Christy,” she heard Zach say through the ringing in her ears.

“Nice. Dress.” The words came out on a rasp that seemed to stick in Dakota's throat.

She was tongue-­tied herself, awash in a flood of testosterone. The man pumped it out with every breath.

They shook hands and held on, caught in a mutual spell, until a petite woman with short black hair and a pointy elbow jabbed him in the ribs. “Reel your tongue in before you step on it.”

Dakota dropped his gaze to give her the hard eye. “This is Em. She used to be my assistant. Now she's looking for a job.”

“It's nice to meet you both.” Em shook their hands. “If you need anything, just let me know and I'll make sure you get it.”

“Appreciate it,” said Zach, “but we've got everything we need.”

“Okay, then we'll leave you alone.” She clamped a hand on Dakota's wrist and headed back out through the curtain. He let her tug his arm out straight, but his body didn't budge. She could have been hauling on a Cadillac.

“Zach”—­his rumbling drawl again—­“my ma's been a fan from day one. Mind if I bring her backstage?”

“Not at all. We'd love to meet her.”

Dakota nodded, then scorched Chris with a last searing look before letting Em drag him away.

“Honey pie, you watch out for him. He's a player.”

Chris managed a shaky laugh. “Takes one to know one.”

“Damn right. But even
I'm
not in his league. The dude sweats sex. If I can feel it, women must fall like timber.”

Yes, and if the media had it right, he'd felled forests.

“Not this woman.” Chris had enough celebrities in her life. With few exceptions, they were self-­centered, thin-­skinned, narcissistic attention whores.

And Dakota Rain, Hollywood's biggest box office star, was the ultimate celebrity. So what if his gaze burned straight through her dress? There was a reason the man got paid millions just to squint.

Zach looped an arm around her shoulders. “The smart money says if he turns on the charm, he'll have you flat on your back before you can whistle Dixie.”

She laid a hand on her heart. “Gee Dad, I love our father-­daughter talks.”

He chucked her chin. “I know you don't need me to tell you about the birds and the bees. But, sweetie, the king of the jungle just got your scent. Trust me, he'll be back.”

“W
HAT THE FUCK,
Em?”

“The fuck is, you were drooling on your shoes.”

“Did you
see
her?” Supermodel tall, with bombshell curves, yards of chestnut waves, and a face to make Da Vinci weep.

“Yeah, I saw her. I saw you eye-­fuck her right under her father's nose.”

Kota started to deny it. Then, “She eye-­fucked me back.”

“Hers was more of an eye-­fondle. Obviously, she's not the slut you are.”

Points in her favor. “How come I've never seen her before?”

“Because she doesn't tour much anymore.” Em kept them moving, maneuvering between tables, dodging potential waylayers. “Sasha saw her sing with Zach in Vegas a ­couple years ago. She brought the house down. Then she dropped off the radar.”

“To do what?”

“Maybe she had a baby. Or a nervous breakdown. Anyway, Sasha was over the moon when Zach said she was coming today.”

Kota was stuck on the baby. “She's married?” He'd been too discombobulated to check for a ring.

“I don't know her whole story. Sasha only mentioned her to Mercer this morning. He went ballistic, of course. No time for a background check, blah blah. So watch yourself, she might be a terrorist.”

“I should frisk her.”

“I'm sure you will. Do me a favor, though, and get through the reception first. Spare your parents the spectacle that would surely ensue.”

Good point. His track record with weddings wasn't the best. They tended to get messy when, say, a bridesmaid's father caught him with his pants down and broke a chair over his head.

“I'll save it for the after-­party,” he decided. “You're coming, right?”

“Half an hour, tops. Then”—­toothy grin—­“I'm on vacation.”

What was he thinking, giving her the week off?

“Forget vacation,” he said. “I need your help with the getaway.” An elaborate scheme involving look-­alikes conspicuously exiting the party to jet to Italy in his Cessna, while the newlyweds tiptoed to a friend's Gulfstream for a paparazzi-­free honeymoon on Kota's private island.

“You don't need me,” Em said. “Mercer's all over it. I'd just get in the way.” She steered him toward the head table. “Now let's get this show on the road. I need you on that airplane.”

“You could come with us.” He dangled the bait. “A week on the beach. No phone, no internet . . .”

“Just what Tana needs,
more
­people horning in on his honeymoon.”

“I'm not horning in. I'm staying in the guesthouse clear across the island. Besides, you told me I should hole up in October.”

“I meant a month on the space station, or dogsledding to the South Pole. Not tagging along with your brother and his bride.”

“They'll never even know I'm there.”

“Pfft. You'll get lonely and start pestering them after twenty minutes.”

She might be right. A solitary week reading scripts and watching the Pacific sunset sounded idyllic a month ago, when he was humping rocket launchers through steaming jungle and deadlifting bodies into helicopters.

But once his latest film wrapped and he got back to L.A., all that alone time started to hang heavy.

Em muscled him into his chair. The head table was empty at the moment, the bride and groom still with the photographer. Propping her butt on the edge, she looked him in the eye.

When she spoke, her tone was softer and gentler than usual. “You'll be fine. Tana's still your little brother. You're not going to lose him.”

Sometimes Em saw too damn much.

“You and Tana,” she said, “are closer than any two ­people I know. Nobody can come between you. And it's got to be obvious even to a bonehead like you that Sasha doesn't want to. She likes you.”

“I like her too.” And he couldn't deny that she encouraged Tana to hang out with him. It wasn't her fault his brother preferred her company most of the time. The guy was gone for her.

“I know you're used to having Tana to yourself,” Em said. “Jetting off to Vegas or Miami or New York on a whim. Taking armfuls of women to the island instead of a wife and a boring pile of scripts. But Kota, come on, you're thirty-­five next month.”

Ouch. “Thirty-­five's not old.”

“No, but it's mature, or it should be.” She cocked her head. “I think a week alone is just what you need. You can clear your head. Think about what comes next.”

Which was exactly the problem. He didn't want to think about what came next.

Desperation made him reckless. “I'll give you a month off when we get back.”

Her smile was sad. “That's bullshit. You wouldn't last a day in L.A. without me. And besides, I've got plans with Jackie this week.”

“Bring her along.” Talk about reckless; Jackie drove him nuts.

“I can't. We're Houston bound. She's finally going to tell her parents.”

He snorted. “They'll probably shoot you. Best case, they'll stick you in separate bedrooms. No sex all week.”

“Maybe. But
I
can go without sex for a week.
You'll
be chasing the sheep around the island.”

He smiled, as she'd meant him to. “You've got a sick mind, Em. That's why I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said. And with a bracing shoulder punch to offset the mushiness, she left him to fend for himself.

No easy feat once the happy ­couple arrived.

“Congratulations,” Kota made himself say, earning an Oscar nomination. Not that he wasn't happy for them. He was. It was himself he was miserable for.

“Thanks, man.” Tana's eyes, the same changeable blue as Kota's, crinkled at the corners when he grinned.

Tana pulled out Sasha's chair, settling her like a princess on a throne before taking his place beside her.

Kota leaned forward to see around his brother's big frame. “Sasha, sweetheart, you're the prettiest bride to ever walk down the aisle.”

“Oh, Kota.” A fat teardrop leaked from one emerald eye. “Thank you. I'm so happy.” She reached out a slender hand. He squeezed it lightly.

She really was a nice girl. If Tana
had
to have a wife, he couldn't have chosen better. Sasha was kind, thoughtful, and sweet as . . . well, a peach.

Somebody clinked a glass with a spoon. Another hundred ­people took it up, and the newlyweds got back to what they were best at—­making out like the last two ­people on earth.

Kota broke it up by getting to his feet. Time to get the toast over with. The room quieted as a thousand eyes turned toward him. Even the newlyweds unlocked their lips.

He hadn't prepared anything. No need, since he planned to keep it short and sweet. A quick poke at Tana, a few words welcoming Sasha to the family, and then he could hit the bar.

With that in mind, he ran through the standard intro, thanking folks for coming, giving a shout-­out to this one and that. Inviting everybody to the after-­party at his Beverly Hills mansion.

Then he dropped a hand on his brother's shoulder, leaving it there while he scanned the faces of friends and colleagues, most of them ­people they'd worked with in their fifteen years in the business.

Movie ­people appreciated a dramatic pause, so he drew it out, built the suspense. After all, this was the fun part, where he'd pull out one of a hundred hilarious stories about Tana. These folks expected it. They were all ears.

Then he caught his ma's eye, brimming with unshed tears. And for the first time it struck him that while his own feelings about Tana's marriage were mixed, for Ma it was a dream come true.

She'd nearly given up on her boys settling down and giving her grandchildren. Now Tana was halfway there, and she'd expect Kota to mark the occasion with something more poignant than a bachelor-­party roast.

He didn't have it in him to disappoint her.

He took a deep breath and began. “You all know the story of the Rain boys. A ­couple of delinquents kicking around the system, booted out of one foster home after another. And for damn good reason. We were trouble with a capital T.”

He spread his palms, did his scallywag smile. “Some things haven't changed.”

Laughter rolled through the tent.

He gave it a minute, then let his smile slide sideways, toward rueful. “We were hard to handle, for sure. Big and bad and mad at the world. Our motto was hit first, hit hard, and deal with the fallout later.