The Wedding Band (26 page)

Opening her door, he held out his hand. She took it, her heart in her throat.

With one long, muscled arm, he caught her waist and swept her close. She met his eyes, saw passion there, and fun.

“Nice dress,” he said.

She flipped the flirty skirt. “This old thing?”

“You'd make burlap look good.”

Could her heart melt into a gooier mess?

He lowered his chin. She tipped her head back for his kiss—­

And a loud voice split the twilight. “Dakota! Hey, Dakota! Is Chris your new girlfriend? Are you two serious?”

They both spun toward the voice. A flash fired, repeatedly.

Kota turned on her. “What the fuck?” His voice was a steel blade. “You lying bitch.”

“But I didn't—­”

He stepped up onto the hood of the Porsche and over the windshield, dropping down into the driver's seat.

“Wait! I—­”

Gunning the engine, he squealed away.

As he took the corner onto Highway 1, her purse sailed out the back, bounced off the trunk, and exploded on the pavement. Like shrapnel, the contents sprayed from sidewalk to sidewalk. Tampons. TicTacs. A half-­eaten Snickers. And her birth-­control pills in their pink plastic case.

She stopped breathing. Her vision shrank to a pinprick and her skin went ice cold.

I will not faint. I will not faint.

She dragged a powerful breath through her nose. The world took shape again. Her hands unclenched.

And the reporter closed in, camera rolling. “Chris, tell us what's going on with you and Dakota. Is it serious? Why'd he take off and leave you here?”

“No comment.” It came out weaker than she intended, but she left it at that.

He was undeterred. “Chris, our sources say—­”

She tuned him out and took stock of the situation. Traffic zoomed along Highway 1 at thirty, a crawl for the drivers, but the Indy 500 to someone planning to step out in front of them.

A pickup zipped past, leaving tread marks on her wallet, the one item she couldn't abandon. Timing her move, she darted into the street, scooped it up, then froze on the yellow line as a Suburban skinned past with inches to spare.

She was making for the other sidewalk—­paparazzi-­free, but ­peopled with gawkers—­when she spotted her iPhone farther down the lane. A Beemer sped toward it like it was worth extra points.

Damn it, her whole life was on that phone.

Recklessly, she sprinted for it. The Beemer hit the brakes, then hit the horn even harder, but she snatched up the phone unharmed and beat feet for the sidewalk.

Ducking into a chocolate shop, she ignored the clerk and the guy buying make-­up truffles at the counter. Flattening her back to the wall, she pressed a palm to her chest to keep her heart from punching out through her ribs.

And she waited. Sweat rolled down her sides.

Minutes passed and no one followed her. The guy left with his chocolates. The clerk disappeared into the back. And gradually her adrenaline slowed to a trickle, then dried up completely.

Which wasn't a good thing.

Because in its wake came heartbreak too immense to process. Betrayal too deep to forgive.

And fury too extreme to control.

 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“R
AYLENE!”
C
HRIS STRO
DE
into the kitchen and slammed the door behind her.

Tri plopped off the couch and hopped toward her. She scooped him up under her arm, out of the line of fire.

“Raylene, get your ass down here!”

“What's your problem?” Ray trudged down the steps, wineglass in hand.

“You called
TMZ
.” Chris quivered with fury. She put the counter between them so she wouldn't tear Ray to pieces bare-­handed. “You called fucking
TMZ
and told them we'd be at Maria's.”

Ray faked offended. But she was a shitty actress, which was why she hadn't worked a day since she got to L.A. “Why're you blaming me? I didn't do anything.”

“Liar.”

“Look who's talking.”

“Don't go there.” Chris white-­knuckled the counter. “I want you out of here.
Now.
”

“It's midnight!”

“Don't I know it.” Chris had counted every minute during the long cab ride, itching to get her hands around Ray's throat. “Find a hotel. Crawl home to Daddy. I don't care, but get out.”

“You can't—­”

“I can.” Chris dropped her voice to a hiss. “Leave now, or I'll beat you unconscious and throw your body in the road to get creamed by the first passing car.”

Ray backed up. Her wine sloshed. “I don't have a ride.”

“I told the cabbie to wait.”

R
AY LEFT WITH
one bag, vowing to return with her lawyers.

“Go ahead, sue me.” Chris slammed the door. Ray didn't know how easy she'd gotten off. A traffic jam on the 101 had probably saved her life, because Chris's homicidal rage had an extra hour to flame out.

What remained was a slow-­burning anger that glowed like banked coals. Less volatile, but enduring enough to roast a slow-­turning pig on a spit.

A six-­foot-­four, two-­hundred-­pound pig.

As for Ray, good riddance. The woman was a selfish narcissist, and her escalating resentment and imminent poverty made her a menace. Tipping off
TMZ
was the least of what she'd do for money now that Daddy had cut her off.

Still, the house was damned quiet without her.

Until knuckles rapped on the door.

Only Kota would have the nerve to barge in at this hour, probably to rip her a new one.

Well, if he thought she'd stand still for it, he had another think coming. With blood in her eye, she yanked open the door, planning to send him back to hell with her boot in his ass.

But it wasn't Kota. “Chris, I'm—­”

“I know who you are, and I said
no comment
!” She slammed the door for the third time that night.

Damn it, she should've known they'd show up. Panic tickled her throat. She rushed around the ground floor, checking all the locks, drawing every curtain.

Then she paced like a tiger in a cage. Just knowing they were outside shrunk her tiny house to a matchbox.

Tri eyed her as she strode and turned, strode and turned. Her imagination raced along with her pulse, picturing the story as it would run on TV, as it would even now be running on
TMZ
's website.

They had plenty to work with. Not only had she been publicly abandoned by the world's biggest star, her purse tossed out of his car like garbage, but she'd added to the drama with a hair-­raising dash into traffic, a near-­death experience on the yellow line, and a heart-­stopping standoff with a Beemer.

And yet, as horrible as it had been, and as embarrassing as it would be, she had to give Ray credit for one thing. Her despicable stunt exposed Kota's true feelings.

He didn't trust her, or he would've let her explain. And he damn sure didn't love her, or he wouldn't have thrown her—­and her purse—­out onto the street like trash.

She deserved better. She might have started out on the wrong foot with Kota, but when push had come to shove, she'd done the right thing.

He couldn't say the same.

Backhanding the tears that streaked her cheeks, she raised her chin, squared her shoulders. And summoned the anger that had wilted under grief.

She'd cried her last tear for Dakota Rain.

She was better off without him.

K
OTA STARED AT
his computer, a fist-­sized knot in his gut.

On screen, Christy teetered on the yellow line as a Suburban skinned past, blowing her skirt up to her waist. Then she darted in front of a Beemer that barely stopped short of flattening her.

He raked a hand through his hair. It never occurred to him that her purse would blow apart like a bomb.

And to be brutally honest, at that moment he wouldn't have cared. He'd told no one else where they'd be, so he'd assumed Christy was to blame. His heart had broken on the spot, his ego had taken it in the teeth, and he'd reacted instinctively.

But driving home, doubt had crept in. Why would she tip off
TMZ
? It made no sense at all.

He'd almost turned around to go back, to let her explain. But she'd burned him before. He didn't trust himself to know her lies from the truth.

Now one look at the news clip told him all he needed to know. No actress could fake the blank astonishment on Christy's face as he'd shoved away from her and left her in the dust.

Guilt burned a hole in his chest. He rubbed it with the flat of his hand as he replayed the clip, suffering through the voice-­over, agonizing over Christy's confusion, shamed by her courage in the face of his reckless stupidity.

Then he shut it off and stood up.

He was an asshole, and she'd probably never forgive him. But that wouldn't stop him from begging her for one more chance.

Traffic was light at two in the morning. It made for a quick ride to Christy's house. And it made it easy to spot the van tucked into the hedgerow across from her driveway.

The parasites were already staking her out.

Banging on her door wouldn't help the situation. The fast talking required to convince her to open it wasn't something he wanted broadcast to millions of viewers, especially since it would drag her further into the limelight.

So he kept driving, circling back to his house, where he paced the library, scraping his hands through his hair until his scalp stung, rewatching the video until it was burned into his brain.

Em found him there at six. “What the hell? Have you been up all night?”

“Did you see it?” He charged at her.

She leaped back. “See what?”

“The thing. The video.” He sounded deranged even to himself. Over-­caffeinated and strung out like a wire.

He made himself take a deep breath. “I went on a date with Christy, and it went sideways. Some idiot from
TMZ
showed up, and I assumed she called him—­”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because I'm an asshole,” he said, as if it needed explaining. “Her batshit roommate must've called them, but I didn't think it through. I jumped the gun like I always do. And I left Christy on the sidewalk and drove away.”

Em nodded. “Okay, that's bad. But it's not stay-­up-­all-­night bad. Just apologize, and she'll get over it.”

“I don't think so.” He dragged her to his desk and pushed her down in the chair. Then he hit Play.

“Oh,” she said. Then, “Oh shit, not her purse.” She sat back. “You
are
an asshole.”

“You gotta help me, Em. Her phone's turned off. Or maybe it's broken.” It had hit the street like everything else. “You gotta go to her house.”

“
You
go to her house. You're the asshole.”

“I tried, but they're staking her out.”

“Wait a while. By the time you're done at the studio, they'll have moved on.”

He shook his head. “I'm not going to the studio till I know she's okay.”

“You're going.” She stood up. “It's hair and wardrobe today.”

“I don't care.” He leaned his palms on the desk. “This is bad, Em. What if she . . . does something?”

Sympathy swam into Em's eyes. “Kota, this is nothing like Charlie. Christy isn't going to hurt herself over some stupid video on
TMZ
.”

“Are you sure? A hundred percent sure?”

“Ninety-­nine point nine. But I'll go, okay? If you promise to shower and get to the studio by seven, I'll go.”

“Done.” He straightened. “Call me the minute you lay eyes on her.”

A
SHARP RA
P
on the door startled Chris out of a doze on the couch and set off Tri's big-­dog bark.

“Shut up, Tri, it's me,” Em yelled.

He hopped off the couch and made for the door. Chris followed, none too happy.

Pulling it open six inches, she started to tell Em to take a hike, but the pushy bitch bulldozed in, saying into her phone, “I'm eyeballing her right now. She's fine. Get to work.” Then she hung up and shoved the phone in her pocket.

Chris raised her brows to her hairline.

“Kota's been up all night,” said Em. “Agonizing. Watching that stupid video a thousand times.”

“What video?”

Em snorted a laugh. “He was afraid you offed yourself over it, but you haven't even seen it.”

“Offed myself? It's that bad?”

“You can imagine.”

Could she ever. “Thanks for the warning. I'll skip it. Bye, now.”

“Since I'm here.”

Chris held up a hand. “Spare me, please. I haven't had coffee yet.”

“Me either.”

“For Pete's sake.” Chris stumped over to the pot and got busy. “If he was so worried,” she said over her shoulder, “why didn't he come himself?”

“He did, but the paparazzi scared him away.”

“So they're good for something.”

“He's torturing himself.”

“He shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. If he'd waited five seconds, I would've told him it must've been Ray.”

Chris rested her forehead on the cabinet, tired and sad. But no longer mad. Anger had drained out overnight, leaving her empty.

Her heart, so full the day before, was hollow as a drum.

“Tell him I get it now,” she said. “I get why he can't forgive me. Once someone proves they can't be trusted with your heart . . .” She shook her head, forlorn. “It's too late for Kota and me. We both screwed up, and it's too late.”

“It's not too late,” Em said. “What it is, is October. Kota always goes off the rails in October. Just wait till next week to make any big decisions, okay?”

Chris smiled, sadly. “You're very loyal, Em. He's lucky to have you. But Kota and me . . . we're not the other half of each other's happy ­couple.”

K
OTA SCRATCHED HI
S
head. “She said what?”

“That you're not the other half of each other's happy ­couple.” Em plopped in his desk chair. “I'm just the messenger. If you don't get it, ask her yourself.”

He threw up his hands. “I'm gonna have to, because you screwed everything up.”

She pointed a finger at him. “You're getting a pass on that because you've been awake for two days.”

That was true. And ten hours in costume and makeup had only made him crankier.

He dragged a hand down his face. The knot in his stomach tied itself tighter. “I called, texted, e-­mailed. She won't answer. What am I gonna do?”

“Go to her house. Fuck
TMZ
.”

He laughed miserably. “If only it was just
TMZ
. You're out of the loop.” He reached over and woke up his computer. “The whole story's out. The wedding, the island, every-­fucking-­thing.”

Em clicked through half a dozen websites, making a face. “You've gotta admit this story has it all.”

Did it ever. A wrongly accused senator, an undercover reporter, a celebrity wedding, a private island, and a steamy affair involving a mega–movie star. Not to mention a messy breakup on the tarmac, a rapprochement, and, best of all, a public shaming.

But wait, there was more, because the woman at the center of the tale was the illegitimate daughter of a world-­renowned journalist and a legendary entertainer.

Politics, sex, celebrity, depravity. There was something for everybody. The angles were infinite.

An alien spaceship landing in Times Square wouldn't have the legs of this story.

“The irony is,” Em said, “if you hadn't locked down Tana's wedding, the
Sentinel
wouldn't have snuck Christy inside in the first place, and this whole shit storm would never have hit.”

True enough. But the other side of the coin was that he'd never have met her. And nothing—­certainly none of this bullshit—­would ever make him regret that. Christy was the best thing to happen to him since Roy and Verna gave two troublemaking wiseasses a home.

He loved her, and if she slipped through his fingers, he'd regret it for the rest of his life.

There was only one thing to do.

“Call Tony,” he said. “Tell him to bring the Rover around.”

“Whoa, wait. She'll be surrounded by now. You won't be able to drive down her street.”

“Then I'll walk.”

“They'll mob you.”

“No, they won't.” He smiled grimly. “I've got a secret weapon.”

K
OTA PULLED
OVER
half a mile from Christy's house, blocking a driveway. The Range Rover would probably get towed, but there was nowhere else to park. The media assholes had consumed every available inch.

As he stepped out, a TV van cruised past. The driver spotted him and hit the brakes, then a reporter leaped from the back, mic at the ready.

Kota gave him a come-­on-­over wave. Then he opened the back door and Cy hopped out, tail wagging, ready to buddy up to the guy.