The Wedding Band (6 page)

He rubbed the dog with his toe. Cy panted his devotion.

“Mailman called it in, but not in time to save the eye. Then nobody wanted him because the scars make him look like he was trained to fight.”

And because he was gruesome to look at. “How'd he end up here?”

“A girl I know down at the shelter asked me to take him.”

That seemed odd. “Why'd she ask
you
?”

He smiled at her, gorgeously. “Because I'm the end of the line. The last stop for the halt and the lame, as Tana likes to say.”

She touched Tri with her fingertips. He rolled over like a hot dog on a griddle.

Kota leaned across Chris, his blue eyes filled with humor and heat. He scratched Tri an inch above his stubby penis. “He likes it right there. So do I.”

Deliberately, she dropped her gaze to Tri's nubbin. “You two probably have a lot in common.”

“Hell, yeah. For a dachshund, my man Tri is hung.”

She laughed because it was a good one, but the heat flushing her body was no laughing matter. She raised her wineglass and glug-­glugged, trying to put out the flame.

But throwing alcohol on fire only made it burn hotter.

She glared at his steak. “Aren't you done yet?”

“What's your hurry? Got a plane to catch?”

“As a matter of fact.”

He forked a dainty sliver of meat into his mouth. “So, where you headed on business-­slash-­pleasure?”

“Good question. I'll figure it out when I get to the airport.”

He perked up. “No destination in mind? Just going where the wind takes you?”

“Something like that.” She set her glass on the table. Wine loosened her lips. It had a similar effect on her legs. Two things best kept pressed together around Kota.

“I'm taking a trip myself.” He checked the clock. “A few hours from now. Want to come along?”

“No.” As if she'd jet off with him for a week like one of his bimbos.

“Why not?” He abandoned his steak and leaned in, eyes gleaming. “It'll be fun. We're going to my island. Me and Tana and Sasha.”

“You're horning in on their honeymoon?”

He threw up his hands. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because you are?”

“I'm not. I'm giving them the big house, and I'm staying in the guesthouse
across the island
.”

“Alone? No starlets and supermodels to keep you company?”

“Not a one.”

“Stop the presses.”

“Speaking of the press.” He grinned. “We're pulling a fast one. Sending look-­alikes to Italy in my jet while we sneak out the back door to my buddy Adam's plane. He's dropping us at my island on his way to some big board meeting somewhere.”

She covered her ears. “You shouldn't tell me that.”

“You're right. Now I'll have to kill you. Unless you come along.” He put her glass in her hand. “Imagine,” he said, seduction in every word, “a whole island to ourselves. Nothing but sun, sand, and surf.”

She poured more wine on the fire.

“Palm trees, white sand. Crystal-­clear water.” He painted a tempting picture. “We'll sunbathe. We'll snorkel. We'll swim.”

Her mind went to him in a swimsuit.

Or out of it.

She stood up abruptly. “Thanks, but I forgot to pack my grass skirt. Besides, I have some writing to do.”

Kota rose too. So tall. So broad. His shoulders must be three feet across.

“You're a writer?” He looked interested. Too interested.

“I'm working on a book.” That much was true. She was writing her mother's biography, a story that deserved to be told.

“That's cool,” he said. “You can have your own wing. All the privacy your heart desires.” He smiled, devastatingly. “And when you desire something else, you can come on over to my wing.”

Just like a celebrity to assume every woman would throw herself at him.

“No thanks,” she said, sidestepping toward the door.

He matched her step for step. “No phone.” He dangled the bait. “No internet. No TV. No Twitter.”

It sounded like paradise.

“Why would that appeal to me?” she said to be contrary.

“Because you're tired of all that.” He was close enough to touch her, but he didn't. His voice stroked her instead. “You want peace and quiet. Waves lapping the shore.”

He was hypnotizing her. Putting her into a sensual trance—­

A sharp knock on the door broke the spell. Kota yanked it open. “Not a good time, Tony.”

“Sorry, but there's a deputy sheriff at the door. He's looking for a woman, a Christine Case.”

Chris went ice cold.

“She on the list?” Kota asked.

“No. I told him if she's not on the list, she wouldn't get in. But he claims her roommate said she was headed here, so he wants permission to come in and look around.”

Cold sweat trickled down her spine.

“Not happening,” said Kota. “Tell him he can wait outside the perimeter with the media assholes and grab her if she comes out. Which she won't, since she's not on the list.”

Tony left, and Kota curled his lip in disgust. “Now the idiot reporters'll say I'm harboring fugitives.”

Chris offered a sympathetic nod like she knew all about the prying press—­which she did, since she was one of them—­and kicked herself in the ass for lollygagging around the mansion sucking on eye candy instead of getting the hell out of Dodge.

Now it was too late. She was trapped. When the deputy snagged her leaving the premises, not only would he serve her with summons in the lawsuit, thereby pissing off Owen beyond all redemption, but the phalanx of cameras stationed outside the perimeter would capture the whole nasty business on film.

With so little real news to report about the wedding of the year, the juicy story of the undercover reporter would flash around the globe, further embarrassing the
Sentinel,
destroying Chris's last shred of journalistic credibility, and, worst of all, exposing her treachery to the entire Rain clan.

She'd hoped to spare all of them—­and her parents—­that final insult by posting the wedding story under an anonymous byline. She'd never get away with that now.

Unless . . .

Casually, she strolled to the food cart and plucked a chocolate-­covered strawberry from a silver bowl set in ice. “So, tell me more about your island.”

 

Chapter Six

T
HE GETAW
AY PLANE
was gassed up and waiting on the runway at Burbank. Shaking hands with its owner, billionaire playboy Adam LeCroix, Chris realized that he was everything the press made him out to be—­tall, dark, and impossibly handsome, with a presence that made men do his bidding and women do anything.

But in Kota, he'd met his equal. Watching them clasp hands, Chris decided they were two sides of the same coin, cast in bronze by a beneficent god. A female god. Who liked tall men with extremely awesome arms.

Adam's fiancée, Maddie, a bite-­sized blonde with a killer sense of humor, knew exactly how to play both of them. Elbow-­bumping Chris, she murmured, “Watch this.”

As Kota turned to greet her with his thousand-­watt smile, Maddie's eyes glazed. Her body went limp as a noodle. “Hi, Dakota.” A breathy whisper.

“Maddie darlin'.” He kissed one cheek. Then the other. Held her tiny hands in both of his.

And Adam busted in. “That's enough of that, unless you've got someone else willing to fly a thousand miles out of his way to drop you on your island.”

Kota released Maddie's hands with a show of reluctance. She let out a tremulous sigh.

“Christ Jesus,” Adam muttered, his European accent making blasphemy sound sexy.

Maddie dropped a wink at Chris, who bit back a grin.

The pilot's voice piped through the speaker, advising them to buckle up for takeoff. Adam guided Maddie to a pair of cushy leather seats, while Kota steered Chris into the facing pair. Sasha and Tana buckled in on the sofa, where they could canoodle in relative privacy.

Kota murmured in Chris's ear. “Maddie's not a great flier. She'd probably feel better if you held my hand.”

“How do you figure?”

“See how she's clinging to Adam? She gets embarrassed about that. So if you were holding my hand, snuggling into my shoulder like you were scared too, she wouldn't feel like such an oddball.”

Tempting. Even more tempting when he traced a pattern on her wrist with one fingertip.

“If I didn't know better,” she said, “I'd think you were trying to seduce me.”

“If I was, would it be working?”

She let out a soft snort. “Forget it. You promised me solitude. I'll see you next Sunday when we're back on the plane.”

The fingertip moved up her arm, a slow, slippery slide to the inside of her elbow.

How did he know that was her second-­most erogenous zone?

He lingered there, his touch feather light, raising goose bumps that shivered up her arm and down her spine, all the way to her first-­most erogenous zone.

She steeled herself. “There are those among us who can resist you,” she said. “Women who can say no to Dakota Rain.”

He leaned in so his hair brushed her shoulder. His voice was a whisper. “Name one.”

“Me,” she whispered back.

“We'll see.” His breath was warm on her neck. “Try again.”

“Maddie.”

He pulled back enough to give her a get-­real stare.

She put on a pitying look. “You realize she's not really into you, right? She goes googly-­eyed just to annoy Adam.”

“Pfft. I could have her like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“I wouldn't mention that to Adam. Twenty thousand feet is a long way to fall.”

“Hell, I can take him.”

She gave Adam a slow study. “Hmm, I don't think so.”

“You're kidding. Feel this.” He picked up her hand and wrapped it around his arm.

Biceps built to make women weep.

His lips brushed her ear. “Still think he can beat me?”

“I think—­” Well, that was a lie. She couldn't think. Her brain had melted.

She brought her other hand up, a vain attempt to circle his arm.

“Ooooh,” she breathed.

He flexed, and her mouth went bone dry.

“Big,” she got out, reduced to one syllable. “Hard.”

K
OTA MET
C
HRISTY'S
eloquence with silence, not trusting himself to speak.

Big and hard was right. And he didn't mean his arm.

Then she lifted her hot gaze to his face, and the hunger in her eyes pushed his control to the limit. He had two choices: get it on with her, or get away from her.

Now.

Plane sex was out, so he hit his seat belt release, managed a muttered “Excuse me,” and made tracks for the bathroom, holing up in there for as long as he decently could.

As it was, when he came out Tana quirked a brow at him. “Feeling okay? You ran for the can like you ate some bad clams.”

“I'm fine,” Kota said. Soaking his head in cold water had driven some desperately needed blood back up north to his brain. “I just needed a minute. Long day.”

“Tell me about it.” Tana was sitting on the couch, one hand stroking Sasha's shoulder as she slept with her head on his lap.

Kota climbed over Cy and Adam's dog, John Doe, both of them flaked out on the floor and snoring like chain saws.

Taking the captain's chair across from his brother, Kota swung it side to side with one foot. “So. How's it feel?”

“Scary. Like, I'm scared something'll happen to Sasha. She'll get hurt, or . . . you know.”

Yeah, he knew. Their mother disappeared thirty years ago this month, when they weren't much more than toddlers. Then their dad went looking for her, and they lost him too.

Scary shit for a kid.

Scary shit for a husband.

Kota leaned over and patted Tana's knee. “Nothing's gonna happen to your wife. That's a promise.” Sasha was family now.

Tana looked grim. “Nobody can control everything, man. Not even you.”

“Doesn't stop me from trying.” As Em loved to point out.

They brooded in silence for a while, but gloom wasn't their natural state. Tana shook it off first, poking his chin in Christy's direction. “How'd you pull that off?”

Kota scratched his head. “I don't really know. One minute she didn't want any part of the island, and the next she was raring to go.”

“Playing hard to get?”

“She doesn't have to play. She
is
hard to get.” Christy might be hot for him, but she wouldn't be jumping in the sack without a lot of persuasion. The movie star thing that made other women's clothes fall off actually seemed to be a negative to her. Besides, “I'm not sure, but I don't think she likes me.”

Tana laughed, and laughed.

Kota gave him the finger.

Heading back to his seat, he found Christy chatting with Adam and Maddie like they were old cronies, blabbing about the Riviera and St. Tropez and some restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

“We're getting married on my yacht next month,” Adam mentioned. “Then we'll cruise the Greek islands. Maddie's never been.”

Maddie rolled her eyes. “Yachts and cruises and weddings. I don't remember signing on for any of it.”

“You will, darling.” Adam brought her hand to his lips and trailed kisses over her knuckles.

Maddie went starry-­eyed.

Kota stroked Christy's arm, stealing her attention for himself. “We're still a ­couple hours out,” he said. “That seat reclines if you want a nap.”

“No thanks.” She rolled her shoulders.

“I can rub those for you. Get out the kinks.” He flexed his hands. Women liked his big hands. And who didn't like a shoulder massage?

“No thanks.”

The woman was work. “A drink? Some food? There must be something I can do for you.” He laid on the double meaning.

She raised an eyebrow. “No. Thanks.”

Okay then, back to conversation. “What're you writing about?”

That got her attention. She went bright pink. “What do you mean? I'm not writing anything. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Didn't you say you're writing a book?”

“Oh.” She breathed out. “Right. The book. It's a biography.”

“Of?”

“A journalist.”

His back went up. “A
reporter
?”

“A war correspondent. She covered Vietnam. Bosnia. Somalia. The first Gulf War. She's a hero.”

“Okay.” He tried to compartmentalize heroic war correspondents on one side of his brain, the rest of the media on the other. But it wouldn't compute, so he changed the subject instead. “So you're a writer? That's your job?”

“Mmm-­hmm.”

“Why'd you stop touring with Zach?”

“Life on the road.” She shrugged. “You know how it is.”

Finally, something in common.

“Zach seems to like it,” he said.

“It's all he knows. He's got a house in the canyon not far from mine, but he's hardly ever there.”

He liked watching her talk, the way her lips moved, the line of her jaw. And her voice mesmerized him. Throaty, like she'd shot whiskey. Sexy, like she'd just come.

A foot tapped his leg—­Tri looking for a lift. Kota one-­handed him onto his lap. The pervert propped his front foot on the armrest, eyeballing Christy.

She put a hand on her chest.

Tri gave up and rolled over on Kota's thigh, all three feet in the air. Kota scratched him an inch from his junk, and Tri wriggled in glee.

Christy snorted. “Men.”

“We're easy, just rub us in the right spot.” He grinned. “I'll show you mine if you show me yours.”

She laughed her husky laugh. He hadn't heard it since they boarded the plane, and now he wanted nothing but to hear it again, against his throat, ruffling his hair.

Everything about Christy—­everything—­called out to him on an atomic level. She was gorgeous and smart and funny, and totally bullshit-­proof.

And she wanted him. Or she wanted his body, anyway. He didn't care that it was purely physical at this point. Once he got her clothes off, they'd burn up the island.

After that, who knew where things would go? All he knew for sure was that they had a whole week to find out.

C
HRIS
RUBBED HER
temple. Why, oh why, hadn't she stowed away in a catering truck? She'd be halfway to Cabo by now instead of an hour into the flight of the damned.

This whole situation could only be cosmic justice, meted out by the patron saint of journalists to punish her fall from grace.

And it couldn't have been more torturously crafted. A week on a tropical island with the hottest guy on the planet. A guy who was coming on to her with every breath, who her whole body was begging to bang.

A guy she was deceiving just by sitting beside him.

Already she was in agony. How would she endure seven days? It might as well be an eternity.

She shifted in her seat, wishing for a continent between them instead of an armrest. “I think I'll take a nap after all.”

“Good idea.” Kota folded the armrest up. “Want to put your head on my shoulder?”

Oh boy, did she want to.

“No, I'm good,” she said.

“Then how 'bout I put my head on yours?”

She gave him a get-­over-­yourself look. “Maybe I'll forget about the nap.” She put the armrest down.

He put it up again. “Seriously, you should sleep. I won't pester you.”

“I don't believe you.”

He made an X on his heart, and she smiled in spite of herself.

When she woke up hours later, he was holding her hand. Or more like cupping it in his upturned palm, as if he'd worked his hand under hers where it rested on the seat.

She couldn't fairly call it pestering, but it was its own brand of torment. Because Kota was proving to be disarmingly sweet. Hot and sweet was a deadly combination.

At the moment, though, he was harmless, sleeping like a baby. For the first time she could study him unobserved, seeking out the inevitable imperfections that would prove he was mortal.

And there were many, as her scrutiny revealed. She worked her way down from the top.

For starters, his widow's peak was off center, his hair was too thick for a normal comb, and his lashes were too long and too lush for anyone but a mascara model.

His nose was a half centimeter too wide, his lips too full for a man who got paid millions to snarl, and his arms . . .

Okay, so he had one perfect feature.

But his chest was so broad that he'd need custom-­made shirts, his waist was narrower than hers, and his package—­

Whoa, his package. Hello, morning wood. Morning
red
wood. Like, two-­thousand-­year-­old Sequoia—­

“Hey, gorgeous. Like what you see?”

Of course he'd caught her ogling.

She covered by stretching and blinking as if she'd just opened her eyes. Like she'd coincidentally woken up staring at his bulge but hadn't really noticed it.

His smirk said he was on to her.

Damn it, why did she feel so outclassed? Hadn't she just finished logging his imperfections? The man was a troll.

Then he caught her in his bluer-­than-­blue gaze and scooped back his sleep-­tousled hair, and she had to call bullshit on herself.

The truth was that the gods, in their wisdom, had plucked one of their own from his throne and sent him to Hollywood. And she was as bedazzled as the rest of womankind.

Thor, or Zeus, or whoever he was, reached over and hooked his pinky under a lock of her hair. Gently, he unstuck it from her cheek, then pulled it slowly through his fingers to the end.

“How can you look so good after sleeping in a chair?” he said.

She could ask him the same question, but that way lay madness.

“Are we there yet?” she asked instead.

He slid his hand out from under hers to look at his watch. “Twenty minutes, give or take.”

She couldn't decide if that was good or bad. The plane was purgatory, but the island would be hell.

Heading for the bathroom, she noticed that everyone else was still asleep. Maddie and Adam snuggled together like puppies. Sasha's new husband spooned her on the sofa. Everyone looked snug and content and utterly peaceful. And why wouldn't they? They'd each found the other half of their own happy ­couple.