And it wasn’t only the paparazzi who’d made money and careers off Charlie’s life and death. “Legitimate” journalists waded in too, exploiting his best friend’s disintegration, never letting humanity get in the way of a good story.
The day they spread Charlie’s corpse across the front page, Dakota swore off “news” forever. No papers, no magazines, no CNN. Never again in this life.
Pulling up to the window, he set aside his resentment and laid a practiced smile on the redhead inside. “Hey, Sandy-girl. What’s shakin’?”
“Hey, Kota.” Her Jersey accent was thick as molasses. “I like the hair.”
“You can have it when I cut it off.” He tipped her fifty bucks and she blew him a kiss.
Peeling out of the lot, he handed off the bag to Emily. She was still uh-huhing into her phone, so he plucked it from her hand.
“Hey! That was Peter.”
“We just saw him twenty minutes ago.” He rattled the bag.
“Honest to God.” She unwrapped his burger and spread a napkin on his lap. Then she stuck both straws in the shake, took a long pull and passed it over, half turning in her seat to eyeball him. “So what happened last night?”
He sucked down two inches of shake, tucked it between his thighs. “Some asshole was hassling this girl. Feeling her up.” Manhandling the poor kid. Pinning her to the wall and rubbing all over her.
“Tell me you didn’t hit him.”
“I was about to.” And wouldn’t it have felt great to lay that pretty boy out? “I pulled him off her. Then Tubby waded in and spoiled my fun.”
“And the October madness begins.” Emily tipped back her head and stared up at blue sky. “Why, oh why, couldn’t Montana get married in September? Or November?”
“Why does he have to get married at all?” It made no sense. Montana had the world by the balls. Women loved him. Hollywood loved him. The critics loved him. He was the indie darling, offered one challenging, nuanced role after another, while Dakota got stuck blowing up cities and machine-gunning armies single-handed.
Sure, Dakota made bigger box office. But Montana had the talent in the family.
“Sasha’s a great girl,” Emily pointed out.
“Yeah, she’s a peach. But peaches grow on trees in California. Why settle for one when you can have the orchard?”
Em punched his shoulder. “That’s for peaches everywhere, especially California.”
Dakota grinned and passed her the shake. “Call Mercer, will you, and tell him we’re running behind. I don’t want him getting pissed at us.”
“Pfft. You never worry about anybody else’s feelings.”
“Because they can’t kill us just by looking at us.”
“See? You’re scared of him too.” She crossed her arms. “I wish you hadn’t hired him.”
“So you’ve said about a million times. But Montana put me in charge of security, and Mercer’s the best.” His guys were ex-Rangers and Navy SEALs. “He says he’ll keep the press out, and I believe him.”
“Well good luck with that. They always manage to sneak somebody inside.”
“Not this time.”
A beach wedding might be a security nightmare—not to mention just plain pointless since everyone was zipped into tents and couldn’t see the water anyway—but Mercer had it covered. Airtight perimeter, no-fly zone. Saturday’s guests and employees would be bussed in from a remote parking lot and wanded before admittance. Anyone caught with a recording device would be summarily executed—er, ejected.
Dakota gave a grim smile. “Believe me, Em, Mercer’s got it locked down. Not a single, slimy, sleazy reporter is getting into that wedding.”
“YOU’RE GETTING INTO that wedding.” Reed aimed a finger at Chris. “Don’t bother arguing. It’s that, or clean out your desk.”
“This is bullshit, Reed! Archie admitted it was his screwup.”
“And his desk is already empty. But your ass is still in a sling, Christine. Your name was on that story.”
“I told him not to go to print until I verified it! If he’d waited till I gave him the go-ahead—”
“You’re missing the point. Senator Buckley saw your name—Christine Case—on the front page. You accused her of mishandling campaign contributions. It’s your blood she wants.” Reed’s chair scraped back. “You wanted to do hard news, now you’ve got to take the heat.”
Chris rubbed her temple. “I earned my byline, Reed.” With two years of writing fluff for the Living section. It finally seemed to pay off when one of Buckley’s PR flacks—a guy Chris knew from covering the senator’s thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraisers—handed her the story of a lifetime. Her big break. Guaranteed to run front page above the fold.
Reed had no sympathy. “You should’ve held onto the story until you locked it up. You handed Archie a stick of dynamite.”
Oh yes she had. And it blew up in her face.
Reed was right. She bore a big chunk of the blame. She was lucky he hadn’t fired her outright.
“Listen, Chris.” Reed came around the desk, propped himself on the edge. “Emma Case is a hero to a whole generation of reporters. Your mother’s coverage of Vietnam changed history. That’s why you’re still sitting here, getting another chance. That, and the fact that your father’s the entertainment at Montana Rain’s wedding.”
“So now we’re competing with the Enquirer? Sneaking into celebrity weddings? For God’s sake, we’re the Los Angeles Sentinel. Is this what journalism has come to?”
Wrong question. Reed stiffened. “Don’t preach to me, young lady. I grew up in this business, and I can tell you the world’s changed. Newspapers all over the country are hanging by a thread.”
“The scoop on this wedding won’t make or break the Sentinel.”
“Maybe not. But it’ll make or break your future here. I went to the mat for you and now you’ll return the favor. I promised Owen an exclusive. Where the Stars Are rolls out in two weeks, and Montana Rain’s wedding will be the centerfold spread.”
“Come on, Reed. It’s no better than a tabloid—”
He cut her off ruthlessly. “Your opinion’s irrelevant. Owen’s the publisher, and it’s his baby. He’s expecting it to boost Sunday circulation, and if it goes down in flames, it won’t be because this office didn’t do its damnedest.”
Chris tried to stare him down, but Reed was master of the stare down. She crossed her arms. He crossed his.
Sand trickled through the hourglass.
Chris dropped her eyes. Thought about her mother, how proud she’d been when Chris graduated from Columbia with her master’s in journalism. How disappointed when she didn’t use her degree, choosing a troubadour’s life with her father instead.
Well, it was too late to redeem herself in her mother’s eyes. Alzheimer’s had dulled Emma Case’s razor-sharp mind. The woman Chris had admired and resented and loved with all her heart was, in so many of the ways that matter, already lost to her.
No, Emma would never know that Chris was finally following in her footsteps, or that her old friend Reed, managing editor of the Sentinel, had given Chris that chance.
But Chris knew. With no references but her family name, Reed had taken it on faith that she’d bring the same commitment to the Sentinel that Emma had brought to her Pulitzer Prize-winning career.
But sneaking into celebrity weddings, dishing on who wore what and who canoodled with whom . . . well, nobody won awards for that.
Still, she owed Reed. And with the balance sheet so far out of whack, what choice did she have?
None.
She’d have to suck it up, sing with her father’s band at Montana Rain’s stupid wedding, and bring back some useless gossip to hype Owen’s pet project. Then 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 make 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.
About the Author
CARA CONNELLY is an award-winning author of contemporary romances. Her smart and sexy stories have won high praise, earning Cara several awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart, the Valley Forge Romance Writers’ Sheila, and the Music City Romance Writers’ Melody of Love. Cara, who lives in rural upstate New York, works as an appellate court attorney when she’s not crafting steamy novels of love and romance.
www.caraconnelly.com
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By Cara Connelly
THE WEDDING VOW
THE WEDDING FAVOR
Available from Avon Impulse
THE WEDDING DATE
Coming Soon
THE WEDDING BAND
THE WEDDING GIFT
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from “The Wedding Date” copyright © 2013 by Lisa Connelly.
Excerpt from The Wedding Favor copyright © 2014 by Lisa Connelly.
Excerpt from The Wedding Band copyright © 2015 by Lisa Connelly.
THE WEDDING VOW. Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Connelly. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. alex1957 is a book thief. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition OCTOBER 2014 ISBN: 9780062282361
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062282354
FIRST EDITION
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The Wedding Vow Page 33