Chris let her go. No time to smooth feathers; she had to get to Dakota’s drunken orgy before Zach tumbled down all twelve steps and landed in a bottle of Beefeater.
Tail on fire, she hit her cheeks with blush, her lips with gloss, and scooped up five-inch gold Louboutins that would cut into Dakota’s vertical advantage. She was on a beeline for the stairs when Reed rang her cell.
“Pack your things,” he said without preamble, “and get out.”
She froze in midstride. “You can’t fire me, I got the story!”
“I mean get out of L.A. The senator’s suing the paper. The sheriff’s deputy just served me, and you’re next on the list.”
“Well, shit.” Chris slewed a looked around her room. No place to hide.
“If you’re home, get out of the house,” Reed said. “Get out of L.A. Out of the country if you can. I’ll tell everyone you’re on assignment. That’ll slow things down while Owen works on Buckley to drop the suit.”
Chris clutched her forehead. “What if she won’t?”
Unemployment and disgrace, that’s what.
“Listen, Chris, Buckley’s pissed right now. She wants to turn the knife. So she’ll make tomorrow’s Sunday morning rounds, blast the liberal press, discredit the paper, and when she can’t get any more mileage, she’ll graciously accept our apology.” He snorted. “Trust me, no politician wants a judge scrutinizing their spending. She’ll pull the plug before it gets to court.”
That sounded good, but something smelled fishy. “If you’re so sure she’ll drop it, why do I need to disappear?”
“Because Owen’s easiest play here is to offer up a sacrificial lamb.”
“Baaaaa.”
“Exactly. So we’ll remove temptation. Make him do it the hard way.”
Chris slumped against the railing. “This is all my fault. Maybe I should fall on my sword.”
“Like hell.” Reed put steel in his tone. “I’ll let you know when your career’s over, Christine. In the meantime, I’m not telling Emma Case I stood back while her daughter took the fall for some overeager editor trying to make a name for himself.”
That only made her sadder. “Thanks, Reed, but don’t worry about Mom. She wouldn’t know what you were talking about.”
“I’d know. Now grab your passport and get on a plane. Call me in a week. This whole thing might blow over by then, but if not, make damn sure your wedding exclusive is juicy enough to convince Owen you’re indispensable.”
“No problem there. I got Dakota’s toast word for word. Met his mother. Lots of good stuff.” Enough to impress Owen, especially with the potential after-party scoop.
“Good,” Reed said. “Now turn off your phone until you call me next week. When I tell Owen you’re incommunicado, I don’t want my eye to twitch.”
“But Seacrest”—Emma’s facility—“won’t be able to reach me.”
“I’m second on their call list. If something comes up, I’ll handle it. Now pack your bags and get the hell out of Dodge.”
Five minutes later Chris was rocketing down the mountain, suitcase in the trunk, passport in her purse, guilty conscience riding shotgun.
MEN IN BLACK ringed Dakota Rain’s Beverly Hills mansion, a formidable perimeter even the brashest paparazzi didn’t have the balls to breach.
Standing in the circular driveway—barely inside that perimeter—Chris chewed a Tums while the goon who’d all but cavity-searched her gave the same top-to-bottom treatment to her VW.
“You’d think POTUS was on site,” she muttered under her breath.
Hell, maybe he was. The Rains were Hollywood royalty. Why wouldn’t the president slobber all over them like everybody else did?
She handed off her keys to a steely-eyed SEAL type standing in as valet, then passed under a temporary portico meant to guard against eyes-in-the-sky. Making for the wide double doors, she froze when a whip-thin woman braced her, armed with an iPad and, possibly, a Glock.
“Name,” the woman stated.
“Christy Gray.”
Flat pewter eyes studied Chris down to her pores, then lowered to the iPad. She scrolled, while ice water trickled down Chris’s spine. This woman could eat the tough guys outside for breakfast. If she discovered Chris’s double identity, her body would never be found.
A long moment stretched as the hangman knotted the noose, then those unnerving eyes rose again. Another ice-cold inspection and a terse “You’re good to go.”
Chris managed a nothing-to-hide stroll across the arena-sized foyer, then ducked through the first open doorway, finding herself in a game room tricked out with every diversion from vintage pinball to top-of-the-line gaming chairs. The current focal point was a pool table overhung by a Tiffany lamp and surrounded by a rowdy crowd.
Ignoring the hooting and hollering, Chris snagged a champagne flute from a passing tray, downed the bubbly like water, then blotted her neck with the tiny bar napkin.
Her nerves were jangling, and for good reason. She was running from the law. Worrying about her father, her mother, and her job.
And now she was undercover behind enemy lines.
“Hi, Christy.”
“Agh!” She fumbled her glass, catching it before it hit the floor.
“Sorry.” Em touched her arm. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Funny how she’d been hearing that all day.
“Not your fault,” Chris said. “I’m a little jumpy. Nurse Ratched freaked me out.”
Em made a face; half smile, half apology. “Believe it or not, she’s the goodwill ambassador in that bunch. Kota went overboard with security.”
“Threats?” A fact of celebrity life.
“Just the usual whackos. No, this whole security blitz is about keeping the press out.”
Nausea rolled through Chris’s gut. “That seems extreme.”
“Kota’s an extreme kind of guy.” Em took her arm. “Come on, let’s move before anyone notices you’re here.”
Chris turned to stone. “What do you mean?” Were they on to her already? Was Nurse Ratched locking down the estate, preparing to stuff Chris in a trunk for a trip to the tar pits?
“What I mean,” Em said with a grin, “is that you’re the hottest ticket at this party. You stole the show today. Everyone wants to meet you.”
“Oh, if that’s all.” Whew.
Em poked her chin at the pool table. “When that breaks up, they’ll spot you. I’m sure you’ve been mobbed by fans before, but nobody does it like the Hollywood set.”
That wasn’t good either. There was always a chance, slim but real, that someone in the crowd knew her backstory. She needed to check on Zach and get out before her cover was blown.
“Have you seen my father?”
“He’s out by the pool. I’ll take you.”
Em led her across the hallway into a dim room lined with bookshelves—Dakota Rain has a library?—then out through French doors into a rose garden, blooming lavishly.
“Wow.” The heady scent hung on the moist evening air. But the benches were empty. “I’m surprised no one’s out here.”
“Kota made this for Verna. He keeps it private.” Em nudged her along a path that followed the line of the house. “You might’ve noticed I used a palm plate to get into the library. That’s off limits too. Kota’s all about privacy.”
Chris glanced back at the house, at the wings stretching ahead and behind. She was no stranger to wealth. Zach had millions, and she was well off herself. But Dakota was in another league. “How many rooms?”
“I’m not really sure. It’s got all the usual stuff—solarium, gallery, theater, blah blah. But Kota only uses a handful of rooms.” She shrugged. “I told him not to build this monster, but boys will be boys.”
Ahead, the enormous terrace s
urrounding the lake-sized swimming pool was packed with partiers. Torchlight sparked off sequins and jewels. Waiters circulated with champagne. The bar was three deep. Chris scanned the faces for Zach’s, praying she wouldn’t spot a martini in his hand.
“Don’t worry,” said Em. “We’ve got a man on him.”
Chris’s head swung around. “I beg your pardon?”
“Kota knows you’re worried about him, so he’s got a guy positioned to run interference if anyone throws temptation in his path.”
“Oh. That’s . . . nice?”
Em shrugged. “Kota’s sensitive to addiction issues. He’s lost people. And he probably feels guilty, because if I know him—and I do—he used Zach to lure you here.”
A lightbulb went on in Chris’s brain. The nerve.
Em must have seen her eyes widen, because she shrugged again. “Yeah, he’s kind of a dick that way. But surprisingly thoughtful at the same time.” She checked her phone. “Zach’s about ten feet north of the grill.”
She pointed past a stainless-steel monster as long as a limo, manned by four men in chef’s hats. And there stood Zach, Pepsi in hand, bantering with the usual bevy of beauties.
As so often before, Chris envied his ease. Zach knew exactly who he was, where he fit, while she was a square peg in a world of round holes.
“He looks okay,” she admitted. Which meant it was safe to ditch Christy Gray and get Christine Case on the first plane out of LAX.
Then Em pointed again, toward the house. And Chris followed her finger.
Big mistake.
Onto the terrace strode Dakota, invading it with his presence, towering over the mere mortals in his sphere. Torchlight cast his Viking cheekbones in bas-relief and glinted like fire off the streaks in his mane.
Chris went wet everywhere. Her armpits, her panties. Saliva pooled on her tongue.
Talk about mouthwatering.
He’d traded his tux for a simple white button-down, tailored to his gladiator’s frame. The sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms snaked with muscle, and the tails were tucked into Levi’s that cupped an ass so fine his billboards sold millions of boxer briefs, mostly to women hoping to mold their man’s butt into something similar.
Never gonna happen. God only made one.
And the guy who owned it had gone to some trouble to lure her to his house. Meaning she could, if she wanted, get her hands on that butt.
She wanted. Oh boy, she wanted. In fact, if she weren’t two weeks away from splashing his brother’s wedding across the Sentinel’s centerfold, she might just blink her no-celebrity rule for one night of anything-goes sex with the hottest guy on the planet.
But damn it, given the circumstances, that would be wrong. More wrong than simply spying on him and exploiting his family.
Even her shaky ethics balked at screwing him, and then screwing him.
Still, it couldn’t hurt to say a polite hello. To catch one last whiff of panty-melting pheromones before morphing back into boring Christine Case.
She let Em propel her toward the light.
KOTA SCANNED THE terrace from his superior height. He’d gotten word from Mercer that Christy was on site. But where?
Craning his neck, he almost tripped over tiny Danni Devine. “Hey, Kota.” She shook back silky blond hair and winked one amber cat’s eye.
“Hey, Danni.” Decency required he give her a minute. Just last month he’d carried her half-naked body over his shoulder as they’d run from Colombian drug lords. They’d followed up the rescue with sweaty jungle sex—on camera and off.
She’d been angling for an encore ever since, and under normal circumstances, he’d be up for it. But these weren’t normal circumstances. Even when she laid the flat of her hand on his chest and cocked her head expectantly, he couldn’t bring her into focus.
It was all Christy’s fault. From the first moment, she’d possessed him with her gorgeousness, her curves, and her irresistibly indifferent attitude.
And then, sweet Jesus, she’d stepped onto the stage, and he’d lost his mind completely.
The spotlight loved her, sparkling off sequins and glossy chestnut waves, catching her pale throat when her head fell back. She was pure sensuality, holding the mic like a lover, her body swaying like a palm tree on a sultry summer night.
He’d seen nothing like her, ever.
And her looks were just part of it. Her voice, Lord, her voice—that’s what really undid him. Low and lush, it wrapped around him like velvet, conjuring dark, steamy bedrooms and hot, slippery bodies tangling in sweaty sheets.
Standing at the back of the tent, gazing at her like a love-struck groupie, he’d believed to his core that she sang just for him.
He’d damn near come in his pants.
Then she left the stage, and reality tipped an icy pail over his head as a quick look around showed him every man felt the same.
Since then, nothing mattered except getting close to her and publicly staking his claim. And if he had to mow down every male in Hollywood to do it, somebody better call 911, because there’d be heavy casualties.
Danni fingered a button. “The bride and groom look happy. But their best man looks out of sorts.” She slid her palm up and down, a suggestive stroke. “Bet I can put a smile on his face.”
He should know how to respond; it was wired into his brain. But Christy had fried his circuits.
Undaunted, Danni inched up under his nose. The scent of her shampoo wafted up—peaches.
She took advantage of a bump from behind to smush her chest against his, drawing attention to the melons threatening to roll up out of her top. She licked cherry lips. “Whatcha thinking about?”
“Fruit.”
She blinked. “Fruit? Is that a euphemism?”
“Usually,” he said, puzzled. “But at the moment, it’s just fruit.”
A commotion broke out off to his right. “There she is.” “That’s her.” “Is she alone?”
His pulse leaped, and like everyone else, he stared as Christy stepped from the shadows, smile on her lips, glossy waves curling over pale, naked shoulders.
The crowd blocked his view of her body, so he zeroed in on her eyes. Warm and welcoming, they locked with his, and he forgot where he was. Every drop of blood in his veins sizzled.
She came toward him, and magically, the crowd parted, clearing a path between them. She shimmered like a vision. Glimmered like flame.
Then her gaze dropped from his eyes to his chest, and her smile flattened into a cynical line.
Uh-oh.
He looked down. Danni clung like a vine.
And for some reason, probably instinct, he was cupping her ass.
He dropped it, raising his hands like a crook. Christy came to a standstill just out of arm’s reach.
She ran an eye over Danni. “Nice dress,” she said, dropping his own words like turds.
Danni looked dubious. “Um, thanks?”
“I mean it.” Christy gave her a smile. “I wish I could wear that style.”
Danni beamed, and unclung to do a dainty pirouette. “It’s adorable, right?”
Christy’s reply was swallowed up as the sharks surrounded her—every unattached man and a few who’d shaken off their dates.
Kota got busy shaking off Danni. “Scorsese’s over by the band—”
Enough said. She disappeared like smoke.
He turned back to Christy. At the center of the feeding frenzy, her low, husky laugh was chum in the water. The little sharks gobbled it up, embarrassing themselves. Pretty-boy Gosling flirted like a teenager. And Clooney, the old fart, had his hand on her elbow.
Kota waded in, the great white, the biggest and baddest shark in the sea.
Shoulder-bumping Clooney, strafing Gosling and the rest with a g
et-back glare, he hooked a hand around Christy’s waist. “Zach’s looking for you,” he lied. And stiff-arming a path through the diehards, he hustled her into the house.
Another mob met them there, and he shoved through it bodyguard-style, pushing his way down the hall, through the gallery, the media room, using his size the way God intended, to carry his woman back to his cave.
Palming into the library at last, he slapped the door shut behind them.
Then he stepped away from her. Big men could be scary, or so Ma had drilled into his head. He didn’t want to scare Christy. He wanted her to come to him.
She didn’t.
Instead, she put a hand to her brow and peered around like she was searching for land. “It’s kind of dark,” she said, “but I think I’d see my father if he was here.”
He hit a light switch. A single reading lamp came on, throwing a warm glow at one end of the sofa. “He’s outside. I can get him.”
“Or you can send your spy for him.”
“Or that.” He moved toward the sofa, hoping she’d follow. “I thought you’d be glad someone’s keeping an eye on him.”
She drifted deeper into the room, but toward the desk, not the sofa. “That would mean I don’t trust him.”
“Hard to trust an addict.”
She ran a hand over mahogany, then propped her fine ass on the edge and brought her gaze around to him at last.
It tingled like electricity over his skin.
“That sounds like the voice of experience,” she said.
He shrugged a shoulder, gave an answer no one could dispute. “This is Hollywood.”
He sat on the sofa, stretching his arm along the back, body language for Come on over and join me.
She crossed her arms.
Okay, he could do conversation if he had to. “So, you live in L.A.?”
“Yes.” No details.
“Surprised I haven’t seen you around.”
“I’m not much for the party scene.”
“Clubs?”
“Not the ones you frequent.”
That made him smile. “You know which clubs I frequent?”
“Doesn’t everyone? I thought that was the point of brawling on the sidewalk. If they’re not paying you for that kind of publicity, you should bill them.”
The Wedding Band Page 4