The Wedding Band

by Cara Connelly

  “Pushy girl, aren’t you? Like all the ladies around here.” He unwrapped one and she took it from his palm with soft, whiskery lips.

  Cy thought he wanted one too, until he tried it. He spit it out on the ground, where Blackie scooped it up.

  From across the meadow, they came to Kota as they had before, circling and prodding. He handed out Ranchers all around, with a second for Sugar because she loved them the best.

  Then, patting her neck, he whispered in her ear. “Time to show off for those pushy ladies. You play the traumatized horse, I’ll play the hero who tamed you.”

  Curling a hand in her mane, he boosted onto her back and used his knees to urge her toward the trees.

  CHRIS WATCHED THEM come with her heart in her throat. It was breathtaking, like a scene from a movie, the bare-­chested warrior returning from battle astride his proud destrier, both of them washed in golden sunlight.

  “Wow,” Sasha breathed beside her. “That’s”—­she swallowed audibly—­“amazing.”

  Fanned out behind him, the other horses followed, trusting Kota’s lead. He held the whole herd in the palm of his hand.

  Drawing up, he swung the chestnut so she stood broadside to Chris. And he beckoned her.

  Without hesitation she raised her arms, and he lifted her up in front of him. “Swing a leg over her head,” he said, and she did, glad she’d put on capris. Then he locked an arm across her middle, crushing her against him, and with a squeeze of his knees, they were running.

  “Eee!” The wind whipped her shriek into thin air and tore her hair from its bun. Lacing her fingers through the chestnut’s mane, she hung on for dear life as the mighty muscles pistoned beneath her, while behind her, all around her, Kota shielded her like a fortress, his body effortlessly in synch with the horse, as if they shared one mind.

  Across the meadow they tore, Tana and Sasha streaking alongside them astride a great black horse. Sasha’s eyes were wide and wild. She held her arms up like she was riding a roller coaster, trusting Tana to keep her safe.

  “I want to do that,” Chris shouted into the wind.

  “Go ahead, I’ve got you.” Kota’s arm cinched her tighter.

  One hand at a time, she released the horse’s mane, only to cling to the strong arm at her waist.

  Then she let go, reaching for the sky, taking the wind square on the chest. She felt herself come unmoored, held fast only by Kota, but that was enough.

  Inside her, a reckless laugh spiraled up and up, until out it spilled, happier than song, wilder than sex. It was joy unleashed.

  It was awesome.

  And it changed everything.

  Chapter Ten

  “OH MY GOD, oh my God!” Sasha couldn’t stop talking about it. “That was amazing.”

  She clutched Tana with one hand, Kota with the other. “How do you do it? How do you get them to accept you like that, to worship you?”

  Chris wanted to know the answer herself, but she couldn’t marshal the words to ask. She was well and truly awestruck.

  Tana, for once, didn’t poke fun at his brother. “It’s all Kota. He’s got a way with animals. Always has.”

  To Chris’s mind, it was more than “a way.” It was mystical.

  After riding breakneck for miles, they’d walked back through the meadow with the horses milling around them, as if the humans were part of the herd. The black one—­Blackie, another Kota original—­kept bumping Kota like they were schoolyard chums. The chestnut—­Sugar—­practically had her nose in his pocket. And the others, all of them, had jostled for position, trying to get next to him.

  “Kota vouches for me,” Tana went on, “or they wouldn’t let me near them. And considering the hellhole he saved them from, I wouldn’t blame them for never trusting a human again.”

  “You must be so proud,” Sasha said, beaming at Kota. “Of changing their lives. Making them whole.”

  Kota shrugged. “They keep the grass cut so I don’t have to mow it.”

  Tana scoffed. “Don’t let him kid you. He’s got ranches in six states. Horses, dogs, cats, hamsters—­”

  “Just the one hamster,” Kota cut in. “A friend of a friend’s.”

  “Not to mention that he’s overrun Ma and Pops’s ranch with rescues. He’s the softest touch in the west.” Tana snorted a laugh. “If ­people only knew Mr. Gun ’Em Down can’t watch a cute kitten video without bawling.”

  “I think that’s sweet.” Sasha rubbed Kota’s arm. “And I happen to know your brother’s just as sappy.”

  She slid an arm around Tana’s waist. “Don’t worry, boys, your secret’s safe with Christy and me. Right, Christy?” She gave Chris a wink like they were best girlfriends.

  Chris managed a watered-­down smile, while inside she was going to pieces.

  She’d had Kota all wrong. Sure, he was arrogant and horny, and he expected her to fall into bed with him like every other woman on earth.

  But he was also loyal and generous and not dumb at all.

  She’d been in denial, probably so she could justify betraying him, but the evidence was irrefutable. Her first clue was the wedding toast, an ode to family and fortitude that didn’t leave a dry eye in the house. Then there was Em, the kind of woman who wouldn’t have given Kota ten minutes, much less ten years, if he wasn’t worthy of it.

  Then his parents, so down-­to-­earth and normal, and obviously the most important ­people in Kota’s world. Then Cy and Tri and Van Gogh, all of them damaged throwaways to most ­people, and that much more precious to Kota because of it.

  And now . . . now this thing with the horses.

  He was some kind of shaman.

  Tana, the other man she was poised to betray, was kind and funny, and loved his brother and his wife and his parents wholeheartedly. And Sasha was sweet and sincere and ready to befriend Chris, never knowing she was a spy bent on exploiting every intimacy to save her own sorry ass.

  They reached the guesthouse, pausing at the porch steps. “Are you okay?” Sasha asked, touching Chris’s arm in a way that was friendly and comforting, and so, so undeserved by the traitor in their midst.

  “I’m a little queasy.” True. “Probably too much sun.” A lie.

  “I’ve been there,” said Sasha. “Drink lots of water. Kota, you make sure she drinks lots of water.”

  “I’m on it.” He stroked Chris’s shoulder, his hand so gentle she could scarcely bear it.

  Tana took his wife’s hand. “Don’t worry, honey, Kota knows what to do.” He shot Chris a friendly smile as they arced off toward the main house. “You’ll feel better in the morning,” he said.

  But she doubted it. She doubted it very much.

  THEY WOULDN’T BE picking up where they left off, Kota realized, not with Christy so pale.

  He scooped her up in his arms and headed for her bedroom.

  “Hey.” Even her protest was feeble.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t take advantage of your weakened condition.” He kissed her wan cheek. “You need a cool shower, a tall glass of water, and a good night’s sleep.”

  He nudged her door with his foot, set her down in the bathroom, and turned on the shower. “You take the shower, I’ll get the water, and we’ll both tuck you in.”

  Afraid to leave her alone for too long, he sprinted to the kitchen, poured an ice water and piled some berries in a bowl, and got back to her room before she was out of the shower.

  He stuck his head in the bathroom. “Need anything?” It didn’t hurt to ask. Maybe the cool water revived her and she wanted help soaping up.

  “No thanks.” She still sounded peaked.

  The shower turned off, and a minute later she emerged in a cotton nightie that hit her midthigh. His adrenaline spiked, but he kept lust off his face. She must really be hurting if she waltzed out in front of him without seeming to care.


  She headed straight for the bed. He pulled back the cotton sheet, watching her nightie ride up as she slid under it.

  Then he sat on the edge of the bed. “Drink this.” She drank it, then sank back against the pillows. Her face was as white as the linen. “Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head, staring up at the fan. He stroked her forehead with one hand and held her wrist with the other. Her pulse tripped crazily under his thumb.

  If she’d been beautiful to him before, she was breathtaking now, her eyes dark pools, haunted and mysterious.

  The need to care for her overwhelmed him. “I can stay with you, sweetheart. This bed’s so big you won’t even know I’m here.”

  That should’ve prompted a snide remark, even though he meant every word. But all she said was “No thanks, I’ll be okay.”

  So he kissed her cheek, her palm, ran a knuckle over her jaw. And reluctantly, he left her.

  In the kitchen, he tended the animals. The dogs got the dregs of Alfredo mixed into their supper. The cats got the food he’d had specially formulated and manufactured to his exact specifications. Everyone got fresh water, and he got a Corona. He took it out on the porch swing.

  Twilight was his favorite time on the island. Over the ocean, stars sparkled like diamonds flung across midnight blue velvet. Creatures rustled in the foliage, coming out to hunt in the cool evening air.

  As it always did, the island’s serenity soothed his mind and made him more contemplative than usual.

  Sipping his beer, he wondered idly what would have happened if he’d stuck with his original plans. If he’d finished college and continued on to veterinary school instead of going off to L.A. with Tana.

  He wouldn’t be sitting here, that was for damn sure. And God knows what would’ve happened to Tana, alone in the wilds of Hollywood. He shuddered to think of it. There was damn little in his life to be proud of, but he’d always taken care of his brother.

  Rocking the swing with one foot, he reflected on the wedding, feeling rightfully smug. Security-­wise, it was an unmitigated success. No problems with nut jobs or overenthused fans, and not a single reporter wriggled through the net.

  Take that, Em. She loved to mock his control-­freakishness. So did Tana. But nobody complained when things went off without a hitch.

  In fact, the wedding’s only unforeseen complication was Christy. Their instant attraction had punched him in the gut, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

  From the moment he’d met her, she’d run roughshod over his plans. He’d done everything he could think of to herd her into line, but she was completely unpredictable. Her emotions were all over the map. One minute she was hot as a pistol, the next she cut him off at the knees. He still wasn’t sure where he stood with her.

  In fact, the only thing about Christy that he could be sure of was that he couldn’t be sure of anything.

  Cy wandered over to sit in front of him, giving him the one-­eyed stare. Kota dropped one eyelid and gave it back to him.

  Cy blinked first, then slunk off to lie in the doorway, hinting at bedtime. Tri was nowhere to be seen, probably snuggled in bed with his new girlfriend Christy.

  The sky had gone full dark while he ruminated. The only light on the porch was what spilled from the kitchen.

  Up at the main house Tana and Sasha would be banging away. Good for them. Sasha was a nice girl. He liked her. Ma and Pops liked her. So did Em.

  Charlie would’ve liked her too.

  That thought snuck out of the shadows and stabbed Kota’s chest, stealing his breath. Sweat broke out on his brow.

  His instinct was to flinch away from the pain, to shift his thoughts elsewhere, like he usually did.

  But tonight he was tired and lonely, a deadly combination. Gloom settled on his shoulders like a shroud. What right did he have to push Charlie out of his mind? The first and best friend he’d made in L.A. was dead, and he was partly to blame.

  The least he could do was respect his memory.

  He drained his Corona and held the bottle up to the light. What had he been drinking the day he’d met Charlie? Something cheap, for sure, since he and Tana had just rolled into town.

  They’d been half drunk when a casting agent spotted them at the bar. Recognizing fresh meat on the hoof, he made them an offer on the spot—­starring roles in the movie he was casting. All they had to do was sign on the dotted line.

  Being smarter than they looked, they tried to read the contract. The agent got pissy and summoned his friend, a guy so big he made two of Kota.

  Things were shaping up to get ugly when Charlie entered the scene. Pushing his Ray-­Bans to the top of his head, he said with a smirk, “Eugene, does your parole officer know you’re back at it? Coercing innocent young men into making porn?”

  Eugene tried to save face, but all he could come up with was “Fuck you, Charlie Brown.”

  He slithered out the door with his muscle, and Charlie watched them go. Then he said, “If you boys are looking to make porn, you can do better than Eugene. If you’d rather keep your clothes on, come with me and I’ll buy you a burger. Ever been to In-­N-­Out?”

  And that’s how Charlie came into their lives.

  He was an agent, but he didn’t sign them that day. He didn’t sign them at all. He befriended them, and in Hollywood a friend can be harder to find than an agent.

  With Charlie’s help, they scored jobs as PAs on the set of a blockbuster, where they rubbed elbows with megastars and a famous director. That led to more jobs, a few minor roles, a lot of wild parties, and a mind-­blowing profusion of pussy.

  And through it all, Charlie kept them from blundering. He genuinely had their best interests at heart. So much so that when another agent—­a big one—­offered to sign both brothers, Charlie urged Kota to bow out and let Tana travel the Hollywood road alone.

  “Once you start making real money,” he said in words that would prove to be prophesy, “you won’t be able to walk away. You can kiss vet school good-­bye.”

  At the time, Kota had scoffed. But look at him now. Fifteen years in the business, zillions in the bank, his next three movies lined up, and he’d yet to finish college.

  He wouldn’t complain, not when so many had so little. And besides, he wouldn’t do anything differently. Who knew what disaster might have befallen his brother if Kota hadn’t hovered in the wings?

  But things had changed. Tana was settled now. Established, mature, content.

  Married.

  He didn’t need Kota anymore, not like he had before. And Charlie, well, he was long gone. Ten years dead and buried.

  So, what now? For the first time, Kota’s life had no purpose.

  For the first time, the man with the plan didn’t have one.

  Chapter Eleven

  WHEN CHRIS WALKED into the sunny kitchen, she found Kota on a stool, working his way through a crossword and a big mug of coffee.

  “Mornin’, gorgeous,” he said, and the smile that broke over his face made her heart skip three beats. He got up and poured her a mug. “Feeling better?”

  “Much.” Ten hours without brooding, fretting, or lusting—­thanks to a seldom-­used sleeping pill—­and she felt almost normal.

  But it wouldn’t last, not unless she stayed well away from that smile. “I’ll be working today”—­sequestered in her room—­“so you don’t mind if I take my breakfast in there, do you? Maybe some cereal?”

  His smile fell, and she felt a pang in her chest. In a perfect world, the whole week would be a sun-­soaked sex romp with Poseidon, cavorting in the sea, riding horses, riding him. She’d almost gone there yesterday, a mistake she blamed on too much wine and not enough sleep.

  She could only be grateful that Tana and Sasha had appeared before she’d damned herself for all eternity. Bad enough she was a two-­faced liar. She drew the li
ne at being a two-­faced liar who slept with the person she was lying to.

  And after yesterday, there was more than just her ethics at stake. Now that she realized Kota wasn’t just a pretty celebrity face but a truly extraordinary man, it was personal. She respected him. She couldn’t stomach the thought that if he someday learned she’d authored the forthcoming wedding exposé, he’d believe she’d whored herself out for a story.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, “but I’m making French toast.” He set a bottle on the counter. Pure Vermont maple syrup.

  That was dirty pool. She bit her lip.

  “With strawberries,” he said.

  Mmm, strawberries. Harmless little berries, so plump and so sweet. Piled on harmless French toast. Drizzled with harmless syrup.

  He pulled out a stool invitingly.

  Her good intentions crouched on the windowsill, one foot in, one foot out. Then Tri tapped her ankle and—­poof—­out the window they went.

  Telling herself that it was, after all, only polite to share breakfast with her host, she scooped up the little dog and parked her butt on the stool.

  She’d sequester herself after breakfast. For the rest of the day. And night.

  Meanwhile, the view. Shirtless again, Kota moved around the kitchen, pulling out flour and eggs, a loaf of French bread. When he glanced her way, she had to ask, “You used blue tile on purpose, didn’t you, to bring out your eyes?”

  He grinned. “Did it work?”

  Like a charm.

  She dropped her gaze to the mixing bowl. It looked like a toy in his hands, but he handled it like a pro. “Who taught you to cook?”

  “Ma. She wanted her boys to be self-­sufficient when we went out in the world. I can press a shirt, scrub a tub till it shines, and cook damn near anything that walks, swims, or grows in the dirt.”

  He smiled, a crooked curve of his lips more beguiling to her than his movie-­star smile. “I’m rusty on the pressing and scrubbing, but I keep my kitchen skills sharp.” He pointed his wooden spoon at her. “The ladies worship a man who can cook. Don’t try to deny it.”