The Wedding Band

by Cara Connelly

  He sneered. “A stallion doesn’t complain when the mare’s in heat.”

  Her blood pressure hit a record high. Her voice dropped to a homicidal low. “You are too disgusting for words.” She pointed at the stairs. “Out.”

  “No.” He crowded her, looming. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  She shoved her face up at his. “So this was a ploy. A lie. You used Tri to worm your way into my house. You’re no better than I am.”

  “Don’t you dare,” he growled. “Don’t you dare compare this to what you did.”

  “At least I had a good reason. You’re just looking for revenge, you big bully. You want to scare me. Well, you don’t.” She drilled a finger into his chest. “You wouldn’t hurt me even if I pulled out a gun and shot you.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” His face was inches from hers, his breathing hot and heavy. “I’ve had about enough of you.”

  “Good, then go.” She shoved his shoulder, but he was Mount Rushmore.

  “I’ll go when I’m good and ready.”

  “Then I’ll go. Give him to me.”

  Kota pivoted so she couldn’t reach Tri.

  “Quit holding him hostage,” she shouted. “Take your problem out on me. I’m the one you’re mad at.”

  “Mad?” His face darkened. “You think I’m mad at you? Mad doesn’t begin to cover it, sweetheart. You played me. You fucked me. You lied about everything.”

  “No, I didn’t! I mean, yes, I lied about why I was at the wedding. But I never lied about my feelings. I tried to keep my distance, but I couldn’t. Because I’m an idiot, like every other woman on the planet. Because I fell . . .” She caught herself. Caught her breath.

  “What?” He grabbed her arm. “Finish, goddamn it.”

  She shook her head. He shook her arm.

  She tried to pull away. Tears welled and spilled over. “Let me go,” she sobbed out.

  He tossed Tri on the bed and hauled her in, locking her to his chest. “Say it, goddamn you.”

  She shoved at Mount Rushmore. He gave not an inch. Heat poured off him like a furnace. His eyes, so intense, burned her skin.

  “Don’t lie to me again,” he gritted through his teeth. “For once, tell me the goddamn truth.”

  “I fell in love with you, all right? Is that true enough for you?”

  “I don’t know. Is it?” He searched her face like he didn’t trust either of them to know the truth from a lie.

  “Yes, you son of a bitch. Are you happy now? I fell in love with you, and I lost everything. My job. My reputation. My future.” She laughed, half hysterical. “Here, take my pride. There wasn’t much left of it anyway.”

  “I don’t want your pride,” he growled. “I want this.”

  HE CLOSED THE last inch, crushing her lips, thrusting his tongue. Taking her mouth the way he’d once taken her body.

  And she took him right back, sucking him, scoring his shoulders, her fever burning as hot as his own.

  Shoving his hands down her pants, he grabbed her ass, boosting her so she locked her legs around him. She broke the kiss to peel off her shirt, taking her tits in her hands, offering them up, and he took them, sucking the salty sweat from her skin.

  This wasn’t the plan, not even close, but he was out of control, crazed by her scent, scorched in her heat, and he only cared about getting inside her.

  She clawed his shirt up, raking his back. “Arms,” she panted, and he tossed her on the bed, ripping his shirt over his head, letting her see his muscles, his sweat.

  She ate him up with her eyes. “Kota,” she breathed, cupping her breast with one hand. She pushed the other hand down her pants, and he lost his mind.

  He tore open his jeans and shoved them past his knees, caught her ankles and dragged her ass to the edge of the bed.

  “Off,” he uttered, and yanked her pants down. Her hand was in her pink panties; he snapped them like a thread. Then he flipped her over, pulled her up on her knees, and drove into her, every last inch, as she closed around him like a hot, slippery fist.

  Clenching her hips, he pumped her, her beautiful ass filling his gaze, filling his mind. She met every thrust, as crazed as he was, matching his speed, faster, and harder.

  He wouldn’t last long. He reached around and covered her fingers with his, driving her higher, making her pant.

  Then she threw back her head, and his sanity snapped.

  Swearing through his teeth, he emptied every ounce of himself into her, until his cock ran dry and his legs gave out, and he collapsed on top of her in a slippery, sweaty, goddamn glorious, totally fucked-­up mess.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I DON’T HAVE to love her to fuck her.

  Kota rolled onto his side, taking his weight off Christy. She dragged in a breath and flopped onto her back. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.

  Or was it a tear?

  He didn’t care. Let her cry. He closed his eyes to block her out, but her profile was burned on his retinas. He’d missed her face. He’d missed her.

  No. He’d missed fucking her. Liar or not, she was a great lay.

  Which prompted the question: Why deprive himself of her body? It wasn’t like he’d get attached to her now that he knew she was a liar. So why not fuck her till he got tired of her, then move on to the next girl?

  Peaches grew on trees in California.

  The sheets rustled, and the scent of roses wafted up his nose. His eyes opened. She’d rolled up on her side, arm tucked under her head, watching him with warm caramel eyes.

  “What just happened?” she asked in that hot, husky voice.

  His body strained toward her heat, so he put frost in his voice. “I fucked you, that’s what.”

  Cruelty didn’t come easy, but he couldn’t let her see how she got to him. Or rather, how her body got to him.

  “Is that really all it was?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “You got a hot body, babe. Fuckable.” He shrugged like that was all that mattered. Like everything was that simple.

  Her eyes fell. Tri came out from behind the pillows and snuggled against her. A fat tear dripped from her chin and rolled down his ear.

  Guilt drove a fiery spike through Kota’s chest. He yanked it out and broke it over his knee. “You’re a good fuck,” he said, deliberately coarse. “We can fuck again sometime. I’ll give you a call.”

  Her gaze shot up, furious now, and her mouth opened, probably to kick his mean, nasty ass to the curb.

  He braced.

  But she closed it without a word, studying him for a long moment instead, her misty eyes searching his face while he fought down the mounting urge to squirm.

  CHRIS READ THE conflicting emotions on Kota’s face, and her heart went out to him. The poor guy was even more messed up than she was.

  She’d almost fallen for his act. The man knew how to sell cold, hard bastard; he made millions at it. But the Kota she’d come to know was more complex, more layered, and much more conflicted than his on-­screen persona.

  A good, long look in his eyes revealed what he was trying so hard to hide. He still loved her. He didn’t want to, but he did, and he was tearing himself apart.

  It was a tough spot for anyone to be in, but especially someone like Kota. He needed to be in control. Of his environment, of the ­people and situations around him. And especially of his emotions.

  Now he’d lost that control, and he was trying to wrest it back. Playing the hard-­ass was just a ruse to make her do what he didn’t have the will to do himself. Break it off.

  The problem was, she had no intention of going along with the plan.

  “Sure,” she said, wiping her check with the back of her hand. “Why not?”

  His jaw dropped comically. He stared like she’d grown two heads.

  But he recovered li
ke a pro. Without a word, he stood up and hoisted his jeans, patting his pockets for his phone, his wallet, his keys. Then he rooted through the sheets for his shirt and dragged it over his head, tucking it in, zipping and buttoning.

  Watching him go through the motions, she fought down the urge to burst into song. Another chance with him was the last thing she’d expected, but he’d opened the door a crack, and she’d stuck her foot in before he could slam it shut again.

  Now he was struggling to regain control—­of himself, and the situation.

  In the end, he did it Kota-­style, straightening to his full height, finger-­combing his hair to give her a load of his arms. Then he rolled out his sexiest, shit-­eating smirk, as if he held all the cards in his hand.

  “I’ll be back at twelve,” he said, “for another bang.”

  She gave as good as she got, doing her own lazy stretch, giving him an eyeful of breasts and buns. Then she curled herself around a pillow and did a sleepy, sensual snuggle. “I’ll be waiting.”

  It wiped the smirk off his face. The wrought-­iron staircase shook as he pounded down the steps. Even the Porsche sounded pissed as he threw it in gear and peeled out.

  She waited until it faded from earshot, then she bounded out of bed.

  Two hours to get ready. Not a minute to waste.

  FOR A SMALL woman, Em could be dangerous. Standing in Kota’s parking space, legs braced, flaming arrows shooting from her eyes, she would have made a lesser man quail.

  He inched into the space until he was practically touching her knees. When she didn’t move, he took a picture of her with his phone.

  That got her hopping. “Don’t you dare tweet that.”

  When she darted around to pluck it from his hand, he pulled forward and shut off the car.

  Picture deleted, she tossed the phone back at him. “If you bothered using that for actual communication,” she said, “you’d know they’ve been waiting an hour for you. Now move it.”

  He got out, taking his sweet time while she did her border collie thing, herding him toward the studio door, yipping at his heels. “This is no way to start a picture. I don’t care if you think you’re burned out. You’ve got a sterling reputation—­”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “Exactly. It’s not just your rep on the line. Someday you won’t need me anymore and I’ll have to find another job—­”

  That brought him up short. He stopped walking and turned to look at her.

  She threw up her hands. “What’s your problem? Quit staring and move your ass.”

  He closed the distance with one stride and wrapped her in a hug.

  For a moment she went still. Then she started to squirm. “Let go of me, you lunkhead.”

  He kissed the top of her head.

  She went still again. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Kota. What’s going on? Did you . . . do something to Christy?”

  He bit down on his cheek so he wouldn’t laugh. “She had it coming,” he said.

  She wriggled out of his grip and stepped back, staring hard at him. Then she said, “Any witnesses? Her roommate? Did anyone see you go in?”

  He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

  She looked him over, apparently for blood. Peered in the car. “Okay, good.” Then she went still again. “What about the trunk?”

  He shook his head again.

  “You left her at her house?”

  He nodded.

  “Was it messy?”

  He made a face. It was messy all right. But not how Em meant.

  She spiked her hair with one hand. “You need an alibi. You’ve got to get inside immediately and be seen.” She paced. “But I’ll need your help later. Come out the second you’re done. I’ll cancel your lunch.”

  Pulling out her phone, she tapped a number, thinking out loud while it rang. “We’ll need heavy-­duty plastic. I know a place in South Central.”

  He couldn’t contain himself. “You know a place? What the fuck, Em?”

  She shushed him, said into the phone, “This is Emily Fazzone. Mr. Rain won’t be available for lunch today. He sends his regrets. I’ll call tomorrow to reschedule.”

  She hung up, then got behind him and bulldozed him toward the door. “Remember, you’re an actor,” she said, as if he might forget. “Act innocent. No, not innocent. Act like you always act.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “Like you’re guilty of something but too irresistible to convict.”

  She left him at the door and set off toward her Honda at a clip.

  “Wanna take the Porsche?” he called.

  “To South Central? Yeah, because it’s so inconspicuous.” The look she threw over her shoulder said he was too dumb to live.

  He let her start the Honda before he dialed her phone.

  “What?” she snapped out, a woman with important things to do, like cover up a murder.

  “Bring back a three-­by-­three, will you? I worked up an appetite.”

  Appalled silence.

  “And you can skip the plastic,” he said. “I rolled her in the sheets.”

  Her eyes blistered him through the windshield. “You had sex with her.” She made it sound worse than homicide.

  “She threw herself at me.”

  “Baloney.” She shut off the engine and slammed out of the car.

  He ducked inside. “Thanks for canceling lunch,” he said before he hung up on her.

  He found the rest of the cast assembled in a dingy gray room. Sissy patted the chair she’d apparently saved for him. Miles—­the director—­glowered at him from the head of the table.

  This was Kota’s third film with Miles. He was a no-­bullshit kind of guy, and Kota liked that about him. Himself, he was a joker on the set. But when the lights came up, he was all business too. That’s why they got on so well. They were both professionals.

  Now Miles gave him a hard stare. He returned a sheepish grin.

  The reading commenced, along with discussion, disagreement, some laughter, a few tears. But he couldn’t keep his mind on it.

  He kept thinking about Christy.

  He’d only wanted to drop off Tri’s food and make sure he was happy there. He hadn’t expected to have sex.

  But she was so hot.

  He’d wanted women before. Lust was as normal to him as hunger or thirst. But this thing with Christy was out of control. He couldn’t see her without wanting—­needing­­—­to be inside her.

  Fortunately, that’s all it was. Just sex. That whole thing on the island, where he thought he was in love? An illusion brought on by the circumstances. Tana and Sasha had looked so happy, so whole, that he’d foolishly fantasized about having the same for himself.

  Not gonna happen. Christy played her tricks on him, made him feel special, but at the end of the day he was just a means to an end. She didn’t care about him. And now that the story was off the table, she just wanted his body. Hell, she hadn’t batted an eye when he’d offered to be fuck-­buddies.

  Well, that was fine with him. That’s all he wanted from her too. And that’s what he was going to get, in exactly—­he snuck a look at the clock—­forty-­five minutes.

  He could hardly wait.

  EM DOGGED HIM out to his car. “Don’t do it. Don’t go.”

  He got in, slammed the door. The sun-­soaked leather scorched his butt, but he didn’t care. His mind was already at Christy’s. “Quit worrying, Em. It’s just sex.”

  “It’s not just sex, and you know it. You’ve lost your mind.”

  She must really believe that if she thought he’d offed Christy.

  “Have you ever known me to lose my head over a woman?” he said, trying to comfort her.

  “I’ve never seen you in love with one before.” She leaned her hands on the door. �
��I kind of hoped I never would.”

  That startled him. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve seen how you love Tana, and your folks, and me. You go all in. You take us on. Make us your responsibility. You do the same with the animals, like we’re all under your protection.”

  “You are,” he said simply. “I’d do anything for you.” But he’d failed Charlie, hadn’t he? Like he’d failed his birth parents.

  Em touched his shoulder, a squeeze instead of her usual punch. “That’s why you’re torn up about Christy. She triggers all your protective instincts. But you can’t get over that she lied to you. She was a threat to Tana. Maybe she still is.”

  She’d hit the nail on the head.

  He gave her an approving nod. “Those internet psych classes are really paying off.” He shifted into reverse, then shot a quick grin over his shoulder as he pulled away. “Don’t wait up for me, you hear?”

  He hit all the lights and made it to Christy’s in record time. Banging on the door, he heard Tri go into attack mode, barking like a big dog. He’d never done that at Kota’s, where Cy had it covered. But anybody who wanted to get to Christy would have to go through Tri.

  Then she opened the door, and a sunbeam hit her, sparking off her hair. His throat went dry.

  Gone were the yoga pants, replaced by a short, sleeveless dress the color of Ma’s favorite pink roses. Her feet were bare. Her arms too, except from the elbows down, where they were coated in flour.

  She stepped back, he stepped in, and he blinked at the counter.

  “I’m making pasta,” she said.

  No, she was making a mess. Flour blanketed the countertop and the floor surrounding it. She’d tracked it to the door.

  Now she tracked it back to the counter, where a blob of paste squatted. She poked it. “It doesn’t look like yours,” she said.

  “It sure as hell doesn’t.” He nudged her out of the way and tossed the blob in the garbage.

  “Hey! I was still working on that.”

  “You could work on it till the cows come home. It’ll never be pasta.” He rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands like a surgeon. “Any flour left, or is it all on the floor?”