The Wedding Band

by Cara Connelly

  Her lips softened into a smile. “Yeah, I like shit like that.”

  Warmth flooded his chest. She was so damn gorgeous. And when she smiled at him—­

  “Red light,” she said.

  He hit the brakes. “Quit distracting me.”

  She laughed. He gazed at her.

  “Green light.”

  “Shit.” He threw the Porsche into gear.

  In her driveway, he slipped his hand under her hair. Her neck was warm in his palm. He stroked her jaw with his thumb, and she leaned into it like a cat.

  Sitting there behind the wheel, his heart beating fast, his blood humming in his veins, anything seemed possible. Like he was seventeen again, with a pretty girl and a six-­pack on a warm summer night.

  Leaving her took all his willpower. “I’ll be back by six, okay?”

  Her lips quirked. “I think I can live that long without you.”

  Good for her, but he wasn’t sure he could make it.

  Dawdling his way to the studio, he daydreamed, picturing himself in the future, coming home to Christy . . .

  In the first scene, they were at his place in Beverly Hills. He walked in after a long day on the set to find her stretched out by the pool in a string bikini . . .

  Wait. He adjusted the picture, and she was topless.

  Adjusted it again, and she was naked. Yeah, naked.

  She stood gracefully and walked toward him, swaying to Sarah Vaughan . . .

  Wait. She was singing Sarah Vaughan in her smoky, sexy voice. Singing just for him . . .

  His mind sprang forward five years and the setting morphed to a log cabin, mountains rising in the background. He walked through the door tired and happy from a long day at his practice to find her lounging in front of the fire in a snow-­white teddy . . .

  Wait. A white thong . . .

  A horn blasted him back to reality. The guy next to him at the light was grinning, curling his biceps in the universal sign for mine’s bigger than yours.

  As usual, it wasn’t, and Kota was almost annoyed enough to prove it in front of the guy’s girlfriend.

  Instead, he gave a one-­shouldered shrug, and when the jerk patched out in his pathetic Corvette, Kota wasn’t even tempted to floor the Porsche and leave him in the dust.

  Today, even the world’s biggest asshole wouldn’t be able to kill his buzz.

  RAY SHUFFLED INTO the kitchen in her bathrobe, a snotty look on her hungover face.

  Pouring a cup from the pot Chris had just made, she said over her shoulder, “I can’t believe you’re sleeping with that asshole.”

  “Sorry you don’t approve.” Chris could do sarcasm as well as the next guy.

  But being at odds with Ray made life too difficult, so she took a deep breath and started over. “About last night. I thought you were asleep, or I would’ve given you a heads-­up. I’m sorry Cy startled you.”

  Ray snorted. “He did more than startle me. He tried to take off my leg.”

  Another deep breath. “Cy’s not vicious, Ray. He was probably trying to make friends. But I admit he can be scary to look at.”

  “I still think he’s a hellhound.”

  Which explained the line of salt across the threshold.

  Chris pressed her palms on the counter. There was no reasoning with Ray when it came to demons and hellhounds, so she changed the subject instead.

  “What’s up for you today? Another casting call?” Please say yes, please say yes.

  “A job interview.” Disgusted. “My father set it up. He says he’s done writing checks.” Ray rolled her eyes, drama-­queen style. “Can I borrow your car?”

  “What happened to yours?”

  “The cops booted it yesterday. Can you believe it? Just because I forgot to pay some stupid parking tickets.”

  She’d probably get another on Chris’s car. Small price to pay to get her out of the house.

  Chris set the keys on the counter. “Bring it back as soon as you can, okay? I need to run some errands before six.”

  “Why, what’s happening at six? Mr. Movie Star coming back for another bang?”

  Chris clung to her temper by her fingernails. “Actually, he’s taking me to dinner.”

  “Someplace ritzy, I hope. It’s the least he can do.”

  “A little place called Maria’s in Malibu, as a matter of fact. Very romantic.” She shouldn’t get so defensive, but Ray pushed her buttons.

  “Woo, big spender.” Another eye roll, Ray’s default expression. “Whatever. As long as he keeps that butt-­ugly mutt out of here.”

  That was the last straw. “Cy’s welcome in my house,” Chris said through her teeth. “I think it’s time you look for another place to live.”

  Ray gasped.

  Brushing past her, Chris said over her shoulder, “Good luck with the interview. I hope you get the job.”

  Because come the end of the month, sister, you’re out on your ass.

  HIS HAIR WHIPPING as they rolled up Highway 1, Kota glanced over at Chris. “I can put the top up if the wind’s too much.”

  She’d tucked her own hair into a scrunchie. “No, I love it.” All of it. The wind that stripped the day’s frustrations away. The man, framed by the ocean, backlit by the sinking sun.

  And the car. She rubbed her palm over supple leather. Her Eos was a convertible too, but comparing it to the Porsche was like holding box wine up to Dom Pérignon.

  He must’ve noticed her petting the seat. “This is the one I’ll keep,” he said, “when I get out of the business.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You’re going back to school?”

  ­“People keep reminding me I’m not getting any younger.”

  She touched his arm. “Oh, Kota. This is great. I’m so happy.” Giddy, in fact, as if the Dom was fizzing in her stomach.

  He smiled like he was pleased to have pleased her. “Gotta finish this project first. Wrap up a few things. Prance around in some Levi’s with my shirt off. Then it’s bye-­bye Hollywood.”

  “Wow.” It was a major move for anyone. But for one of the world’s biggest stars, it was unprecedented.

  “I’m keeping a lid on it for now,” he said. “I told Em and Tana, but nobody else knows yet.” He squeezed her hand. “So keep it to yourself, okay?”

  “I will.” Warmth suffused her from head to toe. He’d entrusted her with a huge secret. It was a start. More than a start.

  It was a new beginning.

  Wanting to share something meaningful in return, she spoke out impulsively. And shocked herself when she said, “I’m not going to write my mother’s bio.”

  His brows went up. “Why not?”

  “My heart isn’t in it.” Hard to admit, even to herself. “Every time I open the file, I end up daydreaming.”

  “About?”

  “Myself.” Embarrassing, but true. “I had a weird childhood. Nine months a year living in war zones, three months living like a rock star.”

  “Most ­people never do either of those things. We grow up somewhere in the middle.”

  “While I lived at both ends of the spectrum, with no idea what the middle was like.”

  He nodded like that explained a lot. “You should write about it.”

  “Ha. Who’d read it?”

  “I would.”

  She couldn’t hug him while they were driving along a cliff edge, so she feigned shock instead. “You read?”

  “I skip over the big words.”

  She patted his leg. “I’ll help you with those.” She’d help him with anything. “That reminds me. You mentioned a fund-­raiser for the shelter. Did I miss it?”

  “It’s in December. I’m Santa Claus.” His smile dazzled her. “You in?”

  “I’m in.” Oh boy, was she in. Over her head, and loving it.
<
br />   “Something else,” he said. “Adam and Maddie are tying the knot next month. I’m looking for a date.”

  “I’m in for that too.” Her heart floated like a balloon. She’d never been happier. Never in her whole life.

  The sun set in splendor as they drove, turning to twilight as they reached Malibu. Kota hooked a right onto a road with no name, swung a U-­turn, and parked in front of a tiny restaurant disguised as a house.

  When she reached for the door handle, he said, “Hang on. It’s our first date. Let me open your door.”

  Folding her hands in her lap, she watched him walk around the hood, six feet four inches of gorgeousness packaged in a white button-­down and black Levi’s that revealed nothing but hinted at everything.

  To the untrained eye, he looked formidable, built to lead armies through impassable mountains over pitiless terrain. To conquer entire civilizations, annihilate their men and enslave their women.

  But to her, he was the gentlest man she’d ever known.

  Opening her door, he held out his hand. She took it, her heart in her throat.

  With one long, muscled arm, he caught her waist and swept her close. She met his eyes, saw passion there, and fun.

  “Nice dress,” he said.

  She flipped the flirty skirt. “This old thing?”

  “You’d make burlap look good.”

  Could her heart melt into a gooier mess?

  He lowered his chin. She tipped her head back for his kiss—­

  And a loud voice split the twilight. “Dakota! Hey, Dakota! Is Chris your new girlfriend? Are you two serious?”

  They both spun toward the voice. A flash fired, repeatedly.

  Kota turned on her. “What the fuck?” His voice was a steel blade. “You lying bitch.”

  “But I didn’t—­”

  He stepped up onto the hood of the Porsche and over the windshield, dropping down into the driver’s seat.

  “Wait! I—­”

  Gunning the engine, he squealed away.

  As he took the corner onto Highway 1, her purse sailed out the back, bounced off the trunk, and exploded on the pavement. Like shrapnel, the contents sprayed from sidewalk to sidewalk. Tampons. TicTacs. A half-­eaten Snickers. And her birth-­control pills in their pink plastic case.

  She stopped breathing. Her vision shrank to a pinprick and her skin went ice cold.

  I will not faint. I will not faint.

  She dragged a powerful breath through her nose. The world took shape again. Her hands unclenched.

  And the reporter closed in, camera rolling. “Chris, tell us what’s going on with you and Dakota. Is it serious? Why’d he take off and leave you here?”

  “No comment.” It came out weaker than she intended, but she left it at that.

  He was undeterred. “Chris, our sources say—­”

  She tuned him out and took stock of the situation. Traffic zoomed along Highway 1 at thirty, a crawl for the drivers, but the Indy 500 to someone planning to step out in front of them.

  A pickup zipped past, leaving tread marks on her wallet, the one item she couldn’t abandon. Timing her move, she darted into the street, scooped it up, then froze on the yellow line as a Suburban skinned past with inches to spare.

  She was making for the other sidewalk—­paparazzi-­free, but ­peopled with gawkers—­when she spotted her iPhone farther down the lane. A Beemer sped toward it like it was worth extra points.

  Damn it, her whole life was on that phone.

  Recklessly, she sprinted for it. The Beemer hit the brakes, then hit the horn even harder, but she snatched up the phone unharmed and beat feet for the sidewalk.

  Ducking into a chocolate shop, she ignored the clerk and the guy buying make-­up truffles at the counter. Flattening her back to the wall, she pressed a palm to her chest to keep her heart from punching out through her ribs.

  And she waited. Sweat rolled down her sides.

  Minutes passed and no one followed her. The guy left with his chocolates. The clerk disappeared into the back. And gradually her adrenaline slowed to a trickle, then dried up completely.

  Which wasn’t a good thing.

  Because in its wake came heartbreak too immense to process. Betrayal too deep to forgive.

  And fury too extreme to control.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “RAYLENE!” CHRIS STRODE into the kitchen and slammed the door behind her.

  Tri plopped off the couch and hopped toward her. She scooped him up under her arm, out of the line of fire.

  “Raylene, get your ass down here!”

  “What’s your problem?” Ray trudged down the steps, wineglass in hand.

  “You called TMZ.” Chris quivered with fury. She put the counter between them so she wouldn’t tear Ray to pieces bare-­handed. “You called fucking TMZ and told them we’d be at Maria’s.”

  Ray faked offended. But she was a shitty actress, which was why she hadn’t worked a day since she got to L.A. “Why’re you blaming me? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Liar.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Don’t go there.” Chris white-­knuckled the counter. “I want you out of here. Now.”

  “It’s midnight!”

  “Don’t I know it.” Chris had counted every minute during the long cab ride, itching to get her hands around Ray’s throat. “Find a hotel. Crawl home to Daddy. I don’t care, but get out.”

  “You can’t—­”

  “I can.” Chris dropped her voice to a hiss. “Leave now, or I’ll beat you unconscious and throw your body in the road to get creamed by the first passing car.”

  Ray backed up. Her wine sloshed. “I don’t have a ride.”

  “I told the cabbie to wait.”

  RAY LEFT WITH one bag, vowing to return with her lawyers.

  “Go ahead, sue me.” Chris slammed the door. Ray didn’t know how easy she’d gotten off. A traffic jam on the 101 had probably saved her life, because Chris’s homicidal rage had an extra hour to flame out.

  What remained was a slow-­burning anger that glowed like banked coals. Less volatile, but enduring enough to roast a slow-­turning pig on a spit.

  A six-­foot-­four, two-­hundred-­pound pig.

  As for Ray, good riddance. The woman was a selfish narcissist, and her escalating resentment and imminent poverty made her a menace. Tipping off TMZ was the least of what she’d do for money now that Daddy had cut her off.

  Still, the house was damned quiet without her.

  Until knuckles rapped on the door.

  Only Kota would have the nerve to barge in at this hour, probably to rip her a new one.

  Well, if he thought she’d stand still for it, he had another think coming. With blood in her eye, she yanked open the door, planning to send him back to hell with her boot in his ass.

  But it wasn’t Kota. “Chris, I’m—­”

  “I know who you are, and I said no comment!” She slammed the door for the third time that night.

  Damn it, she should’ve known they’d show up. Panic tickled her throat. She rushed around the ground floor, checking all the locks, drawing every curtain.

  Then she paced like a tiger in a cage. Just knowing they were outside shrunk her tiny house to a matchbox.

  Tri eyed her as she strode and turned, strode and turned. Her imagination raced along with her pulse, picturing the story as it would run on TV, as it would even now be running on TMZ’s website.

  They had plenty to work with. Not only had she been publicly abandoned by the world’s biggest star, her purse tossed out of his car like garbage, but she’d added to the drama with a hair-­raising dash into traffic, a near-­death experience on the yellow line, and a heart-­stopping standoff with a Beemer.

  And yet, as horrible as it had been, and as
embarrassing as it would be, she had to give Ray credit for one thing. Her despicable stunt exposed Kota’s true feelings.

  He didn’t trust her, or he would’ve let her explain. And he damn sure didn’t love her, or he wouldn’t have thrown her—­and her purse—­out onto the street like trash.

  She deserved better. She might have started out on the wrong foot with Kota, but when push had come to shove, she’d done the right thing.

  He couldn’t say the same.

  Backhanding the tears that streaked her cheeks, she raised her chin, squared her shoulders. And summoned the anger that had wilted under grief.

  She’d cried her last tear for Dakota Rain.

  She was better off without him.

  KOTA STARED AT his computer, a fist-­sized knot in his gut.

  On screen, Christy teetered on the yellow line as a Suburban skinned past, blowing her skirt up to her waist. Then she darted in front of a Beemer that barely stopped short of flattening her.

  He raked a hand through his hair. It never occurred to him that her purse would blow apart like a bomb.

  And to be brutally honest, at that moment he wouldn’t have cared. He’d told no one else where they’d be, so he’d assumed Christy was to blame. His heart had broken on the spot, his ego had taken it in the teeth, and he’d reacted instinctively.

  But driving home, doubt had crept in. Why would she tip off TMZ? It made no sense at all.

  He’d almost turned around to go back, to let her explain. But she’d burned him before. He didn’t trust himself to know her lies from the truth.

  Now one look at the news clip told him all he needed to know. No actress could fake the blank astonishment on Christy’s face as he’d shoved away from her and left her in the dust.

  Guilt burned a hole in his chest. He rubbed it with the flat of his hand as he replayed the clip, suffering through the voice-­over, agonizing over Christy’s confusion, shamed by her courage in the face of his reckless stupidity.

  Then he shut it off and stood up.

  He was an asshole, and she’d probably never forgive him. But that wouldn’t stop him from begging her for one more chance.

  Traffic was light at two in the morning. It made for a quick ride to Christy’s house. And it made it easy to spot the van tucked into the hedgerow across from her driveway.