The Wedding Band (15 page)

“Y
OU'RE NO
T STILL
mad at me, are you, babe?” Kota flicked a glance at Christy's profile, then back at the bumpy trail. She'd been silent since they left the big house.

“No, I'm not mad.” She stunned him with a brush of knuckles down his cheek, a tender touch.

He caught her hand and kissed it, then pressed it to his heart. “Tell me you're glad you came,” he said impulsively. “To the island. To dinner.”

“I . . .” She hesitated. “Everything's different than I expected.”

“In what way? What's different?”

“You. Me. Everything.” She didn't sound happy about it.

“How are you and me different?”

“You're not an asshole. And I am.”

What the fuck?

“You're
not
an asshole,” he said. That much he'd swear to.

“You don't really know me, Kota.”

“I know plenty. I know you were pissed off when we got to the big house, but you put it aside for Sasha's sake. I know my brother thinks you walk on water. You love animals and they love you. My folks like you. Hell, Ma even asked you to lunch.”

None of that seemed to help. In fact, she pulled her hand from his grasp and sat on it.

He didn't know what to make of her. In his book, it was a magical night. He'd begun to believe that everybody was right; he truly was smitten with her.

He struggled to keep his tone light. “What else you got?”

“Nothing. I got nothing.” It came across dolefully.

He stroked her hair. “What happened, honey? Did Sasha say something to upset you?”

“Sasha's the nicest person I've ever met.” Like it was tragic.

“Then what's the matter?”

Instead of answering, she buried her nose in Tri's neck. And Kota's heart, so full a moment before, shriveled like a raisin.

When they got inside, he took her shoulders. “Sweetheart. Talk to me.”

She wouldn't meet his eyes. “I'm just tired. I'll see you tomorrow.”

And she left him standing alone, with the best night of his life in pieces at his feet.

I
'M AN
ASSHOLE,
I'm an asshole, I'm an asshole.

Chris typed it line after line. It was that or nothing, because about the wedding, the newlyweds, and the honeymoon, she couldn't summon a word.

Talk about writer's block.

Stepping away from the blinking cursor, she stood in the center of the room, not knowing which way to turn. Out the window, only black. As black as her heart. As black as ink on a page.

Out the door, only pain. She couldn't face Kota. She'd starve to death in her room, because she couldn't look into his eyes again.

She tried rolling her neck, but it was practically paralyzed, as if her head was a bottle cap screwed onto her shoulders by the strongest man on earth.

“What's wrong with me?” she asked Tri.

He licked her chin, a kiss she didn't deserve.

“Why aren't you with Kota? He rescued you. He rescued me.” She gripped her neck with one hand. “But this time he took in a traitor, didn't he? A spy. A sneak. What would Verna say about that? What would any of them say?”

She released her neck to shove her hand through her hair. “What would Mom say? Damn the torpedoes and get the story, that's what she'd say.”

Or would she?

Chris's pulse picked up speed. “Wait a minute. Mom never lied for a story. She never pretended to be someone she wasn't.”

She paced the room. “Mom had pride. Self-­respect. She got the story through grit and determination, not deception and deceit. She was a credit to her profession.”

Stopping at the window, Chris ignored the darkness outside, staring at her reflection instead, seeing Emma in the depths of her own eyes.

“My God.” The truth crystalized, clear as a diamond. “Mom would hate this. She wouldn't be proud of me at all.”

 

Chapter Sixteen

S
CONES.
L
IGHT AND
airy, with currants and nothing else, the way God intended them.

Chris took two, poured a big mug of coffee, and headed for the swing.

Kota was already there, mug in hand, a stack of papers on the seat beside him. His smile made her newly freed heart flutter like a hummingbird.

He moved the stack to his lap and she sat beside him, curling one leg under her butt.

“These scones are outrageous.” She polished off number one right down to the crumbs on her chest.

“Glad you like them.” There went that smile again.

She wanted to return it wholeheartedly, but she couldn't do that quite yet.

First, she had to come clean.

In the wee hours of the night, she'd almost convinced herself it wasn't necessary. Wasn't it enough that she'd resolved to quit her job at the
Sentinel
rather than write the wedding story? Kota never had to know she'd deceived him.

But daylight revealed the holes in her logic. For one, if she got involved with him, he'd eventually learn of her double identity anyway, in a way that would surely cast her in the worst light.

For another, even if they never got off the ground, she'd gone a long way toward sacrificing her integrity. She needed, desperately, to reclaim it.

Nope, there was no getting around it. Even if Kota voted her off the island, she had to tell him the truth. And she would.

After breakfast.

Biting into scone number two, she pointed her chin at the pile on his lap.

“Scripts.” He fanned a few pages without enthusiasm.

“The usual?”

“If it works, don't fix it.” He shrugged like he didn't care.

She peered at the one on top. “
Edge of Destruction.
What does that even mean?”

“It means Sasha'll love it.”

She studied him over the rim of her mug. “You could go back to school.”

He smirked.

“I'm serious. How long would it take to become a vet?”

“Five years. I'd be forty.”

“And if you don't go to school, how old will you be in five years?”

That seemed to stump him. She shook her head. “Never mind, you're not smart enough after all.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “I never looked at it that way.”

She licked her fingers, watching him from the corner of her eye as he thought it through.

She saw the moment he rejected it. The spark went out of his eyes. “Too many commitments,” he said. “My next three films are lined up.”

“What would it take to get out of them?”

“The Western starts shooting next month.”

“What about the other two?”

He rubbed his neck. “I could wiggle out of the last one. It's not set in stone. But the second one . . .” He shook his head. “There's too much riding on me. Too many ­people.”

“Okay, so the Western and the next one would take you through next summer, right? You could start school in the fall.” She held up her hand before he could object. “I know, you'll be forty-­one. Either way.”

He looked at the pile of scripts like he'd gladly set them on fire. But he said, “In five years I can bank two hundred million. My body's worth a lot more than my brain. And money can do a lot more than one vet.”

“If I can paraphrase, saving one vet won't change the world, but it'll change the world for that one vet.”

That got a laugh out of him. She could see he wasn't ready to sign on yet, but she'd planted the seed.

“How about you?” he said, rocking the swing with his foot. “Em told me you don't perform much anymore. Why not?”

She shrugged. “I got tired of living out of a suitcase. I wanted to put down some roots.”

“Get married? Have kids?”

She gave him the eyebrow.

He winced. “Too soon?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I'm sorry I went off on you.”

“So you said. I accepted your apology. But once burned, twice shy.”

He nodded and dropped it. “So why not perform in L.A.? No suitcase.”

She looked out to sea. “I'm concentrating on other things. Writing the biography.” Her journalism career was dead in the water, but she'd redeem herself with a Pulitzer Prize–winning tribute to her mother's career.

“How can you not sing?” he asked. “It's like Rembrandt refusing to paint.”

“That's sweet, but talk about a whopper. Besides, I still sing with Dad sometimes. In fact, I recently did a ritzy celebrity wedding. You might've heard about it.”

“Was that you?” He eyed her up and down, raising her temperature.

She sang a few sultry bars of “Fever.”

His eyes glazed.

“Just because I have it,” she said, “doesn't mean I have to sell it.” She aimed a pointed look at his chest.

“You think I should waste all this?” He drawled it out, with a lazy half smile.

Her turn to eye him up and down. “I see a nanogram of fat hanging over your waistband. It's all this lounging around. Shouldn't you be pumping iron?”

His smile widened to a grin. “Wanna watch?”

“Pfft, why would I—­okay, yeah, I do.”

He dumped the scripts on the floor. “Come on then. I'll show you how the big boys do it.”

The gym consumed more than half of his wing.

“Holy shit.” She turned a full circle. “You use all this stuff?”

All this stuff included a Nautilus circuit, racks of dumbbells, a dozen futuristic cardio machines, an obstacle course with scaling walls and climbing ropes, and a full-­sized trampoline surrounded by mats.

“I do a lot of my own stunts.” He vaulted onto the trampoline, jounced a few times, and held out his hand.

She backed up to the wall. “Not on your life. You can break your neck on those things.”

He bounced higher, his hair floating around his head, then he backflipped—­awesomely—­three times in succession. He dismounted, cheeks flushed, eyes shining, and walked toward her. “Come on, I'll spot you.”

“Uh-­uh.”

He stopped directly in front of her. His sheer size made her feel petite, which she wasn't. His sheer power made her feel fragile, which she also wasn't.

What she was, was turned on like a mare in heat, which he could probably sense, being the stallion he was.

He braced a hand on the wall by her head and locked onto her eyes. His finger trailed fire along her jaw. She shivered.

“Christy, darlin'.” His deep, rumbling drawl. “You came to the gym for a reason. Want to tell me what it is?”

K
OTA FELT
C
HRISTY'
S
pulse flutter under his fingertip. “I . . . no,” she said.

“No, you don't want to tell me?”

“That's right.” Her throat moved as she swallowed.

“Why not?” He traced her collarbone, lingering in the well.

“Because.” Barely more than a whisper.

He tilted his head, leaning in. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted.

At the last second, she turned her head. “It's not fair. You have all this
testosterone,
and it's not fair.”

“I hear it transfers through saliva.” He licked her cheek.

“Gross,” she said, unconvincingly. She shoved at his chest.

He lingered a moment to remind her he was bigger and badder, then he pushed off the wall. Turning away, he smiled to himself. Christy might know the power of the tit, but she was about to learn the power of the bicep.

He strolled to the chin-­up bar, jumped up and grabbed it, and pumped out a few quick ones. Then, as if it just occurred to him, he dropped down and waved her over. “Climb on,” he said, giving her his back, “for resistance.”

Her indecision hung in the air. Then she grabbed his shoulders and hopped up, piggyback style.

He took a moment to adjust his erection. Chinning with a boner. That was a first.

Then he caught the bar on a hop, and this time he chinned in slow motion so she could appreciate his arms in all their glory.

Sure enough, her breathing quickened. One hand snaked out to cover his bicep.

“
Woooow.
” She drew it out, awe and lust rolled up in one word. Her fingers flexed into claws, nails raking muscle in a curving path around to the back of his arm, scoring his triceps, tickling his armpit. Over his chest they scraped, then down to his abs, strumming the washboard from his chest all the way down to his shorts.

In his ear, she moaned. It hummed in his veins, a siren song, all the sexier because she gave it up unwillingly.

He released the bar with a moan of his own. Her legs slid down over his hips. But when he turned, she stepped back, palms out. “I'm sorry. Not yet.”

He clenched his fists to keep from taking her against the wall. “When?”

“Let's take a walk. We can talk—­”

He scooped up a towel and buried his face. His dick had a mind of its own just now, and it wasn't up for conversation. “I'll meet you outside,” he said into the folds.

When the door closed with a click, he sucked a jagged breath. “God
damn
it.”

“I
'M SORRY,
” SHE
said again when he stepped out on the porch. “I . . . You . . .” She threw up her hands. “Okay, I admit it. You're irresistible. Are you happy now?”

“Do I look happy?” He bared his teeth in a snarl that looked half serious. “If I'm so irresistible, why aren't we bouncing on the trampoline right now?”

“We should talk first. Get to know each other.”

“And
then
we can do it?”

She smiled, noncommittally. If he still wanted to do it after she confessed, she'd strip on the spot.

“Is there a path along the shore?” Best to have this conversation away from sharp objects in the kitchen.

“Yeah.” He stumped toward the beach, and she followed behind him. She couldn't blame him for not being a good sport. Even
she
was frustrated by the mixed signals she was sending.

It wasn't her usual style. She liked to flirt as much as the next girl, but she wasn't coy, and she wasn't a tease. When she was interested in a man, she didn't play games.

But with Kota she'd been hot and cold, her body and brain each wrestling for control. Whenever her body had her brain on the ropes, she let Kota see how she felt. When her brain got the upper hand, she retreated like a silly virgin.

It was as frustrating for her as it was for him. Maybe when the big reveal was behind them, they could start over. Maybe he'd still want her.

Or maybe not.

Kota led the way to a ribbon of trail. They walked it in silence, winding along the varied shoreline, around rocky outcroppings, across a sliver of beach. In places the path curved away from the sea and into the shadowy woods, a whole other world, only to emerge moments later into brilliant sunlight.

Again, Kota proved he couldn't hold onto a bad mood. Even if he'd tried, the dogs wouldn't let him. Cy bounded in and out of the water, shaking all over them each time. Tri rode on his shoulder, enjoying a bird's-­eye view.

The ocean breeze washed over all of them. The sun splintered off the sea. And before long he was holding her hand and humming off tune.

“What's that song?” She couldn't make it out.

“ ‘Crazy.' You don't recognize it?”

“Um, no. It goes more like this.” She sang a verse.

“Okay, I got it.” He tried humming it again.

“Patsy Cline's rolling over in her grave,” she informed him and sang it all the way through.

Then he mangled “Stormy Weather” until she set him straight. She cut off “Misty” at the first sour note.

By the time she caught on to his game, they'd covered miles at a gentle pace. “You're a jerk,” she said. “And I'm a dope.”

“A dope with a gorgeous voice.” He kissed her knuckles resoundingly. “If you don't want to sell it, how about donating it? The shelter's having a fund-­raiser. They're bursting at the seams. Too many animals. Too many misfits.”

Cy chose that moment to drop a stick at their feet, his jagged tongue lolling gaily over mangled lips.

“When is it?” she said.

“I'll tell you the details when we're back in L.A.”

Which meant he expected to keep seeing her on the mainland. Warmth curled up like a kitten in her chest.

God help her, she'd fallen for a celebrity.

The path took a turn, emerging from the trees to descend toward another crescent of white sand. Kota started down, then slammed on the brakes.

Chris bounced off his back. “What the hell?” she said, but he didn't reply, transfixed by something on the beach below.

Peering past him, she followed his horrified gaze and gasped.

On a bright red blanket spread out on the sand, Tana banged his new wife like a jackhammer.

K
OTA TORE HIS
eyes away before they burned out of his head.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” he muttered, praying for a mind wipe. Anything to erase his brother's humping white ass from his brain.

He tried prodding Christy back up the path, but she dug in her heels.

“What, you want to watch?” he hissed, incredulous.

“Don't you?” Just as incredulous.

“He's my
brother
.”

“So?” Her eyes were glued to the action. “Don't tell me you haven't shared women.”

“At the same time? No!” He tried nudging her, but she had hold of a tree.

Cy trotted past, heading down, and Kota panicked. Dumping Tri on the ground, he gave chase, afraid to shout even though the newlyweds were so into it they probably wouldn't notice.

But they'd notice dog slobber, for sure.

Scooping up Cy, all eighty pounds of him, he hotfooted back up the path.