The Wedding Band (23 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

I
DON'T HAV
E
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.

C
HRIS 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 like 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.

F
OR 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.

E
M 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?”

“Very funny.” She took a bag from the cupboard. “You can't expect me to get it perfect the first time. I need practice.”

“Practice on your own lunch hour. I'm hungry.” He hadn't been kidding when he'd told Em he'd worked up an appetite. And he needed strength for what the afternoon promised.

He pointed at a stool. She shimmied her butt onto it, plopping Tri on her lap.

It was almost like old times. Except now he knew she wasn't what she'd pretended to be.

He broke eggs from the carton she'd left open on the counter, then worked the dough while a hundred questions ran through his mind. Questions about her, about them. Questions he wasn't sure he could trust her to answer honestly.

He asked the most basic one first. The one that started it all. “What made you do it?”