THE WEDDING BAND by Cara
Connelly
SYNOPSIS:
Fans
of Rachel Gibson and Jennifer Ryan can
rejoice in Cara Connelly's Save the Date
series. It's the most secretive
celebrity wedding of the year, and Christine
Case is going to be there! No-nonsense
journalist Christine Case still believes
a newspaper should inform, not
entertain. But when Chris's biggest story blows
up in her face, she's out of a job
unless she does the one thing she's sworn
never to do—infiltrate a celebrity
wedding and write an exposé on the happy
couple. A-list heartthrob Dakota Rain
loathes the press. So when he hosts his
equally famous brother's wedding at his
Beverly Hills estate, keeping the
vultures at bay is Dakota's top
priority—until he meets the sultry singer in
the wedding band. Posing as a singer is
no problem for Chris, but when Dakota
talks her into a private-island
getaway, the hot days—and sizzling nights—make
it impossible to go on deceiving him.
But what will happen when the
media-hating movie star discovers the
woman he's falling for is really an
undercover
reporter?
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more at:
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About the
Author:
Her smart and sexy stories have won
high praise, earning Cara several awards,
including the Romance Writers of
America's Golden Heart®, the Valley Forge
Romance Writers' Sheila, and the Music
City Romance Writers' Melody of Love.
Cara, who lives in rural Upstate New
York, works as an appellate court attorney
when she's not crafting steamy novels
of love and romance. - See more at: http://avonromance.com/author/cara-connelly#sthash.SFDWo2JO.dpuf
Stay connected with
the author:
Facebook:
Website:
Email:
caraconnellyauthor@gmail.com
Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6921968.Cara_Connelly
Harper
Collins:
http://avonromance.com/author/cara-connelly
CHAPTER
ONE
Dakota Rain took a good hard look in
the bathroom mirror and inventoried the
assets.
Piercing blue eyes? Check.
Sexy
stubble?
Check.
Sun-streaked blond hair? Check.
Movie-star smile?
Uh-oh.
In the doorway, his assistant rolled
her eyes and hit speed dial. “Emily
Fazzone here,” she said. “Mr. Rain needs to
see Dr. Spade this morning. Another
cap.” She listened a moment, then snorted a
laugh. “You’re telling me. Might as
well cap them all and be done with it.”
In the mirror Dakota gave her his
hit man squint. “No extra
caps.”
“Weenie,” she said, pocketing her
phone. “You don’t have time today,
anyway. Spade’s squeezing you in, as usual.
Then you’re due at the studio at
eleven for the voice-over. It’ll be tight, so
step on it.”
Deliberately, Dakota turned to his
reflection again. Tilted his head.
Pulled at his cheeks like he was
contemplating a
shave.
Emily did another eye roll.
Muttering something that might have
been either “Get to work” or “What a jerk,”
she disappeared into his closet,
emerging a minute later with jeans, T-shirt,
and boxer briefs. She stacked them on
the granite vanity, then pulled out her
phone again and scrolled through the
calendar.
“You’ve got a twelve o’clock with
Peter at his office about the Levi’s
endorsement, then a one-thirty fitting for
your tux. Mercer’s coming here at
two-thirty to talk about security for the
wedding . . .”
Dakota tuned her out. His schedule
didn’t worry him. Emily would get him
where he needed to be. If he ran a little
late and a few people had to cool their
heels, well, they were used to dealing
with movie stars. Hell, they’d be
disappointed if he behaved like regular folk.
Taking his sweet time, he shucked
yesterday’s briefs and meandered
naked to the shower without thinking twice. He
knew Emily wouldn’t bat an eye. After
ten years nursing him through injuries
and illness, puking and pain, she’d
seen all there was to see. Broad shoulders?
Tight buns? She was
immune.
And besides, she was gay.
Jacking the water temp to scalding,
he stuck his head under the spray,
wincing when it found the goose egg on the
back of his skull. He measured it with
his fingers, two inches around.
The same right hook that chipped his
tooth had bounced his head off a
concrete wall.
Emily rapped on the glass. He rubbed
a clear spot in the steam and gave her
the hard eye for pestering him in the
shower.
She was immune to that too. “I asked
you if we’re looking at a
lawsuit.”
“Damn straight.” He was all
indignation. “We’re suing The
Combat Zone. Tubby busted my tooth and gave me a
concussion to
boot.”
She sighed. “I meant, are we getting sued?
Tubby’s a good bouncer.
If he popped you, you gave him a
reason.”
Dakota put a world of aggrievement
into his Western drawl. “Why do you
always take everybody else’s side? You
weren’t there. You don’t know what
happened.”
“Sure I do. It’s October, isn’t it?
The month you start howling at the moon
and throwing punches at bystanders.
It’s an annual event. The lawyers are
on standby. I just want to know if I
should call
them.”
He did the snarl that sent villains
and virgins running for their mamas.
Emily folded her arms.
He stuck his head out the door.
“Feel that.” He pointed at the
lump.
She jabbed it.
“Ow! Damn it, Em, you’re mean as a
snake.” He shut off the water,
dripped his way across the bathroom, and twisted
around in front of the mirror, trying
to see the back of his head.
“Was Montana with you?”
“No.” Little brother’s clubbing days
were over. Montana spent his evenings
with his fiancée now.
“Witnesses?”
“Plenty.”
“Paparazzi?”
“Are you kidding?” He was always
tripping over those leeches. October
usually ended with one of them on the
ground, Dakota punching the snot out of
him while the rest of the bloodsuckers
streamed it
live.
Em dragged her phone out again. “Hi,
Peter. Yeah, Dakota got into it with
Tubby last night. Just a broken tooth and
a knot on his thick skull. But the
press was there, so expect pictures. Okay,
later.”
Dakota gave up on the lump. His hair
was too thick.
And too damn long, an inch past his
chin for the Western he’d start
filming next month. Seemed like a lot of
trouble for what amounted to another
shoot-’em-up just like the last one, and
the one before that. This time there’d
be horses instead of hot rods, and six-guns
instead of Uzis. But no real surprises,
just lots of dead bodies.
Em handed him a towel. “Car?”
He glanced out the window. No
surprises there either. Another sunny
day in L.A. “Porsche. The black one.”
She walked out of the bathroom,
tapping her phone. “Tony, bring the
black Porsche around, will you? And drop
the top.”
Goosing the gas, Dakota squirted
between a glossy Lexus and a pimped-out
Civic, then shot through a yellow light
and squealed a hard right into the
In-N-Out Burger, braking at the drive-thru.
“Gimme a three-by-three, fries, and
a chocolate shake, will ya, darlin’?”
He glanced at Em. “The usual?”
She nodded, phone to her ear.
“Throw in a grilled cheese for the
meat-hater. And an extra straw.” He
pulled forward behind a yellow Hummer.
Still talking, Em opened her iPad,
fiddled around, then held it up for him
to see. Pictures of his go-round with
Tubby.
He shrugged like it didn’t bother
him, but it did. Oh, he didn’t care
if people knew he’d had his ass handed to
him. That was inevitable; nobody beat
Tubby.
What pissed him off were the damn
paparazzi.
Everyone—Peter, Em, even
Montana—told him the media was a fact
of celebrity life. A necessary evil. And
maybe that was
true.
But he’d never forgive them for
Charlie. For driving a good man to
suicide, then tearing at his remains like
the flesh-eating vultures they
were.
And it wasn’t only the paparazzi
who’d made money and careers off
Charlie’s life and death. “Legitimate”
journalists waded in too, exploiting
his best friend’s disintegration, never
letting humanity get in the way of a
good story.
The day they spread Charlie’s corpse
across the front page, Dakota swore off
“news” forever. No papers, no
magazines, no CNN. Never again in this
life.
Pulling up to the window, he set
aside his resentment and laid a
practiced smile on the redhead inside. “Hey,
Sandy-girl. What’s
shakin’?”
“Hey, Kota.” Her Jersey accent
spread his nickname like butter. “I
like the hair.”
“You can have it when I cut it off.”
He tipped her fifty bucks and she blew
him a kiss.
Peeling out of the lot, he handed
off the bag to Em. She was still
uh-huhing into her phone, so he plucked it
from her hand.
“Hey! That was Peter.”
“We just saw him twenty minutes
ago.” He rattled the
bag.
“Honest to God.” She unwrapped his
burger and spread a napkin on his lap.
Then she stuck both straws in the shake,
took a long pull, and passed it over,
half turning in her seat to eyeball him.
“So what happened last
night?”
He sucked down two inches of shake,
then tucked it between his thighs.
“Some asshole was hassling this girl.
Feeling her up.” Manhandling the poor
kid. Pinning her to the wall and rubbing
all over her.
“Tell me you didn’t hit him.”
“I was about to.” And wouldn’t it
have felt great to lay that pretty boy
out? “I pulled him off her. Then Tubby
waded in and spoiled my
fun.”
“And the October madness begins.” Em
tipped back her head and stared up at
blue sky. “Why, oh why, couldn’t Montana
get married in September? Or
November?”
“Why does he have to get married at
all?” It made no sense. Montana—or
Tana, as he was known to family, friends,
and his legions of Twitter
followers—had the world by the balls. Women loved
him. Hollywood loved him. The critics
loved him. He was the indie darling,
offered one challenging, nuanced role
after another, while Kota got stuck
blowing up cities and machine-gunning
armies single-handedly.
Sure, Kota made bigger box office.
But Tana had the talent in the
family.
“Sasha’s a great girl,” Em pointed
out.
“Yeah, she’s a peach. But peaches
grow on trees in California. Why settle
for one when you can have the orchard?”
Em punched his shoulder. “That’s for
peaches everywhere, especially
California.”
Kota grinned and passed her the
shake. “Call Mercer, will you, and
tell him we’re running behind. I don’t want
him getting pissed at
us.”
“Pfft. You never worry about anybody
else’s
feelings.”
“Because they can’t kill us just by
looking at us.”
“See? You’re scared of him too.” She
crossed her arms. “I wish you hadn’t
hired him.”
“So you’ve said about a million
times. But Tana put me in charge of
security, and Mercer’s the best.” His guys
were ex-Rangers and Navy SEALs. “He
says he’ll keep the press out, and I
believe him.”
“Well good luck with that. They
always manage to sneak somebody
inside.”
“Not this time,” Kota vowed. A beach
wedding might be a security
nightmare—not to mention just plain pointless,
since everyone was zipped into tents
and couldn’t see the water anyway—but
Mercer had it covered. Airtight
perimeter, no-fly zone. Saturday’s guests and
employees would be bussed in from a
remote parking lot and wanded before
admittance. Anyone caught with a
recording device would be summarily
executed—er,
ejected.
Kota gave a grim smile. “Believe me,
Em, Mercer’s got it locked down. Not
a single, slimy, sleazy reporter is
getting into that
wedding.”
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