In THE WEDDING BAND, Christine Case is a reporter; her
career is hanging by a thread because of a mistake, that
was in fact her editor's. She is sent to cover the
wedding of Montana Rain, an indie movie actor whose
brother is action star, sex symbol extraordinaire and
notorious manwhore: Dakota Rain. Christine's father
provides the entertainment at the wedding, and she is
performaning, as she has done on and off over the years.
Since no reporters are allowed on the premises, it's the
only way Christine can hope to keep her job and have an
insider's look at the celebrity wedding. Upon meeting,
sparks fly like fireworks between Christine and Dakota:
she cannot stand celebrities, but Dakota's perfect
physique and the god-like aura that surrounds him leaves
her dizzy with lust. Upon seeing Christine, Dakota
decides he will do just about anything to have her in his
bed; he abhors paparazzi and reporters of all kinds but
he doesn't know about Christine's real reason for being
there.
Ms. Connelly is so adept at characterisation that within
30 pages, I felt I knew Dakota and Christine, or at least
how they appear on the surface. Obviously, they would end
up together, and I couldn't wait for that moment to
happen because the sexual tension between the two is
almost overwhelming. The writing in THE WEDDING BAND is
like sunshine through a prism, like a kaleidoscope of
colours exploding: the characters, the settings, the
animals -- which feature prominently - are so alive, so
vivid, THE WEDDING BAND truly feels like a movie.
THE WEDDING BAND starts off all sunny and fun, but grows
progressively darker as Christine's lies become the
elephant in the room. Dakota is so used to having women
hop in his bed simply because of his exceptional good
looks, his popularity, and his legendary charm, that he
becomes progressively more and more frustrated when
Christine repeatedly refuses him. He knows she's dying to
have sex with him, but he becomes so insistent that his
behaviour soon borders on sexual harassment. Dakota and
Christine are exceedingly complex characters, who are not
always likeable as they struggle to make the right
decisions, and their journey on their road to love makes
for a most fascinating read. Cara Connelly's stellar
writing never ceases to amaze!
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?
Excerpt
Dakota Rain took a good hard look in the bathroom mirror and
inventoried the assets.
Piercing blue eyes? Check.
Sexy stubble? Check.
Sun-streaked blonde 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, 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 said, 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? If Tubby 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 need to 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 fiancé 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.
Emily 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. 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.
Emily 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 Emily. "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, Emily 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, Emily, 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 was thick as molasses. "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 Emily. 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, 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." Emily 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 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 Dakota got stuck blowing up cities and
machine-gunning armies single-handed.
Sure, Dakota made bigger box office. But Montana had the
talent in the family.
"Sasha's a great girl," Emily 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."
Dakota 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 Montana 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."
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.
Dakota gave a grim smile. "Believe me, Em, Mercer's got it
locked down. Not a single, slimy, sleazy reporter is getting
into that wedding."
* * *
"You're getting into that wedding." Reed aimed a finger at
Chris. "Don't bother arguing. It's that, or clean out your
desk."
"This is bullshit, Reed! Archie admitted it was his screwup."
"And his desk is already empty. But your ass is still in a
sling, Christine. Your name was on that story."
"I told him not to go to print until I verified it! If he'd
waited till I gave him the go ahead—"
"You're missing the point. Senator Buckley saw your
name—Christine Case—on the front page. You
accused her of mishandling campaign contributions. It's your
blood she wants." Reed's chair scraped back. "You wanted to
do hard news, now you've got to take the heat."
Chris rubbed her temple. "I earned my byline, Reed." With
two years of writing fluff for the Living section. It
finally seemed to pay off when one of Buckley's PR
flacks—a guy Chris knew from covering the senator's
thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraisers—handed her the
story of lifetime. Her big break. Guaranteed to run front
page above the fold.
Reed had no sympathy. "You should've held onto the story
until you locked it up. You handed Archie a stick of dynamite."
Oh yes she had. And it blew up in her face.
Reed was right. She bore a big chunk of the blame. She was
lucky he hadn't fired her outright.
"Listen, Chris." Reed came around the desk, propped himself
on the edge. "Emma Case is a hero to a whole generation of
reporters. Your mother's coverage of Vietnam changed
history. That's why you're still sitting here, getting
another chance. That, and the fact that your father's the
entertainment at Montana Rain's wedding."
"So now we're competing with The Enquirer? Sneaking into
celebrity weddings? For God's sake, we're The Los Angeles
Sentinel. Is this what journalism has come to?"
Wrong question. Reed stiffened. "Don't preach to me, young
lady. I grew up in this business, and I can tell you the
world's changed. Newspapers all over the country are hanging
by a thread."
"The scoop on this wedding won't make or break The Sentinel."
"Maybe not. But it'll make or break your future here. I went
to the mat for you and now you'll return the favor. I
promised Owen an exclusive. Where The Stars Are rolls out in
two weeks, and Montana Rain's wedding will be the centerfold
spread."
"Come on, Reed. It's no better than a tabloid—"
He cut her off, ruthlessly. "Your opinion's irrelevant.
Owen's the publisher, and it's his baby. He's expecting it
to boost Sunday circulation, and if it goes down in flames
it won't be because this office didn't do its damnedest."
Chris tried to stare him down, but Reed was master of the
stare down. She crossed her arms. He crossed his.
Sand trickled through the hourglass.
Chris dropped her eyes. Thought about her mother, how proud
she'd been when Chris graduated from Columbia with her
master's in journalism. How disappointed when she didn't use
her degree, choosing a troubadour's life with her father
instead.
Well, it was too late to redeem herself in her mother's
eyes. Alzheimer's had dulled Emma Case's razor-sharp mind.
The woman Chris had admired and resented and loved with all
her heart was, in so many of the ways that matter, already
lost to her.
No, Emma would never know that Chris was finally following
in her footsteps, or that her old friend Reed, managing
editor of The Sentinel, had given Chris that chance.
But Chris knew. With no references but her family name, Reed
had taken it on faith that she'd bring the same commitment
to The Sentinel that Emma had brought to her Pulitzer
Prize-winning career.
But sneaking into celebrity weddings, dishing on who wore
what and who canoodled with who ... well, nobody won awards
for that.
Still, she owed Reed. And with the balance sheet so far out
of whack, what choice did she have?
None.
She'd have to suck it up, sing with her father's band at
Montana Rain's stupid wedding, and bring back some useless
gossip to hype Owen's pet project. Then she'd ride out her
time in the penalty box until she got another crack at hard
news.
Next time, she'd use better judgment, double-check her sources.
Next time, she'd make her mother proud.
Refusing to meet Reed's eyes, Chris punched in her famous
father's private number. He answered on the first ring.
"Hi, honey pie."
"Hi Dad." She cut to the chase. "Listen, is the offer still
open? Can I do the wedding this weekend?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely." Zach Gray didn't miss a beat. "I'll
work up a new set list and shoot it to you. We hit at two.
And honey, security's tighter than a gnat's asshole. No
phones, no nothing. Expect to strip down to your skivvies."
And the hits just kept on coming.
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