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!
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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