ONE EAR PRESSED to the curtain, Chris scribbled notes on the back of an envelope with an eyebrow pencil.
It was messy, but what could she do? She’d left her pad and pen at home. After a hundred society soirees, remembering who wore which designer dress was second nature. No need to write it down.
But when Dakota Rain started talking in that spellbinding drawl, speaking from the heart about his legendary messed-up childhood, she knew she had to get every word. Moving, personal, and exclusive, it was exactly what Reed wanted.
If this didn’t save her job, nothing would.
“Watcha doing, honey pie?”
She whirled, scrunching the envelope. “Just making a crib sheet for the first set. Um, we’re doing ‘Fever’ in A, right?”
“Just like always.” Zach cocked his head. “Nervous?”
“Do I seem nervous?” She flipped her hair, affecting nonchalance.
“More like jumpy.” He grinned. “Dakota got to you, didn’t he?”
“Pfft. No.”
“Well, sweetie, you got to him.”
She eye-rolled. “Yeah, he was all atwitter.”
“He’s not the first guy to get tongue-tied around a beautiful woman.”
She jerked a thumb toward the crowd. “Did you get a look out there? There’s at least two hundred beautiful women.”
“Of course there are, this is Cali-fucking-fornia.”
“So let’s see how tongue-tied he is.” She pulled back the curtain.
Half the guests were up and circulating while their seventy-five-dollar-a-head appetizers went cold on their tables. But then, this was Cali-fucking-fornia. Most of these women topped out at five hundred calories a day. They wouldn’t fritter them away on appetizers, no matter how famous the chef.
Instead, they orbited Dakota, who was yakking away with no sign of a knot in his tongue.
She smirked triumphantly, but Zach only shrugged. “Just proves you knocked his socks off.”
“No, Dad, it proves some women will listen to any dreck that falls from celebrity lips.”
She gazed out at Dakota, the sun at the center of his own solar system. “He assumes he’s fascinating, and why wouldn’t he, when our celebrity-infatuated culture hangs on his words? As if being born good-looking makes him inherently interesting.” She lifted one shoulder, let it fall. “I almost can’t blame him for thinking he’s God’s gift.”
Zach poked her. “You’re a smarty-pants, just like your mother.”
She dropped the curtain. It was too easy to stare, to be blinded by the sun.
She focused on Zach. “Speaking of Mom. I haven’t told you because . . . well, I haven’t told anyone.” She swallowed hard. “Mom’s got Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” He pulled her into a hug.
She rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“It’s a disease, Christy. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed. It’s just that Mom would hate the headlines. ‘Groundbreaking War Correspondent No Longer Knows Her Own Name.’ ”
Zach winced. “She’s that bad?”
“Not yet. But reporters are always looking for a hook.” The irony didn’t escape her. “I wouldn’t put it past them to”—air quotes—“interview her, especially the ones she’s pissed off over the years. And there are legions.”
“Yeah, I get you.” Privacy invasion was something Zach understood too well.
His dry tone made Chris ask, “How are you doing?”
“One day at a time. Sometimes, one minute at a time.”
She tightened her arms around him. What could she say that hadn’t already been said?
Zach’s whole adult life had been a hedonist’s wet dream. He’d finally checked himself into Betty Ford. Now he was seven weeks clean and sober, and each morning when he woke up, he started from scratch.
He stepped back and gave her a bracing smile. “Don’t worry about me, sweetie. I’ve got this.”
She wasn’t so sure, but she nodded.
Balling his hands in his pockets, he put a twist in his smile to lighten the mood. “As I was saying, you’re a smarty-pants. But sometimes you outsmart yourself.”
She played along, played it up. “As I was saying, Dakota Rain’s a raging egomaniac and a dimwit to boot. Have you seen his movies? He’s all bulging muscles and squinty eyes. He snarls and spits out two words at a time. ‘Nice. Dress.’ ” She grunted it out like an ape.
And the curtain drew back. Mr. Bulging Muscles himself.
Mortified, she stared helplessly as a hot flush shot from her neck to her crown.
But if he’d heard her dissing him, he hid it behind a smile. And there was nothing disparaging to be said about that Smile. He flashed it around in every film, and it sold as many tickets to red-blooded women as his body count did to their bloodthirsty boyfriends.
“Zach.” His deep drawl rumbled. “I got someone here who’s dying to meet you.”
Stepping aside, he touched a big hand to his mother’s slender shoulder, and Chris got her first good look at the woman who’d housebroken the Rain boys.
If size had been what counted, those boys would have run roughshod over her. Fine-boned and slender, Verna Rain could have walked under Dakota’s outstretched arm without mussing her snowy wash-and-set.
But there was more to her than flesh and bone. Kindness, humor, and determination were etched on her face. She would have needed all three to raise the self-professed bad boys into Hollywood’s biggest stars.
Yet she could still be starstruck herself. Staring up at Zach, her cornflower eyes went round, and her cheeks glowed apple red.
Zach took it in stride, placing a gallant kiss on her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Rain.”
“Oh. Oh dear.” She went a deeper red. “Mr. Gray, I’ve been a fan for a long time. Ever since Precious Love.”
Zach grinned. “Well, that is a long time, isn’t it? And none of this ‘Mr. Gray’ business. I’m Zach to my friends.”
“Oh. Oh my.” She fluttered like a bird.
Chris slanted a glance at Dakota. He looked amused, and a little perplexed. He caught her eye, and the grin he gave her was boyish, spontaneous. And twice as appealing as the Smile.
Her heart sped up in response, and she smiled back without thinking.
Instantly, his eyes glazed. He focused on her lips.
She clamped them shut.
Zach touched her arm. “May I present my daughter, Christy?”
Chris pried her lips open. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Rain.”
“Please, call me Verna.” Her handshake was firm, but her fingers felt like twigs.
“What a lovely name. I’ve never heard it before.”
“Oh, I don’t imagine you have many Vernas in Los Angeles anymore. But there’s a few of us in Wyoming yet.” She touched Dakota’s sleeve. “Remember Verna Presky? You had such a crush on her in sixth grade. She wouldn’t look at you twice.”
Zach let out a laugh. “Bet that hasn’t happened lately,” he said to Dakota.
“You’d be surprised” was the wry reply.
Chris felt his gaze on her face. She darted a glance at him.
And Verna caught them red-handed. A slow smile curved her lips. “Christy, dear, are you married?”
“Um, no.” In Chris’s world, marital role models were thin on the ground. So were marital prospects.
Verna patted her wrist. “Don’t worry, dear. The right man will come along. Maybe sooner than you think.” Deliberately, she looked up at her son. “I met your father at a wedding, you know.”
“Yeah, Ma, I know. A hundred people and your eyes met across the room.”
“That’s just how it was.” She turned to Chris. “My second cousin Noreen’s wedding reception. I was sixteen, in a sprigged muslin dress I made for the occasion, the most formfitting thing I’d ever worn.”
One hand floated over her hip. “I was just filling out, and that dress caught the boys’ eyes. They gathered round as boys do, but I knew them all from school and wasn’t interested in a one of them.
“Then Roy walked in.” Her eyes sparkled. “He was older, from a few towns over. We’d never met, but he took one look at me, I took one look at him, and we beat a path to the preacher.”
She lowered her voice. “In those days, you know, marriage came before sex, so there was no time to waste. Roy was that handsome.”
Dakota drew back, shock on his face. “Whoa, wait. You mean you and Pops have had sex?”
“Oh, a time or two. But even though we gave him ample opportunity, the Lord chose not to give us children until you and your brother came along.” She patted Dakota’s cheek. “And the moral of that story is, be careful what you pray for.”
Dakota caught her thin hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “God works in mysterious ways.”
“That he does, my boy.” She smiled boundless love at him. Then she tucked her hand in his arm. “We’ve pestered these nice folks long enough. Take me back to your father.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chris watched them go, the broad-shouldered man in the bespoke tuxedo towering over the tiny woman in the off-the-rack dress.
Zach shoulder-bumped her. “A guy who loves his mom can’t be all bad.”
“I didn’t say he’s bad. I said he’s light in the brainpan.”
But she had to admit it was hard not to like a guy who treated his mom like a queen.
And it would be harder still to exploit their relationship for the Sentinel.
KOTA SMILED AT the wannabe starlet manning the bar. “Gimme a Johnnie Walker, will you, sweetheart?”
“Would that be red, black, blue or platinum, Mr. Rain?” She tilted strawberry lips, did a slow blink of bluebonnet eyes.
“Make it red, honey, I’m a simple man.” Since it was expected, he dropped his gaze to the breasts bubbling out of her two-sizes-too-small vest, let it linger long enough to show he appreciated the goods, then wrapped up the show with a rueful half smile that said, If only I didn’t have other plans for the night.
It was the work of a moment that hit all the right notes, and when she handed him his drink, they parted with good feelings all around.
Sipping his whiskey, he wandered the room, making small talk, passing out compliments like lollipops. Flirting perfunctorily. But he was restless. Unsatisfied.
After a few sips, he left his whiskey on a tray. It wasn’t what he wanted.
What he wanted was backstage.
But panting after a woman wasn’t his style. So he forced himself to walk in the opposite direction, circling back to his folks’ table.
He found his old man in a snit. “I suppose you fawned all over Zach,” Roy was saying to Verna, his still-sturdy arms crossed over his chest.
“She fawned, all right,” Kota drawled, stirring up trouble. Sixty years married and Pops still got jealous. Every man should be so lucky.
Spinning a chair around, Kota straddled it. Ma swatted his arm, a feather fanning a tree limb. “Look who’s talking. You’re smitten with Christy.”
“ ‘Smitten’? That’s a word?”
“Don’t play doofus with me, Mr. Valedictorian. It’s about time a girl turned your head. You should ask her out.”
He made a rude noise that earned another swat. He could barely feel it, but he said, “Ow,” just to humor her.
“Quit trying to marry him off,” Pops grumbled. “Let him sow his oats.”
Now Ma made the rude noise. “He’s sown oats aplenty—”
“He’s the Johnny Appleseed of oats,” said Tana, arriving just in time to butt in.
Straddling another chair, he clapped Kota on the back. That, Kota felt. He curled a lip at his brother, who laughed.
“I was just saying,” Ma forged on, “that your brother should ask Zach’s daughter for a date.”
Tana smirked. “I hate to tell you, Ma, but it usually works the other way around. The ladies stalk Kota.”
“This one won’t,” Ma predicted. “She’s a class act, all the way.”
“In that case”—Tana threw down the dare—“she won’t go out with him anyway.”
That was the excuse Kota needed. Heaving a put-upon sigh, he pushed back his chair.
“Where you going?” Tana asked him.
“To hit on Christy Gray, where else? Ma won’t quit till I do.”
“I do,” Ma repeated. “Music to my ears.”
This time Pops made the rude noise.
Kota found Christy backstage, scribbling on a crinkled envelope.
“Hi,” he said.
She leaped out of her shoes.
He held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”
She crushed the envelope in her fist. “If you’re looking for Dad, he’s in his dressing room.” She pointed, then set off toward her own.
He pursued, weaving through band members and roadies loitering outside the makeshift dressing rooms. “Actually, I was looking for you. You made quite an impression on Ma.”
“She’s an extraordinary woman,” she said over her shoulder.
“She wants me to ask you out.”
Christy stopped outside her dressing room. The canvas flap that served as a door was closed. She made no move to lift it.
Instead, she quirked an amused brow. “Your mother does your matchmaking?”
“Not usually, but the wedding’s addled her.” He twirled a finger by his temple. “She’s fragile right now. I think we should humor her.”
Christy laughed, low and sultry and rich enough to roll around in naked.
“I’m serious,” he said. “She could snap any time.”
Again with the sultry laugh. He hooked a finger in his collar, which seemed to be shrinking as fast as his underwear.
“I’m sure she’ll survive,” she said. Then she did the unthinkable. She lifted the flap, blowing him off.
It was unprecedented. Completely off script.
So he improvised. Touching a palm to the small of her back, he slid smoothly into the dressing room alongside her.
By movie-star standards, it was cramped. He took it in with one glance. Faded Levi’s and a pink tee draped over a chair. Flip-flops kicked underneath it. Department-store cosmetics spilling onto the dressing table from a worn canvas bag.
Offstage, it seemed, Christy Gray was no diva.
“So, I guess you’re seeing somebody,” he said, continuing the conversation as if he hadn’t barged into her space.
“No, I’m not seeing anyone.” Slightly annoyed.
“In love with a married man? Saving yourself for Jesus?”
She half smiled, half smirked. “I know the usual line is ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ But this time, it’s not me. It’s you.”
“Ouch.” He rubbed his chest like she’d punched him.
“Sorry, but I’m allergic to celebrities.”
“Why? We’re just people.”
“And the bird flu’s just a virus.”
“What if I wasn’t a celebrity?”
“What else would you be?”
“A veterinarian.” He threw it out there.
“That takes brains,” she said, like they were lacking.
He dunce-scratched his head. “Now you’re just confusin’ me.”
She laughed again. It was killing him by inches.
He went all in. “Listen, Ma won’t quit hounding me till we go on a date. It can be a pity-date. I’m okay with that, as long as she thinks you’re into it.” He did an aw-shucks smile. “Make an old lady’s day and date her shiftless son.”
“I don’t—”
“At least come to the after-party. Let her get a look at you before she and Pops totter off to bed. It’ll be kinda like a date, but not really.”
He smiled again, and for a minute she looked tempted, like maybe she was so incredibly turned on by him that her perfectly sensible aversion to celebrities suddenly seemed asinine.
A man could hope.
But then, like a slow-motion action sequence, the kind where the bloodletting’s drawn out for maximum cinematic effect, she started . . . to . . . shake . . . her . . . head . . .
And as if on cue, Zach called, “Knock knock,” and stuck his shoulders through the flap. Spotting Kota, he said, “Hey, man. Sounds like a kick-ass after-party.”
“You’ll be there, right?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Kota bit back a grin. Sometimes just when things were going to shit, up through the manure popped a big red rose.
Christy jumped in. “Dad, really?”
“Really.” He chucked her chin. “You worry too much, honey pie. We’re on in ten.”
On that note he ducked out. She swung around, glaring daggers at Kota. “You know he just got out of rehab.”
Of course he knew. Just like he knew she’d feel obliged to chaperone. His inner scoundrel mentally rubbed his hands. But the decent guy Ma raised made himself say, “I’ll uninvite him if you want me to.”
She glared some more. Then she huffed out a sigh. “He has to get back into circulation sometime.”
A solemn nod. “You’ll probably want to keep an eye on him, though.”
“Convenient, isn’t it?”
“I’m just sayin’.” He shrugged.
“And I’m just sayin’ . . .” She stuffed the crumpled envelope into her bag. “ . . . it’s not a date. So you can wipe the smug look off your mug.”
And with a toss of her head she strode from the tent, every inch a diva.