Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(37)

One little word is on the tip of my tongue, but before I can get my lips to move, a familiar gruff voice sounds in my ears.

“Katrina Moore…”

I spin around. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. And my heart practically stops.

Marching down the aisle are Pete and Zoey. My true princess! Pete is holding up his badge.

Zoey, looking totally ravishing in a body-hugging, ivory chiffon dress and matching stilettos, stays behind while her father steps up to the altar. Our eyes connect, sparks flying. My dormant cock is finally up for the wedding of the century.

“What the hell is going on?” yells Katrina.

Pete jumps in. “Don’t move. You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Brandon Taylor.”

What!? My heart skips a beat as Katrina’s jaw crashes to the floor. Gucci sees Zoey and breaks free. Wagging his tail, he scampers down the aisle and runs circles around her.

Enid rushes to her daughter’s side and shrieks at Pete. “What on earth are you talking about, you lowlife scumbag?”

With a poker face, Pete slips his hand into a pocket of his trench coat.

“Ms. Moore, does this look familiar to you?” In the palm of Pete’s hand is the green Venetian glass heart he showed me months ago.

Katrina’s eyes widen. “That’s my lucky heart I bought in Venice when I was at George Clooney’s wedding!”

“Well, it’s not your lucky heart today.”

Katrina’s flaring eyes latch on to Zoey. “I bet that little whore stole it from me!”

Pete remains cool, calm, and collected. “Actually, we found it at the scene of Brandon Taylor’s hit and run accident. Which puts you there.”

Katrina huffs. “Bullshit. I was with my mother.” She turns to Enid. “Right, Mommy? Tell him.”

A shaken Enid opens her mouth, but before she can get a word out, Pete shuts her up.

“Perhaps, Ms. Moore, this will refresh your memory.” He reaches inside his other coat pocket and holds up a phone. I recognize the pink rhinestone-studded case instantly. It’s Katrina’s! The one with all the incriminating photos taken in Cannes that she never lets out of her sight.

Katrina gapes. “My phone! That fat bitch stole that too!”

I shoot a glance at Zoey. With a smug little smile, she shrugs her shoulders. God, I so love her!

Pete persists. “Perhaps, these texts will jog your memory.” Zoey’s father reads aloud an exchange between her and Scott. Holy f*ck! I can’t believe my ears. Fucking Katrina ran me over! Then left me for dead at the scene of the accident! And Scott covered for her!

Katrina gasps. In shock, my eyes flit from Katrina to Scott and then to Zoey. While the color on Katrina and Scott’s faces completely drains, the smile on Zoey’s adorable face widens. Low grumbles sound among our attendees, who aren’t privy to what’s going on. The inebriated preacher, also oblivious, sways on his feet.

It’s Scott’s turn to say something. The color on his face goes from chalk-white to fire engine red. His twitchy eyes narrow with fury at Katrina. “You stupid idiot! You didn’t erase the texts?”

Katrina’s lips quiver, but before she can get out a sound or word, Pete fastens a pair of shiny handcuffs on her wrists as he reads her rights. Hushed gasps fill the air. The preacher hiccups again and then passes out. I swear, I don’t know if I’m in the middle of a soap opera, horror show, crime drama, sitcom, or a really sick reality show.

Katrina’s reaction doesn’t help me figure things out. A mixture of terror and rage flickers in her venomous eyes. “Take these off me, you pig!” She tries desperately to pull the handcuffs apart.

“Let’s go,” orders Pete, grabbing her elbow.

“Let go of me!” cries Katrina, frantically trying to break loose of his forceful grip. “Mommy, call our attorney!” Desperation fills her voice. And then she turns to Scott. I follow her gaze.


“Do something, you *!” she screams at my manager.

A deafening boom sounds in my ear. All at once, Katrina, her mother, and the crowd of spectators shriek. Scott’s mouth opens wide and a loud, pained groan escapes. Clutching his stomach, he crumples to the floor. Unconscious, he’s sprawled in an expanding puddle of blood. Holy f*cking shit! He’s been shot!

A thunderous voice rises above the frantic crowd.

“No one move. Or I shoot her!”

I flip around and my eyes grow wide again. Oh my God! Scott’s assailant is gripping Zoey by her neck and wielding his gun. I recognize his ugly pockmarked face immediately. It matches the police artist’s sketch of Zoey’s mother’s murderer! The motherf*cker who also killed my parents. Frank Donatelli!

Releasing Katrina, Pete faces him squarely and pulls out his gun from his holster. “Put your weapon down.”

Donatelli snarls. “Fuck you, bastard.”

To my absolute horror, he puts his gun to Zoey’s head. Terror flashes in her eyes. Paling, she bites down on her trembling lip while Gucci, at her feet, barks non-stop at her captor.

“If you don’t put your gun down, I’m going to blow her brains out.”

For the first time, fear washes over Pete’s face. “Please don’t hurt her.”

“Did you hear me? Drop your f*cking gun.”