Light My Fire (Rock Royalty Book 1) (3 page)

"Oh." She waved her hand like she was batting the idea away.

A short sigh blew out of him. "No joke. I knew how to deal with those guys today because I've been just like them. Drugs, too much booze, that was my scene too. I pulled myself free of it, then went to work as a bouncer in a bar where I handled people hopped up like that all the time."

"Oh," she said again. He'd been into drugs and booze?

"And concert security? I've had to use my fists more times than I can count." He spread the fingers of his free hand. "See the scars on my knuckles? Those aren't from beating on a computer keyboard, though I've been tempted to do that a time or three too."

Looking down as instructed, her stomach tightened on another illicit trill. But it wasn't thinking about how he could use the appendage to hurt anyone that caused the low vibration. Instead, she was contemplating how the backs of his fingers, crisscrossed with marks of violence, would feel tracing the curve of her cheek. The slope of her breast. The span of flesh between her hipbones. Shivering, she realized that now,
now
, she really was a little scared.

Of how easily he affected her.

Turning toward the fence, Ren reached behind him and yanked off his T-shirt. "Getting damn hot," he muttered.

Me, too
, Cilla thought, staring at his naked back. There were a thousand muscles moving beneath his smooth, golden skin. As he shifted, so did they, the sun catching a ripple here, a smooth bunch of power there. The valley of his spine called out for her fingertip. She wanted to press her palms against the heavy wings of his scapulas. Her mouth practically itched to touch the bulge of a tricep.

As if sensing her turmoil, Ren glanced back. His green eyes narrowed and she took a quick step away. One dark brow rose. "You're really afraid of me, Cilla?"

Yes, yes,
yes
. She shook her head. "I'm, uh, just thinking again it would be best if you leave the compound. You know, because we really don't know each other well..."

And I want to get to know you, oh-so-bad, up close and very personal
.
That
was scary. She wasn't good with men, particularly in that arena. Tad Kersley had made that clear. It had been clear to her before then too, when in the privacy of her own head she'd had to acknowledge that kisses, tongues, and touches never took her anywhere close to the paradise promised by books and porn movies.

Yes, she'd watched a few, trying to find out where and how it always went wrong for her.

"What the hell is going through that brain of yours?" Ren asked.

Not answering
that
truthfully. "I'm just saying I'll be fine here alone."

Turning to face her fully again, he crossed his arms over his chest. Oh my, more smooth skin and fascinating masculine contours. "Baby," Ren said, "after what happened today you think I'd let you stay here by yourself?"

"They were looking for the Lemons," she protested. "Their favorite band."

His brows rose. "And what do you suppose might happen when the next set of impromptu visitors are disappointed to find them away from home?"

"They would go on their way."

"Like those dudes were so happy to do today? I had to get in their faces, Cilla. I don't think the outcome would be the same if a beautiful woman insisted they take their leave."

Ren thought she was beautiful? Or was that just an automatic turn of phrase?

Before she could decide, his back was presented to her again and he returned to pounding nails. "I've got a couple weeks for you," he said over the hammering.

Two weeks alone with Ren. Two weeks of torture in his presence. Not just because she'd be tormented by being near someone she suddenly, viscerally wanted so bad, but also because she'd surely give away her stupid fascination with him. She'd trip, she'd stammer, she'd blush, surely she would (she already had!), and he'd guess her secret.

Then pity her.

Backing away from him, she tried thinking of other arguments. Other options. Maybe she'd pack up Gwen's costumes and return with them to her own small place near the beach. Her fingers slid into her pants pocket to grip the key to the storage room built behind the older woman's cottage. Though she'd examined the pieces displayed in the main part of the house, Cilla had yet to take a look at the full collection.

If she was going to escape forced seclusion with Ren, she had to figure out her next move.

Leaving him to finish the fence repair, she set off for the storeroom alone. Inside the windowless, 15 x 30-foot space, the air was cool and smelled like lavender and lemon, scents Cilla immediately identified with Gwen. She stood in the dimness and breathed it in, thinking of the woman who had brushed her hair when she was small, who had explained the mysteries of pimples and periods as she grew, who had encouraged Cilla to explore her interest in fashion design.

Leaving the door propped open, she flipped on the light and approached the rolling racks of clothes that were stacked against three of the walls. On the fourth, the one with the entry opening, floor-to-ceiling shelves displayed footwear: white patent leather go-go boots and outrageous sequined platform shoes. Knee-length, lace-up moccasins and spike-heeled stretches of black suede that would reach a woman's crotch. Most of Gwen's collection was women's clothing, but adjacent to the shelving was a short rack of striped bellbottoms, billowing poet shirts, and velvet jackets with epaulets, gold stitching, and brass buttons that had belonged to male performers.

There was a fawn-colored suede vest from which swung beaded and feathered fringe that she remembered her dad, Mad Dog Maddox, had worn during a Grammy performance.

Cilla ran her fingers through the long strings of leather, a smile on her face. She loved these vintage pieces.
Thank you, Gwen
, she said, ignoring the little sting at the corners of her eyes.
Thank you for these costumes and everything else you gave me
.

She drifted toward a selection of dresses. There were three white pleather minis likely worn by the back-up singers of some Sixties band. They would have been hell to wear (and sweat beneath) under stage lights. Nearby hung a halter maxi dress made of Stevie Nicks-styled lace and filmy layers. As her hand brushed over it, a long, matching scarf fell to the carpeted floor. Cilla snatched it up and on a whim, flung it around her shoulders and over her head, for a moment channeling her inner music diva.

Closing her eyes, she whirled and dipped, again Stevie-style, humming a song in an old game of pretend that she'd entertained herself with as a lonely little rock princess (influenced by Gwen who'd been a huge Fleetwood Mac fan, naturally). With her arms overhead, wrists crossed, Cilla swayed her hips and twirled to a rhythm playing in her head as she lost herself in dance. A throat cleared (not her own), freezing her mid-swoop-and-turn.
Oh, damn
.

Dropping her arms, she yanked off the scarf and let it trail to the ground. Her gaze flicked to Ren's face. "If you tell a soul..." she said in a low, menacing voice.

He was grinning. "I think there's a lot about you I don't know, Cilla."

"Well, you're not going to get a chance to find out exactly what that all is," she grumbled, walking to the rack of dresses to drape the fabric over a hanger, her jerky movements causing the whole wheeled contraption to slide sideways.

"What do you mea—" he started, then broke off as his gaze widened.

Cilla glanced behind her, and saw what had caught his eye. There was something behind the clothes, something large and colorful, and then Ren was shifting some of the metal contraptions to the middle of the room so they had an unencumbered view.

It was a photo, blown to life-size proportions and hung on the plaster surface. In the middle of the shot, wearing one of her long calico dresses, Gwen sat cross-legged. Her elbow-length graying curls framed her happy grin and sparkling eyes. Gathered around her were the nine Lemon kids, ranging in age from ten (Cilla) to eighteen (Beck). Silent, she and Ren stared at the image.

The day was sunny. They were gathered on the grass beside the tennis court. She couldn't remember how or why Gwen had managed to corral all of them together. Despite being raised at the same compound with fathers in the same band, they'd never been like one big family. Cilla wasn't even that close to her own siblings, maybe because twins Brody and Bing were six years older and always perfectly partnered with each other.

The photographer had caught the two of them mid-wrestle, their long bangs flopping over their sixteen-year-old foreheads. Dark-haired Beck looked off into the distance, likely already thinking of the wide world he was eager to explore. His brothers Walsh and Reed mugged for the camera, bookending the group on either side. Cami and Cilla sat next to Gwen in poses that mimicked hers. Both of them had a hand on one of the woman's knees. Behind Cami, Payne stared coolly at the lens, a smudge of motor grease on his cheek. Ren slouched in his place behind Cilla, striking an insolent pose in a leather jacket over a white T-shirt. His hair was messy, a silver cross dangled from one pierced ear, and he had a cigarette clamped in the corner of his sulky mouth. A quick tremor snaked down Cilla's spine.

No wonder she'd developed a crush on him. It was so clear now.

He'd been the ultimate bad boy.

Now Ren made some sound she couldn't interpret. She glanced over at him. His gaze was still trained on the photo. Though he'd grown into a man, she could still see some of the brooding half-grown adolescent behind the silver-green of his eyes. Maybe it was the Stevie Nicks moment she'd just indulged in, but she thought suddenly of Stevie's solo song, "Edge of Seventeen." Ren would have been just that age—on the brink of so much. He could have fallen into real danger, she knew, recalling his confession about drugs and booze.

They all could have, given their unstructured, ungrounded lives.

It was odd, she thought, but nonetheless true that despite their similar backgrounds (or maybe precisely
because
of their similar, dysfunctional backgrounds), they'd not all bonded into one cohesive, happy unit.

Looking at Gwen, she figured that's what the loving woman had hoped for. She'd started out a groupie, hadn't she? She'd always wanted to be part of something bigger. And then she'd come to the compound and stayed, doing her best to be a maternal influence on nine motherless kids whose fathers', at best, treated them with benign neglect.

"I'm lucky I'm alive," Ren suddenly muttered, letting her know his mind was traveling along some of the same lines as hers.

"Yeah," she agreed.

So stay here with him
, a voice said. It was Gwen's voice.
Stay with Ren at the canyon. Give the both of you a little time to be glad about that together.

Why glad together? Cilla wondered. But the voice didn't speak again.

Still, as woo-woo as it might sound, she knew in that instant it was the woman's wish. Gwen wanted her to take these weeks with Ren.

Cilla couldn't refuse, because she owed the older woman just that much. Not to mention Ren's own desire for a respite at the compound. Whether it was to appease his guilt over missing the memorial or because he'd promised Bean or because he needed the vacation (likely some combination of all three) he was committed to staying. Surely Cilla could be woman enough to ignore her overactive hormones for a short period so the sex god of her fantasies could have what he wanted as well.

Turning away from the photo, she started for the storeroom exit.

"Cilla?" Ren said. "What's next?"

"A morning meal," she said. "Didn't I promise you one?"

Ren got an evening meal out of Cilla that day, too. He was ostensibly teaming with her to make the chicken-and-vegetable kabobs, rice pilaf, and fruit salad, but so far he'd nursed a beer while watching her move around Gwen's kitchen, a plain white butcher apron protecting her clothes.

Covering up most of her hot little figure.

He still got the rear view if he chose to look—and the jaunty bow tied at the small of her back only did more to draw the eye to her fine ass—but he was resisting with every scrap of goodness he could find in his black heart. If they were going to co-habit for a couple of weeks—she appeared to have accepted that now—then the she-was-like-a-sister-to-him angle was the best way to go. He was going to cement that attitude by bedtime tonight, he promised himself.

As she chopped a zucchini into chunky coins, she shot him a glance through her thick lashes. "What?"

Tipping the bottle back, he finished his beer. "I didn't say anything."

"I can hear you thinking from over here."

Shit. Honesty was not the best policy in this case, so he scoured his mind for what he'd ask a sister-type he'd been out of touch with for a long while. His mind went back to his conversation with Payne about their sibling, Cami. "Uh...you ever been married?"

"Not once."

"Shacked up with a guy?"

"Nope."

He nodded. "I would have guessed that."

Cilla sent him another look, this one, he thought, holding a trace of hurt in it. "Gee, thanks."

Double shit. "Hey, I didn't mean it like that. You're, uh..."
Ren, don't go there.
"I'm sure some men find you...cute, or whatever." Did that sound brotherly? He thought so, though her reaction was difficult to judge as her focus was back on the green vegetable. Was she wielding the knife more viciously?

He resisted the urge to cover his crotch and tried a different tack. "What are you going to do with the costume collection?"

Cilla drew a colander of washed mushrooms toward her and began trimming the ends. "Various things. Gwen and I discussed it."

A stab of guilt had him crossing to the refrigerator for another beer. Though the time from the older woman's diagnosis of pancreatic cancer to her death had been swift, he should have found a way to come back, if only for an in-person goodbye. "And...?"

"If I can establish the provenance—who wore them and when—of the better pieces, I'll store them safely or display them in my studio. The others I might try incorporating into my designs. A blend of vintage and contemporary, if that suits my client's taste."