Light My Fire (Rock Royalty Book 1) (12 page)

It was Cilla who grabbed the passerby's arm to turn him back. "Payne."

He halted as the sea of people around them was forced to part. After a long moment looking at her face, he said, "Cilla?"

"And Ren." She took hold of his wrist too, and gave a little laugh as she drew the half-brothers together.

The two stared at each other a longer moment. Then they shook hands, hearty, but brief. Pleasantries were exchanged. Ren told about running into Jaz. Payne mentioned he was going out of town for the next few days. Then the conversation petered out.

Payne cleared his throat. "Well...I have another appointment..."

"Sure." Ren gave a quick nod and held out his hand again. "It was good seeing you."

"Later," Payne said, and strode off.

"Later," Ren echoed, watching his half-brother walk away.

When he finally resumed walking himself, he shoved his hands in his pockets and trained his gaze on the sidewalk, a scowl on his mouth. Trailing a half-step behind, Cilla suspected he wasn't seeing a single one of the stars at his feet.

In the man's now clearly dark mood, she caught a glimpse of the brooding seventeen-year-old who had so fascinated her. She'd wanted to make him smile then. She wanted to do the same now. Noting where they were, she made a sudden decision.

"A last stop," she said, curving her fingers around his elbow and tugging him toward glass doors beneath a deeply recessed arch. "More Hollywood history."

"Cilla—"

"You'll enjoy this." She couldn't guarantee it, but she knew the good part of their day would be spoiled if she didn't try to lighten his gloomy frame of mind. Inside the building, it was shadowy, cool, and well,
cool
. "This is the famous Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel."

He was taking in the marble floors and the thick plaster walls.

"It was built in the 1920s with money from silent movie stars of the time. In 1929, its ballroom hosted the presentation of the very first Academy Awards."

His grunt wasn't encouraging, but she kept up the chatter as she led him toward her favorite spot in the hotel. "Marilyn Monroe stayed here for two years when her modeling career was taking off. There's rumors of ghost sightings and mysterious phone calls to the front desk."

Then she led him outside again, and they were by the huge pool. On one side the twelve stories of the original hotel building sheltered the turquoise water. On the other three, two stories of cabana-styled rooms gave it an intimate feel. She led him straight to the bar, and perched on a stool, giving Ren a little push toward his own. "You have to have one of their mojitos."

He glowered at her. "Baby, men don't drink mojitos."

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "The Roosevelt Hotel's mojito comes with jalapenos. Didn't you say you liked hot?" Before he could answer, she ordered two.

After that, she let him alone. The drinks were quickly delivered and she sipped at hers, letting her gaze travel over the bar area. Though she didn't recognize any famous faces, there were plenty of beautiful people stretched out on the white terry cloth-covered loungers. A knot of men in expensive suits sat under an umbrella with a mixed tray of appetizers before them. The bartender chatted with another patron about his other job on the staff of a company producing a new TV series. So very L.A.

Ren appeared aware of none of it. He stared into his glass, lost in thought.

Cilla took a breath, then put her hand over his.

He looked up, startled.

She squeezed her fingers. "Hey, what is it?"

Grimacing, he hesitated.

"Friends, remember?"

He went to stone for nearly thirty seconds, then he picked up his glass and swallowed the rest of the concoction down, taking some jalapeno slices with it, she supposed. Another grimace, then his gaze moved to her. "Sure. Friends."

Oh, yay
, Cilla thought, though the happy thought didn't really make it to her heart. "Friends share," she said, giving another encouraging squeeze of his hand before letting go.

His fingers forked through his hair. Then he half-turned on his stool to face her, his elbow on the bar, his free hand gripping his thigh. "I didn't recognize my own brother."

Ah. And that was eating at him. "You weren't expecting to see him—"

"I didn't recognize my own brother," he said, more adamant this time.

The dark note in his voice made her stomach jump. She rubbed the back of her knuckles against the edge of her jaw. "He has that grit thing going."

"It's wrong, Cilla." He leaned his forehead into the heel of his hand. "It's whacked."

Without thinking, she touched him again, placing her fingers over the ones on his leg. She curled the tips so they pressed briefly into his warm palm before letting go. This wasn't his fault. "It's the Lemons."

"So I should make lemonade, huh?" He lifted his head, his gaze boring into hers. "Make this better? How? I live in London and I travel all the time. But still, it's screwed that we're so distant. How can I fix this, Cilla?"

Her mouth opened, closed. For as long as she could remember, Ren had held himself aloof from his siblings and the other Velvet Lemon kids. And as they'd all grown and left the compound, every one of the nine had busied themselves pursuing their adult lives. She supposed that connections, even between siblings, had been a little loose of late.

Gwen hadn't wanted it to be like that for the rock royalty, though. Was that why she'd sent Ren a key to her cottage? So that he'd have a second chance to bond with his brother and sister? Maybe with the others, too?

"Call Payne," she said, on a sudden inspiration. "Set up a lunch or something."

"He's going out of town," Ren reminded her.

"Oh, right." Instant letdown.

Ren rapped his knuckles against the top of the bar. "But I'm going to see Cami again. Tonight. She said she had another gig, right?"

"Right."

"She and Payne... I think they look out for each other. I want her to know she can count on me too."

The words warmed Cilla. She smiled at him and placed her palm over his knuckles once again, squeezed. "That's nice. Then maybe the two of you can start a dialogue about the Colson family."

She made to slide her hand off his, only to find it caught between his fingers. She glanced up, taking in his bemused expression. "Start a dialogue?" His lips twitched.

"You know what I mean."

He smiled.

Her lungs trapped air again. "Ren..."

"I'll start a dialogue," he said, amusement in his voice. "You'll come tonight too?"

What could she say? "Sure."

He gazed on her a moment longer, then nodded. "So, this friends thing might work out well after all," he said, and released her fingers in order to tug at a wisp of her hair that had escaped its band.

The little pain sent a wash of prickly bumps over her scalp that continued down her back. She still wasn't breathing as she fought a little tremble.

"Cilla?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "You all right, squirt?"

"Great," she choked out. Except that clearly being his friend didn't make him one jot less attractive to her. And yeah, he could so make "squirt" sound as good as "sweetheart."

Chapter 7

Ren motored west on Sunset, avoiding the freeway traffic by taking the surface street route to the beach. Tonight Cami's gig was at a club close to the water in Santa Monica. As he drove, he chewed on what he was going to say to his half-sister if he could get her alone long enough for conversation. Would he ask for chatty emails? Demand she send regular selfies and convince Payne to do so as well? Somehow he suspected that wasn't the other man's style.

He sure as hell wouldn't do such a thing in return.

But Ren hadn't recognized his own damn brother when he'd passed him on the street. Payne had looked right through him as well. That couldn't be right.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Cilla's movement. It stirred the air in the car and he breathed in her delicate citrus scent. The good thing about the Colson sibling situation was it gave him something to think about besides her. If he was going to prevent death by blue balls, he needed another focus.

Her legs crossed and he took another look at her chunky-heeled boots. His musings over his sibs weren't so all-consuming that he had forgotten her completely. She looked damn sweet in those boots, a pair of tight jeans, and a ladylike pale blue filmy blouse that she'd tucked into the pants and was unbuttoned to reveal a less-ladylike glimpse of cleavage. Hanging from a gold chain around her throat was a square-shaped polished blue stone wrapped in an intricate pattern of slender gold wire. A matching bracelet circled one wrist and square-shaped gold-wire earrings dangled from her ears. Their neighbor Jewel's work, she'd said.

As they neared their destination, he took a turn down a side street. Even though his gaze was aimed out the windshield, he sensed Cilla straighten.

He glanced over, noting she was staring out the window, her attention riveted on the neighborhood of small bungalows they were passing through. Huh. It was full dark, with just streetlights here and there offering dim illumination. When her head turned so she could stare out the side window, he slowed.

"See something you like?" he asked.

"Oh, no. It's just..." She made a vague gesture. "We passed my house."

With new interest, he inspected the area. Little stucco houses, probably built in the 1940s. Each had a tidy, tiny front yard. Most had some kind of decoration hung on the door. "Do you want to stop?"

"Um." There was a brief pause. "Well..."

That hesitation had him spinning the steering wheel.

"No, Ren. Honest, there's no reason..."

"We should at least make sure everything's secure. You haven't been living there in—how long?"

"A couple of weeks," she admitted.

"Which one is it?"

Her finger pointed at a place in the middle of the block. He pulled into the single-wide cement driveway, a strip of close-cropped grass running down its middle. In the glow of a metal-hatted porch light, he could see that it was white, with bright turquoise shutters on either side of the picture window. Beneath the glass, a wooden box dripped pink geraniums.

Curious to see Cilla's digs, he stepped from the car and made for the three steps to her front door that was painted the same green as the geranium leaves. Glancing around, he realized Cilla remained in her seat. Frowning, he returned to the car and opened her door. "What's up? Don't have your keys?"

Her hand lifted and a ring of them dangled from her fingers. "I'm coming," she said, a resigned tone in her voice.

"Hey, if you don't want to go in..." Her reluctance puzzled him, however.

"No, no. It's fine. I should pick up my mail."

It was delivered through a chute in the door and had made a small pile on the hardwood floor of the entryway. She scooped it up in her arms and as she walked it toward a small coffee table placed in front of a loveseat in the living area, he found switches and flipped them on.

Inside it wasn't any bigger than it appeared from the outside. To the left of the front door was a small living room and he could see a kitchen beyond that. The hallway directly beyond the entry led to a couple of bedrooms, he supposed, and a bath.

Instead of exploring on his own, he followed Cilla. She'd dumped most of the mail and with just a few envelopes in hand walked into the kitchen. It was tiled in old-fashioned ceramic of pale blue and pale yellow. The sink was spotless, the painted cabinet doors all primly closed. She took a glass from a cupboard and moved to the dispenser on the front of the fridge. "Water?" she asked, as she filled the glass.

He shook his head, running his gaze around the room. Something was off about the place, he thought, moving to take in the living room again. The rooms were clean, ordered, colorful, all things that didn't surprise him about Cilla's home. But...

There were no photos. Not one. Not anywhere in the public areas.

He'd been around. Dated plenty of women. And in his experience, they chronicled their lives by plastering surfaces with pictures of the people in their world. They tacked them to bulletin boards. Magnets held up more images on their fridges, along with mementos from various social events. Where were Cilla's BFFs? Did she toss out used concert tickets and theater programs unlike the majority of the females he knew?

Even Gwen had hung that big-ass, blown-up photo of the rock royalty.

"Mind if I look around?" he asked Cilla.

She was working on one of the envelopes. "Go ahead. If you get lost, just whisper. I'll be sure to hear you."

He grinned, then took the two strides that got him from the kitchen to the living room. Once he hit the hallway, he saw he hadn't been wrong about the rest of the house. There was more tile in an old-fashioned bathroom. Then two other rooms. One was tiny, filled by a daybed that was covered in a quilt and had two pillows propped on its headboard. The other was larger and held a four poster queen-sized bed. Stilling, he stared at the interior, that weird feeling ghosting down his spine once more.

Again, no personal souvenirs were stuck in the frame of the mirror over the chest of drawers. None sat on its wooden surface. Likewise, the top of the bedside table was only a repository for a light coating of dust.

His gaze skipped back to the bed and held there. The mattress was stripped bare. There wasn't a pillow in sight. Instead of sleeping in this larger space, Cilla rested her head in that narrow coffin of a bedroom.

Footsteps behind him had him turning. Keys in hand, Cilla wore an inquisitive expression. "That's the longest tour anyone's ever taken of my house."

He gestured toward that bare mattress. "You don't sleep in the master."

"You watch that TV show, don't you? The one where everyone thinks the detective is psychic, but he's really just figuring out things through observation."

"Don't watch much TV at all."

"You should. It's a good one." Lifting her keys, she shook them so they jangled. "Want to see my workroom? It's behind the house."

"Sure. But, Cilla..."