Light My Fire (Rock Royalty Book 1) (19 page)

"Go away, Cilla. You don't want to be around me now."

Chilled by his dismissive tone, Cilla was halfway back to the bedroom before she paused. Should she really leave him alone? Retreat was always her first choice, but what had hiding away given her? A pretty lonely existence.

Maybe this time she should take a cue from those kids and reach out. Ren had done her a favor last night, after all, so shouldn't she at least attempt to find out what was wrong and make him feel better?

Acting on the impulse, she quickly returned to the kitchen and without a word flipped on the light.

"Turn that off," Ren said, putting a shielding hand to his eyes.

"It's time to make dinner," she said, wrapping the butcher-style apron over her robe.

"I'm not hungry."

Oh, she knew this brooding mood of his. Ignoring him for the moment, she went about taking things from the refrigerator: cheese, green onion, avocado, tomato. From the small pantry she grabbed the tortillas. "Quesadillas coming right up," she said.

"I said I'm not hungry," Ren growled, getting to his feet.

She stepped close, and pushed him back to his chair with a hand on his chest. "Sit down."

His brows met over his nose as his ass hit the seat. "Bossy."

"Mmm." She opened a drawer to find the grater. "Now tell me what's going on."

"I'm a moody son-of-a-bitch."

"Tell me something I don't already know." She glanced over at him, saw he was picking at the corner of the label on his beer bottle. "Really, Ren. Am I going to have to track down those Holzman kids and give them a Cilla take-down?"

He looked up, a faint, almost-smile on his face. "What the hell is a Cilla take-down?"

An idea that made him look vaguely less unhappy. "You jumped to my defense over the Tad incident. Maybe I want you to know I have your back when it comes to Nell and Clark."

"They're not remotely the same thing, and this isn't about those teenagers."

"No?"

"No." He got up from his chair and went to the refrigerator for another beer. Without asking, he pulled out a bottle of chilled wine and poured her a glass. "They're good kids. Liars, but good kids."

She sipped at the wine as he returned to his chair. "What did they lie about?"

"Their dad didn't give them permission to come to the canyon today, they confessed that just before driving home. He did say he'd make arrangements for us to meet some time if I agreed, but they weren't prepared to wait for that 'some time'."

"Or your agreement?"

He shrugged.

"Would you have said yes if contacted by their dad?" she asked, as she began grating the cheese.

Silence welled. "Probably not," he finally admitted.

"But you're glad you met them? You like them?"

"It sounds as if they have a good life. A good family. Clark made the junior varsity water polo and soccer teams as a freshman. Nell is vice-president of the dance club and runs cross-country. They vacation together, all four of them, and have been to eight countries. At their house in the 'burbs they have two dogs, two cats, and a pond with goldfish."

Cilla's brows rose. "You learned all that?"

"They apparently like to share."

Then he lapsed into another heavy silence. Biting her lip, Cilla continued dicing vegetables, unsure how to proceed. Maybe making dinner was enough.

She put the chopped tomatoes, chopped green onion, avocado slices, and grated cheddar in separate bowls. After locating the griddle, she slid it onto the burner. Then she looked over at Ren.

"Hey—" she started, but before she could get out another word, he was on his feet and exiting through the French door to the adjoining courtyard.

Grr
. Cilla looked down at her bare legs and then into the night darkness. He was out there, standing on the patio, hand in his pockets, head bent as if contemplating his toes. Alone, so alone.

With another glance at her naked legs, Cilla dashed down the hall to the bedroom. There, she pulled on a pair of cropped yoga pants and yanked some thick socks over her bare feet. Once she scurried back to the kitchen, she grabbed a jacket that hung on a hook by the door and let herself out into the night.

Ren made no comment when she stepped up beside him. Digging in her mental heels, Cilla continued to stand there, even as the cool temperature started to penetrate. She zipped up the jacket and shoved her hands in its side pockets.

The movement seemed to alert Ren to her presence. He half-turned, gave her a quick glance, then did a double-take. "What the hell do you have on?"

Cilla looked down at herself. Bulky socks. Flared-at-the-calf exercise pants under the short hem of her terry robe that was covered by the longer hem of the bib apron. Over that, the jacket. Now that she took a good look at it, she realized it was a puffy, silk, bomber-style favorite of Gwen's, with Mick Jagger's face printed across the front.

All right, fashion disaster, but she'd not come out here to be pretty. She'd come out here to find out what was troubling Ren.

"What's going on, huh?" she asked, touching his arm.

Instead of answering, he put a hand on each of her shoulders and turned her to face him. In the weak light coming from the kitchen, she couldn't read his expression, but his voice was soft. "I liked what you were wearing this afternoon, Cilla."

Her pulse skipped a beat. "Um, thanks."

"I like
you
, Cilla," he added, his hands tightening a moment. Then he spun her toward the French door and gave her a little push. "But right now I'd really like to be alone."

She took a forward step, then halted again. All their lives, he'd been much too solitary. Sucking in a bracing breath of the cool air, she turned around. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

"I can't seem to get rid of you at all," Ren said, his voice dry.

"You're right."

"Fuck, Cilla." He threw up his arms in an impatient gesture. "What do you want from me? What the
hell
do you want from me?"

"Show me what's behind that handsome mask of yours. Tell me about that dark place you go to and what drives you there."

Ren pushed his hands through his hair and folded them on top of his head. "Why?"

The zillion-dollar question. She hesitated and her heart started pounding in a fast, erratic rhythm. Her mouth felt dry and she had to blot her damp palms on the skirt of the stupid apron. "Because..." she started, and then had to swallow to lubricate her voice. "Because last night you gave something to me I needed. Maybe this is what you need. Someone to confide in. A sympathetic ear."

"Sympathy?" He barked out a sharp laugh. "You think
sympathy
will do me any good? You're wrong. Flat wrong."

She ignored her unsteady heart. "What will do you good then?"

With angry strides, he paced the courtyard. "A slap upside the head. A kick in the ass. Some fucking thing that will sweep all this shit out of my brain."

She swallowed, watching his agitated movements. "What shit is that, Ren?"

On his next turn, he stopped in front of her, glaring down. "All these unmanageable, infuriating, useless emotions swirling inside me."

"Name one."

He stared at her. "What?"

"You heard me. Name one." Her voice lowered. "I dare you."

"Fuck!" Ren spun away from her, spun back. "Grief," he ground out, bending close so they were almost nose-to-nose. "God damn it, I've been wallowing in a black hole of it for the last eleven months. How stupid, how pitiful is that? I've been grieving for a man who never even knew who the hell I was."

His grandfather. Oh, God. Oh,
Ren
.

Sucking in a breath, she held her ground. "All right. Name another."

His fingers curled into the collar of Gwen's Stones jacket and he gave Cilla a small shake. "Damn you," he said, then let her go. "Okay. Regret. Are you happy now? I'm filled with regret that tastes like acid on my tongue and burns like an ulcer in my belly because I didn't bother to make it back to say goodbye to the woman who was more a parent to me than anyone else."

Somewhere, Gwen was tearing up over this latest confession. Cilla felt a sting behind her own eyes. Blinking rapidly, she looked up at Ren's still-tense figure and told herself to stay strong. "Name one more," she said.

There was a long moment of charged silence. "Anger," Ren finally answered, and there was bitterness in his voice and fury radiating from his body. "I'm angry at the woman who gave birth to me."

"Of course you are."

He continued speaking as if Cilla hadn't uttered a word. "She gives those kids all that good stuff, stable home, nice vacations, family time. You know what she gave me?"

"What?"

His head dropped back and he stared at the sky. Then he returned his gaze to the ground. "When I was twenty, when I made that visit?"

"You went to her house in Pasadena."

"Yeah. After our little chat, after I realized she wasn't too thrilled about our reunion, as I was getting ready to leave she told me to wait." He took in a breath, let it out. "I was standing on the stoop, she'd already hustled me out of her house, and then she came back with a box she shoved into my arms."

The night seemed to quiet, waiting for him to continue. "What was in the box?" Cilla asked at last.

His back to her, he laughed again, a sharp, almost broken sound. "Dumb shit. A baby blanket. Some infant clothes. A rattle. I didn't even look at all of it, to tell the truth. I didn't need to examine all that was there to realize she didn't want a single reminder of me."

Cilla closed her eyes and Cami's mournful singing voice echoed in her head.

Motherless children have a hard time

Motherless children have a hard time when their mother is gone

Except Ren's mother wasn't gone in the same sense that Cilla's wasn't in her life. She supposed that on some level she held the comforting (and possibly deluded) idea that her mom might have returned to her if she'd lived. But the woman who'd given birth to Ren had chosen to keep herself apart from him.

Without a second thought, she took a step forward and put her arms around his waist from behind. Her cheek went to his spine as she felt him stiffen in her embrace. "Ren," she said, and turned her face to press a kiss to his shoulder blade. "God, Ren."

He remained rigid in her embrace for a long minute, then, in a lightning move, he turned, breaking her hold. Next, he yanked her to her toes and against him so his hot breath was on her cheek and his words were low and dark in her ear. "And you know what else I feel, Cilla?" he asked, clearly still in the clutch of that aggressive, bad mood. "I feel like another night of fucking you."

Though she knew what he actually wanted was to use sex as a way of feeling nothing at all, her defenses were shredded, her heart was aching, her body was already softening against the strength and heat of his.

"All right," she said, even knowing that another night with him risked making her feel much too much.

Ren's sharp edges had returned and the beast inside him was beating its chest, eager to work off the raging maelstrom. Cilla had said "all right," but he wondered if she really knew what she was in for.

Because he was going to screw her. Screw her good, as a way to get her out from under his skin.

Using his body, he herded her toward the house, even as he thrust his tongue in her mouth, his kiss heated and assertive. She responded like a fucking dream, her neck arching and her hands clutching his shoulders.

It didn't soften his mood or his intention.

Damn her for her digging and damn him for giving up what she'd demanded. Saying all that aloud, talking about his grief, his regret, his anger, had only served to wreak havoc with his ability to contain those feelings. She moaned as he ran his hands down her back to cup her ass, and she crowded closer, her belly rubbing against the hard cock behind his jeans. His hips responded with a involuntary thrust.

Fuck. The lust he had for her wasn't contained either.

Taking one hand off her ass, he twisted the knob and pushed her inside. She stepped backward into the kitchen. He followed, continuing to explore her mouth, then shoved the door shut with his foot. When he lifted his head to allow them breath, she tried to turn.

Ren caught her arm, jerked her close again. "Where are you going?"

Her mouth was wet, her breathing heavy. "The bed—"

"No bed." No bed, no bedroom, no more sleeping together. Ignoring her widening eyes, he unzipped the two halves of Mick's face and shoved the jacket from her shoulders. The apron went next, and he let it fall to the floor as well.

Underneath all that was a simple white robe, belted at the front. The sides had edged open, from his height giving him a partial glimpse of her breasts. He sucked in a breath, then crouched at her feet, his hands going under the terry cloth to find the waistband of her stretchy pants. Fingers tucked under the elastic, he pulled, catching a pair of panties along the way.

Her hand went to his shoulder for balance, and as he bared her lower half beneath the robe her lemon-sweet, bath-fresh scent hit him. There was another note to it—something more flowery—as well as the distinctive, creamy perfume of female arousal.

More lust crawled over his skin as heat surged through his veins. Her pants, panties, and socks were bunched at her ankles and he just stared at them, head bowed, the rest of him unmoving as he breathed in her lusciousness.

Perhaps she was even less patient than he, because she lifted one leg, stepping on the other's ring of clothes to free her foot. The action opened that knee and parted the lower edges of her robe. He could see it then, that dainty, denuded female triangle, at the moment all its mysteries closed to him. At the sight, he dropped to his knees.

Then, reaching out a hand, he cupped her, hearing her gasp as his long middle finger parted the soft groove. She gasped again, and a rush of wetness spilled. He used the lubrication to ease his penetration and his cock ached as her inner muscles clamped onto the intrusion.

"Ren," she breathed, his name a note of desperate desire.