Light My Fire (Rock Royalty Book 1) (24 page)

He had beautiful hands. Long-fingered and strong. The rest of her life she'd remember them touching her face, removing her clothes, stroking her skin. Closing her eyes, she took another swallow of coffee.

"I made my plane reservation," he said. "I take the red eye to London tomorrow night."

Her eyes remained closed as she willed herself not to flinch. This was the way it was always going to end, he'd said that, she'd accepted that (sort of), and any dream of another outcome was on her. He'd never lied or implied differently.

"I know it's a few days early, but my duty's done here."

Wait. What?
Duty?
She felt her temper begin to rise. Remain unruffled, she tried reminding herself. Be ice. Antarctica.

"I'm sure you'll be glad to get me out of your space," he added, in a stranger-to-stranger tone.

Cilla's eyes popped open and there was a red haze across her vision. "Really?" she said, before she could stop herself. "That's the way you're going to play this? Pretend nothing happened between us? Freeze me out like you did last night?"

"You knew—"

"I suppose I did," she snapped. "But what about everybody else who was here? You invited them, and in case you didn't figure it out, they saw that as an invitation into your
life
, Ren. Then, before a couple of hours passed, you pulled away."

"Yeah," he said, his expression set, his attitude unrepentant. "I do that."

Cilla shoved back her chair and stomped to the bread drawer. Maybe if she ate something, the acid burning a hole in her belly would be neutralized. Unfortunately, the bag inside was filled with a green and hairy penicillin experiment. Slamming it into the trash, she crossed to the pantry to stare at the shelves, fuming all over again. No sweetened cereal, and she'd be damned if she'd swallow down steel cut oats on a morning such as this.

From the fridge, she yanked the bowl of leftover potato salad. With a soup spoon in hand, she dropped back into her seat and dug in.

Ren caught her arm before the mound of mayo, celery, and spud made it to her lips. She jerked up her chin to glare at him, ignoring the traitorous roll of warmth traveling through her at his touch.

"Let me take you out to breakfast," he said, his voice low. "Let me at least do that."

Sucking in a fast breath, she tried steeling her spine. This was no time to say yes to the man. This was the time to tell him to take a dive into the fiery depths of hell.

But damn it all, he had hold of her heart, and she didn't want to consign it to the incinerator along with him.

She wanted to get it back.

His thumb brushed across her inner wrist. "Please, Cilla."

What a sap she was. What a silly, soft-spined,
fool
. But maybe during these few last hours with him she could find some way to reclaim what she'd so unwisely given. "Fine," she said, with little grace.

Because they arrived at the small café she'd selected between the breakfast and lunch rushes, they nabbed a window seat. Cilla stared through it as she sipped from her oversized latté cup. The shops she could see across the street—a florist, a candy shop, and a lingerie boutique—bustled with business. She watched the parade of customers instead of paying attention to the man in the seat opposite hers.

"Hey," Ren finally said, breaking into the silence. "I don't like leaving with this friction between us."

She slid him a look. She didn't like him leaving with her heart.

Both his hands speared through his dark hair. It fell back to his forehead, the glossy strands a perfect frame for his high cheekbones and unusual eyes. "It was a mistake—"

"Let's talk about something else," she put in. She couldn't take talk about mistakes. Next up would be apologies.

He studied her face for a long moment, then he sighed. "Hell, Cilla, you know I'm sorr—"

"
Let's talk about something else
."

Further conversation was halted by the appearance of the server with his eggs Benedict and her brioche French toast. After the woman topped off Ren's black coffee and moved away, Cilla gave her full attention to the flow of hot maple syrup she poured from a tiny stainless pitcher.

"All right," he said. "We can talk about something else. How long do you plan to stay at the compound?"

She placed the syrup onto the table and began cutting bites. "I managed to pack up most of Gwen's collection over the last couple of days and I've got fitting and design appointments at the beginning of next week. So I suppose I'll move back this weekend."

"Okay. I'm sure that Tad the Turd—"

"What?" Cilla's head jerked up. "What did you call him?"

"It's Brody's name for your ex."

The corners of her lips twitched. "Say it again."

He shook his head. "Really?"

"Really."

"Tad the Turd."

Cilla's laugh might have been more of a giggle.

Ren seemed to enjoy it, whatever its classification, because he smiled as his fingers reached to cover hers. "There she is," he murmured. "I like that sound and those bright eyes."

Without making a big deal of it, she reclaimed her hand and went back to her meal as if she didn't want to fling herself into his arms and beg him to stay. "What were you going to say about Tad?"

Ren picked up his knife and fork. "He won't be bothering you again."

"I don't need your assurances. I can handle things myself."

Glancing up, he caught her eyes. "Yeah, baby, and I think you can handle
him
." With two fingers, he mimed a scissors action. "You're tougher than you look."

At his words, warmth glowed in her belly. Being at Gwen's cottage had restored Cilla's sense of self. Being with Ren had made her realize that losing eighteen inches of hair didn't mean
she'd
lost anything.

"But in any case, after our run-in with him, yesterday Brody and Bing told me they paid him their own visit."

She stared. "What? Ren—"

"It was just a conversation, okay? They'll be talking to you more often, too. As a matter of fact, I managed to have a quick word with everyone."

Before he'd disconnected, isolating himself away from her and the others. "A quick word about what?"

"In the future, there'll be check-ins via phone, text, and email. Face-time, too. You all live close enough to have regular contact. You can get together, have each other's backs. Be a tribe."

A tribe without Ren. Looking down at her plate, she swirled her fork in the syrup. "The rest are interested in that?"

"I think so," he said. "Everyone respects it's what Gwen wanted. And the idea appeals to them, it seems. It's the least we can get out of being the damn Lemons' kids."

The "we" that wouldn't include him. "What about you? Who'll have your back?"

"I've got my office manager in London. She keeps me on my toes."

They finished their breakfasts in relative silence. The notion of more rock royalty reunions warmed her, but it couldn't distract Cilla from the knowledge that Ren had little more than a day left in L.A. And that he'd never be part of the new closeness she and the other Lemon kids would (hopefully) establish.

As they left the café, across the street she noted a man on the sidewalk whom she'd been watching from her window seat. He'd started at the florist, moved on to the candy store, and now was approaching the lingerie boutique with bags from the other places in hand. He looked slightly harassed around the eyes, but his mouth was turned up in a faint smile. She imagined it was a big day for him—his partner's birthday? an anniversary?—and he was going to turn up tonight with pretties for the woman he loved.

"Ready?" Ren asked, as she paused to watch the shopper disappear into the small store. He gave a cursory glance in that same direction then refocused on her. "Did you want to do some shopping?"

Hadn't he realized the kind of merchandise sold there? In the boutique's front window, a trio of headless forms were dressed in skimpy lingerie sets: one black satin, one peach lace, another outfit was leopard print with risqué cutouts.

As if she'd shop there with him! Why, she, of her pastel-colored, cotton-knit underwear would be mortified, and he....

An earlier snippet of Ren's conversation replayed in her mind.
Yeah, baby, and I think you can handle him. You're tougher than you look.

Maybe she should give a try at handling Ren, too. Low at her side, Cilla made a scissors movement with her two fingers. It had been good to deliver Tad's final comeuppance. Would it work again? Would she bring up her mood if she meted out a little revenge? Surely she was tough enough to make Ren squirm.

Of course she was.

Beaming him a brilliant smile, she tucked her hand into his elbow and steered him toward the lingerie boutique. "Well, if you really wouldn't mind..."

She figured he felt so guilty for going to bed with her and then going bye-bye that he'd agree to just about anything. "Sure, baby."

It might not be a way to reclaim her heart, but perhaps she could prove (to them both) she still retained her pride.

As he sipped an after-dinner cup of coffee, Ren reminded himself he only had to get through this last night in Gwen's cottage. Tomorrow at this time he'd be gathering his belongings in preparation to fly free of Cilla and return home to London.

Except London had never been home.

It had been his base. But now that he'd returned to L.A., he realized
it
was his true native soil. During that hike near Mulholland he'd taken in a view—mountains to ocean—that encompassed land to which he felt he truly belonged. At the party the night before, he'd experienced that same sense of connection to the other Lemon kids.

There'd been pain attached to it though, the source of it something he couldn't put his finger on; something buried deep in his soul. He'd recalled his deep unease when studying Gwen's photos and heard again that sinister voice whispering in his head.

You can never speak of this. You can never speak to each other about this.

The tightening vise around his temples had made him withdraw into the shadows.

Hurting Cilla by the distance he put between them.

But it had to be done!

He dropped his mug to the kitchen countertop and ran his hands through his hair, trying to scrape away the guilt and gloom he felt at the thought of leaving her.

It was what he did, he reminded himself.

Detachment was what he did
best
.

"Ren!" From somewhere in the house, he heard Cilla's voice.

"Yeah?" he called back.

"Can I get your opinion on something?"

He closed his eyes, thinking of the other times she'd appealed to his judgment that day. His mind mostly elsewhere, he'd agreed to go into that shop with her. He'd actually suggested it himself. Idiot! Not until they'd stepped through the door had he paid attention to the kind of store it actually was.

His body would have beat an instant and hasty retreat, but Cilla still had hold of his arm and she continued sending out that blinding smile that made him stupider than usual. So he'd sat his ass on the upholstered chair she'd shoved him into, then survived an hour of torture as she flitted about the racks of filmy negligees and scandalous bra-and-panty sets.

"What about this?" she'd asked, holding up something made mostly of strings. "Or this?" In her other hand was a flesh-colored see-through corset that made the skin of his scalp prickle and heat pool in his groin.

"Why are you asking me?" he'd said in a hoarse voice.

"For the male point-of-view, of course," she'd replied, more smiles and good cheer. "What would a man—I mean, my next man—like to see me wearing?"

He groaned, just remembering the way that question had tied his gut in knots.
Her next man
.

Fuck.

"Ren?" She was getting closer now. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the kitchen," he said, in an unfriendly tone. "And busy."

She came around the corner. "Too busy for this?" she asked, striking a pose.

Ren stared at Cilla, now dressed in one of the little-nothings that had gone into her overstuffed bag from that boutique. Curling his fingers around the cool granite countertop, he tried telling himself it wasn't that revealing. The one-piece, slip-like garment was of midnight-blue lace and reached a couple of inches beyond the top of her thighs. But the neckline was a deep V, exposing the rise of her breasts and the valley between. Swallowing, he tried to think of something to say beyond
Go away, don't tempt me like this
.

Because he wasn't going to take her to bed again...or do it with her anywhere else for that matter.

It wouldn't be fair to Cilla.

And he was self-aware enough to know it would only make it harder to get his goddamn libido on that plane tomorrow night. He wasn't the one for Cilla—for any woman, long-term—but his sexual hunger for her apparently didn't concern itself with right and wrong.

She gave a small bounce on her bare heels. "I guess this doesn't make much of impression," she said, then spun on her way back out again.

He nearly swallowed his tongue. The reverse side of that sweet little number was lethal. There was a strap at the back to keep the bodice in place, then a long, low dip that nearly met the crack of her ass. From there to hemline it was row after row of lacy ruffles, sending the nightie straight into naughty territory.

Sweet Jesus. His hands tightened on the countertop instead of reaching out to halt her departure.

She came back while he was still clutching that unyielding surface like a lifeline. Ren instantly closed his eyes, rejecting the sight of her in another alluring piece of lingerie. Its image was already burned onto his retinas, however. Another shorty gown in lilac-colored fabric, another V-shaped neckline, and then a fall of tiny pleats. A big satin bow of the same soft color tied right below her breasts. She looked like spring. Like sex.

Sexy Cilla.

He was
so
screwed, because he wasn't going to screw her.

"It's a pretty color, don't you think?" she asked.

Steeling himself, he opened his eyes and focused no lower than her face. But damn, that wasn't any better because her blue eyes were like jewels against her flushed skin. Her mouth was rosy too, as if he'd been at it already.