Light My Fire (Rock Royalty Book 1) (8 page)

How her lips nearly matched its color.

As she reached the shallow end, he bent to catch one wrist. Sputtering, she looked up and he caught the other, hauling her from the pool and onto the deck in one move.

She blinked at him, her lashes spiked, her eyes wide. "Hey—"

"Hey nothing." He dragged her toward a lounge where he spied a long terry robe. With efficient movements, he bundled her into it, then took up a towel and started blotting at her hair. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Um, swimming?" Her teeth began to chatter and a shiver ran through her body that he could detect even beneath the thick robe.

Shaking his head, he rubbed her hair more briskly. "The pool temp is fifty-seven degrees. I checked it yesterday."

"So?" She tried grabbing the towel, but he caught her wrists in one hand and held them down while he continued getting the moisture from her hair with the other. "Ren!"

He ignored her protest. "You are a silly woman."

With a wild movement of her arms, she broke free of him. Then she caught the towel and ripped it from his hands to hang around her neck. The rest of her might have been cold, but her glare was molten. "Do you mind?"

He glared right back. "I mind you freezing on my watch."

"Have you thought that's maybe what I wanted?" she yelled. "That maybe I was trying to freeze my brain?"

"Why the hell would you do that?"

"So I could stop thinking about what happened last night, okay? So I wouldn't remember what an idiot I made of myself with my overshare." She turned on one bare foot and stomped off in the direction of Gwen's.

Ren watched her for a moment, and though she was covered in yards of thick fabric, something about the way her cute ass twitched as she hurried off made his blood rush south. Like he was led by a chain, he followed in her wake, bemused by his own reaction and the sense of inevitability swamping him.

She glanced over her shoulder, and that swift look of apprehension only caused him to quicken his footsteps. He'd always known he was a very bad man.

As she reached the door to Gwen's, so did he, and he pulled it open before she could. With a shrug she swept over the threshold and he had to swallow his laugh. Clearly she was nervous now, and it only served to make the predator in him more keen for her.

Yeah. Bad Ren.

With him at her heels, she headed for the hallway. Before they reached it, she swung around to confront him. Her hands went to her hips.

He was gratified to see her lips were back to their normal rosy color and her cheeks were pink too. Ren smiled at her. "Warm now?" he asked.

Cilla ignored the question. "Last night, why didn't you just tell me I was giving too much information? Three letters, a T, an M, and an I, and I would have set aside my tea and taken myself off to bed."

"I accept," he said, cutting to the chase.

She blinked. Her body went still. "Accept?" she whispered.

"The dare. The role. I'll be your sexual mentor."

Her nostrils flared. More color rose from her neck to infuse her face. "Um..."

"Unless you want to back out," he offered.

She stared at him. "Um..."

"Yes? No?"

"Yes."

"You want to back out?"

"No!" Her fingers fisted around each end of the towel hanging over her neck and she continued to stare at him, round-eyed. "I...I... Really?"

God, she was so fucking adorable that he was going to do this right or kick his own ass. Cilla deserved to experience all of life's pleasures. "Really, baby. I'm going to prove you're not the least bit cold. Starting now, we'll discover every one of your buttons and I'll show you how much fun it is to push them."

She only goggled more.

Fuck. Adorable.

"Now?" she whispered.

"Right now."

With a hand on her shoulder, he turned her, then pushed her in the direction of her bedroom. "Put on some clothes. We're going hiking."

Her head came around. "Hiking?"

He smiled. "Hiking," he said, then let his grin go wolfish. "As the sexual mentor, baby, I make the rules and that's where we start."

As she set off down the hall, he told himself the heat coursing through him was a decided sense of satisfaction. Bad Ren was actually going to do good here. If he helped her get comfortable in her own skin, if he was able to give her confidence and a strong sexual identity, then she'd be able to climb down from her Rapunzel tower and find a man with whom she could make a strong connection.

Not him, of course. But he'd take her on a two-week tour of sorts, during which he'd smash her hang-ups and banish her inhibitions, in order to free her to find true love.

Yeah. Jeez. He really fucking had some semblance of a heart.

Who knew?

Chapter 5

Ren accelerated north through Laurel Canyon, green trees and shrubs passing by, the sky as blue as summer. It was winter in Southern California, which meant if the sun was out the temperature could easily edge toward a high of eighty degrees. The BMW's sunroof was pulled back, allowing in a breeze that teased the tendrils of wavy blonde hair caressing Cilla's cheeks.

He wanted to reach over and tuck them behind her ears.

But part of the game plan precluded putting his skin to hers just yet. From the instant he'd made clear he'd take on the mentor role, it was obvious her nerves had leaped to high alert, as if she expected him to toss her to the nearest bed and jump in right after. That wasn't going to happen. He was an old hand at sex and had learned the pleasures of a slow seduction.

Pleasures he was determined to pass along now.

So instead of getting naked, they were going on a hike.

He glanced in the rear view mirror, checking on the insulated backpack perched on the rear cushions. Lunch had required another trip to the Canyon Country Store. They'd hit the deli for sandwiches, the refrigerated cases for cold drinks, and a rack by the register for the pack to carry them in.

The car neared Mulholland Drive and Ren flipped on the radio. As if the universe knew mere minutes ago they'd been parked at the intersection of Kirkwood and Laurel Canyon Boulevard, mere yards away from the "Love Street" home of the late Jim Morrison, the rocking beat of "L.A. Woman" by The Doors poured out of the speakers. Ren shot a grin at Cilla who was smiling too, as if tickled by that song hitting the airwaves at this particular moment.

Taking a right turn onto Mulholland, that infamous section of roadway that edged the ridgeline of the Santa Monica Mountains, they got their first view of the San Fernando Valley stretching northward. Ren slowed the car, giving them both a moment to enjoy the sight as The Doors lead singer growled about the City of Night. But it was daytime, and the dark ghosts and the deep shadows of Los Angeles were in retreat—at least until the burning circle of the sun met the silvered Pacific at sunset.

Until then, it was all bright optimism.

They followed the curve of the road. It was a thoroughfare made for motorcycles. He glanced over at Cilla. "You ever travel this on a bike?"

"If you mean like a Harley or a Honda, then no," she said, shaking her head. "Only you boys had motorized two-wheeled vehicles. Anyway, I barely learned to ride a bicycle."

His eyebrows rose and he shot another look at her.

"What, you think Mad Dog Maddox would think to teach me?" she asked.

Ren tried to remember how he'd learned. "I stole Beck's," he said, the memory returning. "Fell a few times and lost some skin before he discovered what I'd done. Then I got my balance right quick so I could pedal the hell away from him. He's mean when he's mad," Ren said on a chuckle.

"Later, you showed Payne and Cami how to do it."

"Yeah, I did." One of his few brotherly acts. His gaze flicked to Cilla again. "Bing or Brody...?"

"Bing and Brody were always too caught up working on a tree house or a fort. They had them squirreled away all over the canyon."

In his mind's eye, he could see two near-identical figures hanging from the trees like monkeys. "They used to pitch pine cones at my head."

"They now use all that excess energy in running their home-building empire. Still busy, busy, busy."

At the wistfulness in her voice, his hand left the steering wheel, compelled to stroke her cheek in comfort. But then he recalled his strategy—no skin-to-skin—and he snatched it back.
Take this slow
,
Ren
, he reminded himself.

A few miles more, and he pulled onto a side street. "We're here," he said, parking in a small lot beside a trailhead. "If it hasn't changed over the years, I can promise a good path and a great view."

Swinging the straps of the backpack over one shoulder, he waited while Cilla bent to adjust her canvas slip-on shoes. In a heroic feat of self-restraint, he studied the peeling trunks of the surrounding eucalyptus trees instead of her round ass covered by a pair of well-worn jeans. Peeling strips of bark in red and gold and silver shifted in the slight breeze that also stirred the medicinal scent of the leaves into the air.

"Ready?" Cilla's voice drew his attention. A UCLA ball cap was pulled low on her forehead, the pale blue color only serving to make the more jewel-tone of her eyes stand out. Her tentative smile told him she was still on edge.

Trying his best to look harmless, he gestured with his hand for her to precede him. Second thoughts instantly popped up. Three miles of staring at her sweet behind wasn't going to work for him. With her one step ahead he was already focused on her two back pockets and his mind was busily conjuring images of him sliding his hand beneath the denim there and then into her panties to fill his palm with one silky-skinned cheek. The heat of her skin would send a prickling response up his arm and down to his cock.

Which was already starting to harden.

In two strides he was past her, taking the lead. "I better go first," he said, his voice gruff.

She didn't reply, though he sensed her falling in behind him.

His fingers curled around the strap of the backpack, holding fast as he plowed ahead, following the red-dirt trail that wound among heavy boulders and dense patches of chaparral and coyote brush. The twisty branches of the manzanita were blooming, their tiny bell-like flowers the color of a young girl's blush.

The sun heated the top of his head but the going was easy. A mile-and-a-half in, he came around a corner and drew to an abrupt halt. Cilla made a small sound of wonder as she came to a stop too, her shoulder brushing his upper arm.

"Still a great view," he said, unnecessarily.

There it was, laid out before them.

Los Angeles.

To their left, the Hollywood sign stood braced against the hills it was named for. Then there was downtown Los Angeles, from this distance the skyscrapers almost like the towers of some magical kingdom's massive castle. Hollywood was in the foreground, huddled close to the mouths of the canyons, and to the west was the blue smudge of the ocean, with Catalina Island seeming to float on its surface like exotic flotsam.

"Ren," Cilla said. "You never see it like this."

"This," he supposed, being the epitome of the golden promise it had offered to so many for so many years. Dreams had been dashed against those thrusting metal spires and drowned in those seemingly serene waters, but every day others took their place because the sun and sky, the mountains and beaches, produced fantasies with the ease and speed that other landscapes grew dandelions and crabgrass.

The Lemons had arrived from Missouri and West Texas and Ohio, riding a cultural wave and spurred on by their undeniable talent. Between them, they'd built an unrivaled musical platform and along the way fathered native Californians—even more rare, native Los Angelenos—children steeped in unlimited sunshine and limitless possibility, decadent desires and unspoken needs.

Ren swept his gaze across the vista before him, feeling the visceral tug of home. People thought Southern California was too shallow to take root, but it ran deep inside him, he realized now. No wonder so many of the rock royalty had stayed put.

"I'd forgotten what it's like here," he murmured.

"How did you find this spot?" Cilla asked.

He glanced down at her. "Good location for getting drunk or high. Or drunk
and
high."

Cilla's eyes widened.

"Baby," he said, laughing. "Come on. I was that kid everyone's parents warned them about."

"
I
never thought you were bad."

"You were too young to imagine how bad I could be."

She rolled her eyes. "I wasn't so naive."

"No, you were just a goody-goody," he said. Her expression went disgruntled, and he wanted to kiss her pouting lower lip so bad he had to dig his fingers into the backpack straps instead of sinking them into her hair to bring her mouth to his.

"Priss is a nickname—it's not me," she said. "And by the way, don't think Ren Colson was the only wild one in the canyon."

"You weren't, though," he said, certain of that. But something inside him lurched, thinking of what other untamed sorts she might have encountered growing up. With no one looking out for her—Mad Dog and her brothers were apparently useless in that regard—she could have fallen in with a bad crowd.

Like his old crowd.

He narrowed his gaze. "There's a rough clique in every school. Did you keep clear—?"

This roll of her eyes was even more dramatic. "I didn't need to be at school to encounter rough, wild, or bad, Ren. The Lemons? Hello?"

Shit. That was true, of course. Before he'd been old enough to completely understand, he'd glimpsed drugs, drunks, and the opening acts of full-blown orgies. Later, he'd been called upon to referee naked water polo games in the pool and to judge nude relay races on the tennis court. Once Cami started walking and talking, though, he'd pulled their father aside and pointed out it wasn't safe or sane to subject his young daughter to the same kinds of sights.

Bean hadn't cleaned up his act, but he had kept it behind locked doors.

Who had looked out for Cilla? Another uncomfortable pitching in his chest. "Baby." He reached for her, only at the last minute checking the movement so his fingers merely clutched the half-sleeve of her T-shirt. "Jesus, Cilla," he said, still fighting a protective urge that wanted to snatch her close.