Light My Fire Read online

  "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..."

  She didn't turn back to face him, just hesitated in the hall. "Yes?"

  He was too curious to let it go. "Why don't you sleep in the bigger room?"

  "I'm thinking about updating it. You know, new paint, new linens, new...new everything." She glanced over her shoulder. "My studio...workroom, whatever you want to call it, is this way. Coming?"

  Hmm. Clearly ready to get off the subject of the space that needed new everything. He gave it a final sweep with his eyes, then shrugging, followed her.

  In the kitchen, they slipped out a side door. Around back, another building, almost as big as her home, was a few steps across a miniscule lawn. She made quick work of the lock and then flipped on lights. It was essentially a single space. On the left, there was a long table with bolts of fabric stacked on one end. Two sewing machines were set up in separate corners. Full-length mirrors were installed just about everywhere and he could see another behind some curtains that delineated a changing room. Everywhere was more fabric, spangly trims, rolls of ribbon, and jars of what appeared to be sequins. A rolling tool cart held those of her trade: scissors, pincushions, several glue guns.

  On another long table was a photo album. He idly flipped it open and wasn't surprised that this too held nothing personal. On the pages were shots of costumes, matching fabric swatches and trim samples attached. He went through it at random, and like when he'd visited her website, he was intrigued by the imagination and talent that she expressed with such skill. Each piece was intricate and fanciful and seemed to tell its own story.

  He was also intrigued by Cilla, the woman, he admitted to himself. She was a conundrum with her photo-less house and her sexual unease, with her artistic gift and the way she'd melted under his mouth.

  Something else to solve, he thought, like his sibling dilemma.

  Across the room, movement caught his eye. Sketch book in hand, Cilla was studying a drawing, that small furrow back between her brows. As she continued to scrutinize the page, her other hand swept across a rack of bolted fabrics, her fingers caressing the different materials, absently enjoying them with clear sensual appreciation.

  And she thought she was bad in bed. All she needed to bring to it was that tactile appreciation. He—no, some lucky man—should be able to do the rest. In his mind's eye it was him, though, sprawled naked on rumpled sheets. Cilla's head on his chest, Cilla's slender fingers tracing random patterns on his skin as she came down from the screaming orgasm he gave her.

  Well, hell. That did it. He turned away from her to adjust the change in the fit of his jeans. Foolish to think of those stroking fingers, that smoking little body, and a bed at the same time. He was supposed to be focused on other things, right?

  But he had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling, there was nothing that could distract him from this sexual ache that had started by waking up beside Cilla and that wasn't easily going away.

  Ren had a Shock Top beer waiting for his sister at the bar. She joined him there between her first and second sets, hopping onto the stool beside him and giving a little grin. "You came to see me play again."

  "Yeah," he said. "And in my not-so-humble opinion, you killed it again." True. Her throaty yet pure voice was eminently suited for the pop/rock/folk/country blend of her set list. Most songs she covered were known for their versions by female artists, but she snuck in a few surprises, including Jason Mraz's "I Won't Give Up."

  She took up her beer, looking at him while she tipped back the bottle for a slug. He couldn't say for sure—he didn't know her well—but he thought she was pleased by the compliment.

  The bottle hit the bar with a subtle clack. "So, we have business?"

  He hid his wince. They were related, for God's sake, and she was looking for an ulterior motive for this meet-up. Damn Lemons. "Maybe I just wanted to listen to some good music."

  "You were curious the first time and I can believe you liked what you heard. But to come back so soon? You want something."

  And he thought he had a cynical soul. Shaking his head, he sighed. "Fine. Let's start with a request. How about you give me your cell phone number?"

  She blinked, then ran her fingers through the long slide of her auburn bangs. "Uh, really?"

  "Really. I can get in touch with Payne but somehow you're not on my contacts list."

  "You want me to be on our contacts list?" Her eyes were wide with surprise.

  Fucking Lemons. "Yeah." He yanked his phone from his pocket and handed it over. "Here."

  When she was done, he called her cell. "Now you have mine,
" he said.

  "Cool," Cami replied, picking up her beer.

  He took a swallow of his own and thought about other biographical basics. "I don't know where you live, either."

  As her eyebrows rose, he saw hints of russet in their dark brown. When she was tiny, her hair had been strawberry blond and her eyebrows so light they were almost non-existent. "Nearby," she said. "In Santa Monica."

  That sent his mind straight to Cilla's small bungalow. "So...do you have photos at your place?"

  "Photos?" Her eyebrows climbed high again. "What kind of photos?"

  "The kind you put in frames and on fridges. Of you and your best friends, going to parties, hanging out. That sort of thing."

  "I don't have a lot of time to cultivate friends, Ren, not with my work schedule and my music."

  And because growing up rock royalty had made them all lousy at connecting with others. Ren supposed he was the worst offender, but to paraphrase Payne, not one of them knew much about normal relationships.

  Cami tilted her head, studying him. "So what's with the twenty questions?"

  "It was three."

  She just kept looking at him. "It's because we're family," he finally said, giving in. "We should know how to get in touch with each other in case of emergencies."

  "That's the only reason?"

  He sighed. "Look, I ran into Payne on the street today. We didn't recognize each other."

  Cami's expression went soft and her hand brushed her chin. "Well, he has that stubble thing—"

  "That wasn't it," Ren ground out. "And it's just flat-out fucked that I walked past the man with whom I share a good portion of my DNA."

  His half-sister was staring at him again. Then her lips twitched.

  "What?" he demanded.

  "Who would have thought big bad Ren Colson was sentimental?" she mused, appearing to fight a smile with little success.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "Cami—"

  "You're an old softie. Who knew?"

  "Be careful, kid," he warned. "I've well-earned my reputation for rough-and-tough."

  His half-sister snorted, then tipped back her beer again. After she swallowed, she pinned him with those eyes so like his own. "So now it's my turn for questions."

  He hesitated. "Okay..."

  "What's up with you and Cilla?"

  Ren kept his face blank and made sure not to glance back at the table where he'd left the other woman sitting. "Nothing."

  "Oh, come on."

  "If there was anything—which there is not—have you considered it might be a private matter?"

  Her lips curved. "Word has it that this is exactly what people do who share DNA, Ren. Family members pry into each other's business."

  "We don't know what it is that families do," he muttered.

  Cami set her beer back on the bar. "But you want to, don't you? Isn't that what the cell phone number exchange is about?"

  Shit, Ren thought. Maybe he was a softie. Still, he refused to start regretting that his half-sister had her own line on his contacts list.

  She reached over to pat his knee. "I didn't say anything after the gig at the club on Sunset, but I saw you kissing her. A massive pheromone cloud was forming over your heads. It was freaky."

  Maybe he did regret her having her own line on his contacts list. "You can forget all about that."

  Her smile was mischievous. "Should we have The Talk?"

  "Cami..." He shook his head.

  "Really. I can tell you all about safe sex and how to pleas—"

  "Who gave you The Talk?" he asked, suddenly struck by the thought. And appalled. "Surely not Bean."

  "No." She waved that away. "Gwen, of course. And very tasteful it was, too, considering she probably boned more rock stars than there are eucalyptus trees in Laurel Canyon."

  Boned. He winced, thinking that Gwen might have given tasteful Talks, but she'd been almost rawly open about her groupie past.

  "I miss her," Cami said.

  "Yeah." He'd put off locating the box she'd left him. Marked with his name on it, she'd said in her last letter. It was stored somewhere in her cottage and she'd written that he'd know what to do with the contents. "I should have found a way to get back before she passed."

  Cami contemplated the label on her bottle of beer. "All of us could have done more for her." Her gaze drifted across the room. "From what I understand, Cilla was there a lot, though." Now his half-sister's brows met in a frown.

  "What?" Ren asked.

  "It's Cilla's former boyfriend again."

  Tad. Ren glanced over his shoulder and saw, sure enough, it was the man he'd met the other night. The one who'd told her she was a lousy lay on they day they'd broken up.

  No wonder her expression looked once again strained.

  But could it be more than that? Ren thought. Though this was the guy who'd told her she was bad in bed and asked her to watch porn as a warm-up before date night, might she still be in love with him?

  Or he, her? Otherwise why the hell was he back, this time sans the blonde with the yard-long hair? Was he following Cilla?

  But none of this was Ren's business, he reminded himself. He was supposed to be putting her out of his mind, right?

  Still, he couldn't drag his gaze from the pair. "You know anything about him?" he heard himself ask his half-sister. "Not her type, don't you think?"

  "I've never met the man," Cami said. "He looks too starched for my taste, but how would I know Cilla's? I don't even know yours."

  He looked back at this half-sister. "Easy and stacked." He actually didn't have a preference for big tits, though it was true that the women he came across behind stages while doing his business of shepherding mega-bands on mega-tours weren't there to make hook-ups hard.

  If he was honest, the allure of that kind of female and those kinds of encounters had worn off years ago. He just hadn't found another variety to fill the empty side of his bed.

  His gaze slid to Cilla again. Her ex appeared in earnest conversation with her. She was staring at the toes of her boots. Then she darted a quick glance Ren's way.

  None of his business, he thought again.

  At her second glance, he wondered if that was true. Last time she'd been conversing with the other man, Ren had laid a kiss on her. Was she expecting that sort of conduct from him again as a way to salvage her pride...or make the ex jealous? If so, didn't he have an obligation to meet those expectations?

  With a muttered, "I've got to do something," to his sister, Ren slid off the stool and stalked toward his housemate.

  His intentions were good, he assured himself. Read the situation, read what she might need from him. As he drew closer, he decided that might not be so simple. Cilla's closed expression gave little away and her big blues were again trained on her feet. The ex, Tad, was talking, and though he was bent close to her, Ren could caught a fragment of the man's words, "...you made me crazy..."

  Something about his tone made up Ren's mind. Screw it, he didn't care where Cilla's head was on this situation. The asshole was not getting a second chance with her. Not on his watch.

  He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against his side. "Baby," he said, and kissed her temple.

  Cilla twitched and Tad's head jerked up. "You," he said, a new interest kindling in his gaze.

  Ren's brows rose. "That's right. Me."

  Tad straightened to full height which meant he had a bead on Ren's nose. "The other night, Cilla didn't tell me you were Ren Colson. You're Cami's brother."

  "True." Why was the ex talking about Ren's sister?

  "One of the things Tad wants is an introduction to Cami," Cilla said, her body stiff against him.

  And what other thing Tad wanted, Ren was just itching to know. "Is that so?" he returned, his voice mild.

  "Yes." The other man dove into his pocket to pull out a wallet and then a business card. "I rep musicians. I'd like to talk to your sister about that."

  Taking the small piece of tagboard, Ren
gave it a glance. Okay. Legit agency. He jerked his chin to where Cami sat at the bar, her Shock Top in hand. "Not her receptionist. You want to talk to her, make your own approach."

  Tad hesitated, glancing between Cilla and Ren. "I'm not through—"

  "You're through," Cilla said, her voice firm. "And you wanted that meet with Cami." Then she transferred her gaze to Ren. "I'm ready to leave, is that okay?"

  "Sure." He squeezed her closer and pressed another kiss to her temple, his eyes on You-Should-Watch-Porn Tad who was clearly torn between heading for the bar and talking further with Cilla. "Whatever you want, beautiful."

  They made their getaway with a nod to the ex. Ren steered Cilla to the exit, sketching a wave at his half-sister. He could text her later, now that he had her number. As they pushed through the door, he saw Tad moving toward the bar. Second thoughts assailed Ren when he was outside, pressing the fob to open the car locks.

  "Cilla."

  Clearly pre-occupied, it took her a moment to glance up. "Hmm?"

  Ren pulled open the passenger door for her. "Am I going to regret not playing Cami's receptionist?"

  Her brows drew together. "What?"

  "Is that guy okay? Why didn't he ask you to facilitate a meet?"

  "He did, and I refused. I didn't want her to feel like I was foisting someone on her." She slid into the seat.

  "Okay." With a nod, he shut door. But behind the wheel, he realized she hadn't answered both questions.

  Pulling out of the parking lot, he asked it again. "Cilla, is that guy okay?"

  Something pulsed in the silence and that cold prickle slid down his spine again. Shit. "Cilla?"

  She cleared her throat. "Professionally, he's on the up-and-up. Very successful at what he does."

  "But personally?"

  "Personally?" Cilla repeated. Then she twisted in her seat and gripped his forearm with fingers that bit into his skin. "Would Cami be interested in him in that way?"

  "Doubt it, sweetheart." Ren was getting an ugly vibe from Cilla's sudden concern. He no longer wondered if she was still hung up on the ex, that was sure. "Is there something more about him I should know?"

  Her grip on Ren's arm relaxed and she sat back in her seat. "Just that personally...he's not so great."