Light My Fire

by Christie Ridgway

In the master bedroom, he placed her on the mattress, then pulled back the covers on the other side and nudged her onto the sheets. He had to bend close to make that happen, and she did it again, she somehow had her arms and then her legs wrapped around him.

  Cilla, you're a clinger.

  I am not!

  She sure as hell was.

  Resigned, Ren let himself roll to the mattress beside her. He could fight her hold, he supposed, but he was tired too and it didn't seem worth it to summon the energy. Despite her hold on him, he managed to shed the jeans and then she settled with one arm and leg thrown over him. He reached to turn out the bedside lamp and then linked his arms around her and breathed in the citrus-blossom scent of her hair. His head settled into the pillow and he realized the sex bouts had done him some good.

  With Cilla wrapped around him now, he felt mellow. Edginess only came about when he tried to resist her, he realized.

  Right now, his emotions were not so loud in his head.

  But the Cilla situation was not fixed. Not at all.

  "I'm going to want you every night," he admitted to her sleeping form on a sigh.

  Every night...but only until he was gone. Home in nine days.

  Funny, how that certainty didn't dispel the getting-to-be familiar sense of loss.

  Chapter 11

  Cilla woke to the twittering of birds, to the pale yellow light of morning filling the bedroom, to the knowledge that she was in bed with Ren, cuddled close. Her cheek was pillowed on his chest, one of her arms was stretched across his abs, and her legs were tangled with his.

  Oh, God.

  She was clinging to him.

  The undeniable fact of that sent a chill over her, starting from her naked shoulders and traveling all the way to her bare toes that were pressed to his warm shin. Her stomach folded in on itself and Cilla could only think of one thing: retreat.

  The operation took long minutes. She held her breath as she eased away from him, raising her arm as if it went weightless, sliding her legs from his in miniscule increments, scooting her booty across the soft sheet one centimeter at a time. He slept on and she wanted to keep it that way.

  When the soles of her feet found the carpet, she tiptoed around, gathering fresh clothes, her toothbrush, toothpaste, and comb. At the doorway, she glanced back at Ren. He hadn't moved and she allowed herself a few seconds of silent admiration. One long arm was thrown over his head, his glossy hair lay disordered on the pillow, the sheet was gathered low on his belly to reveal more rippled muscles. In sleep he didn't look any less dangerous, especially with that gunslinger-stubble of dark whiskers around his mouth and jaw, but she felt a jot safer with those silver-green eyes closed. Unseeing.

  After last night, she was afraid of what he might read on her face.

  It had been crazy. Wild. She'd recognized his mood the instant he'd said he wanted to have sex again and what proceeded after that...she could still feel his kisses on her mouth, his mouth between her legs, his body thrusting inside hers.

  But she was afraid he might have touched her even deeper.

  Which was why retreat was imperative. Time to regroup. Get perspective.

  She rushed to the hall bathroom and washed and dressed there, then made a pot of coffee. Steaming mug in hand, she let herself out of Gwen's house, trying to decide where to escape. Her eyes drifted across the compound and caught on the tower of the Castle—the name they'd given the house where she and Bing and Brody had grown up. The turret had been both playroom and refuge, and it called to her now.

  But she'd have to go back inside the cottage to hunt up the key. The one to Gwen's storeroom was on the ring in her pocket and she had work to do there.

  The space was quiet and again she was struck by the sense of the older woman's lingering presence. Cilla breathed deep of it, turning in a circle to run her gaze over the shelves of shoes and the racks of vintage costumes. Giving in to her need to touch, she picked up a pair of rhinestone-encrusted platform stilettos and ran her thumb over the bristly, "diamond"-studded surface. Then she walked them over to the room's single side chair and set her coffee onto the small adjacent table. On a whim, she kicked off her flat-soled TOMS, and indulged herself by strapping the sandals around her ankles. They wobbled as she stood, but she grinned as she caught sight of herself in the free-standing mirror propped in a corner of the room.

  Paired with her jeans and a vintage Three Dog Night concert tee that she'd redesigned and reconstructed to womanly lines, the shoes made her look more hooker than musical act.

  Of course, after last night...

  Shoving those hours once more from her mind, she removed the shoes. But instead of replacing them on the shelf, she slid hangers along one of the racks, searching for the perfect pairing. It showed up in a polyester jumpsuit with stripes of white, black, and silver. A costume made for the Motown sound. She remembered that Gwen had showed her a stack of flat cardboard dress forms and she found them in another corner of the room, piled on top of a plastic bin. When she shifted them, she saw that Gwen had inked "REN" across the top of the box.

  His inheritance.

  Without allowing herself to speculate, she dragged the forms into the middle of the storeroom. Each had a kickstand of sorts, so that once dressed, the costume could be displayed upright. Motown was slipped over a form and then propped with the rhinestone platforms peeking out from the stovepipe pant legs.

  Something about the sight lifted her mood. What could be wrong when she had clothes to play with? She put together several other outfits, until the empty space in the middle of the room was peopled with a half-dozen forms dressed in pop-music chic. A "rocktail" party, she decided, grinning a little.

  Going back to the racks, she did more exploring, the slight screech of metal hangers against metal pole like nails on chalk, raising the fine hairs at the back of her neck. Then she froze, her fingers clutching the clear plastic covering a beautiful, maxi-length vintage dress.

  Gunne Sax. Gunne Sax black label. That meant it was from 1969, the year Jessica McClintock took over.

  Cilla swooned. It was Renaissance-inspired, with a high, lace-edged collar that circled the back of the neck but was open at the throat to accommodate a square-shaped, low neckline that would offer a deep glimpse of décolletage. Made of a delicate, off-white cotton, the two halves of the gown's bodice was fastened by thin cord. A fall of lace trimmed the cuff of each long sleeve and another fell from below the bustline as a second, shorter overskirt.

  What rock princess could resist trying it on?

  On her just-over-average frame, the ruffled hem dragged on the ground like a train but that didn't mar the overall effect. Cilla swished back and forth in front of the mirror, admiring her reflection. It was an awesome dress. Nearly bride-like.

  From its place by her mug, her cell phone rang. Cilla started, almost-guilt washing through her.

  Guilty about what? she wondered, crossing to her phone.

  The screen said it was her brother Brody. "Hey!" she greeted, in pleased surprise.

  "Cill," he said. "What's up?"

  "You called me," she answered, slightly puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

  "Why would you ask that?"

  "I just saw you yesterday," she pointed out.

  "Yeah." He hesitated. "About that. Uh...Ren?"

  In an instant he appeared in her mind's eye, lying naked in the bed. Then another image flashed, this time of Ren at her feet, drawing away her yoga pants and underwear so he could—

  "Cilla?"

  Blinking away the vision, she brushed her hair away from her hot cheek and avoided her own gaze in the mirror. "What did you say?"

  "Bing and I...we're concerned about you getting in over your head with Ren."

  Another wash of heat crawled up her neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "He seemed a little too interested in you yesterday. That's not good. Because really, let's face it, he's, uh, not your style."

  Cilla bristled. "You mea
n I'm not his style, don't you?"

  Brody's sigh gusted over the phone. "Look, I'm not an expert on the heart or anything..."

  Rolling her eyes, Cilla tightened her fingers on her cell. "Yeah, Brody, you're no expert. How're things between you and your best pal, Alexa Alessio?"

  "Lex? Why are you bringing up Lex?"

  Because it only took a person with eyes in her head to understand that Alexa, her brother's running partner, next-door-neighbor, and the woman he treated like an asexual chum, was more than a little interested in the man. You could see it on her face when she was anywhere within Brody's vicinity.

  You could see it on her face...

  Stomach tightening into more origami folds, Cilla slowly slid her gaze back to her reflection, half-afraid to inspect her own features.

  A new voice came over the phone, distracting her. "Cilla, it's Bing. First, leave Lex out of this. Second, we're trying to get a bead on this thing between you and Ren. We didn't even know you knew him before yesterday."

  "I didn't know him, not really, not until he came back to the compound," she said. But now...now she knew so much. The severed connections in his life—with his siblings, his mother, with Gwen—all weighed so heavily upon him. Cilla thought of him feeding his grandfather bean soup. Of Ren sitting down with Nell and Clark, the children their mother was raising with such care. Of how after they'd departed, the grief and regret and anger had torn through him.

  He'd turned to her...

  Then turned her on.

  Gave her the best night of her life, because...because...

  He'd let her into his pain and because he'd given her pleasure and because due to both of those...

  She'd tumbled into love with him.

  Oh, Lord.

  She was in love with Ren.

  No! She thought instantly, rejecting the notion. It couldn't be that. This rock princess wouldn't be that foolish.

  "Cilla?" Bing's voice sounded impatient. "Cilla?"

  "I'll talk to you later," she said slowly, ignoring his sputters as she pulled the phone from her ear and ended the call.

  Her gaze went to her reflection in the mirror and she met her own wide eyes. Oh, hell. Have you done it? she asked herself. Have you gone ahead and fallen in love with Ren Colson?

  No, she answered. It couldn't be. Maybe halfway, if anything at all. But never the entire salami, right?

  Wrong.

  Before, when she was young and he was as remote as a movie star on the big screen, it had been girlish infatuation and teen fantasy. But then she'd woken to find him in her bed and he'd looked at her with those sage-and-silver eyes and, just like that, she'd begun her free-fall.

  There'd been other accelerators to her descent: The I-believe-in-fairies episode at the Walk of Fame. The way he'd appeared at her side both times she'd been confronted by Tad at the music clubs. The surprise trip he'd arranged to re-connect her with her brothers (even though she found their meddling, at the moment, more than a bit annoying).

  The times she'd made brooding Ren smile and even laugh.

  The creak of hinges had her spinning toward the storeroom door. It wasn't latched, she realized. Her hands found each other at her waist, gripping tight. Ren.

  Would he see it on her face?

  For a brief moment she considered hiding in the racks of clothes. If there was a window, she would have dived through it, because she needed time to reverse the course of events and get her back to a solid place, where her two feet were planted firmly on the cliff of Not-Falling-For-Ren. But both were impossible, so she braced, pressing her lips together so as to not inadvertently blurt out the truth. She wouldn't tell him. She could never tell him.

  A man stepped into the room.

  Cilla jumped, her eyes going wide as she took in the man she'd not expected.

  "Good morning, sweetheart," Tad Kersley said, and let the door slam shut behind him.

  Though cowardly instinct screamed at her to back away, Cilla didn't retreat and instead gave her ex a cold glance. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

  His hands slid in his pockets and he sauntered into the room, taking a curious look at the clothes. "You told me about Gwen's collection. The other night when I chatted with Cami Colson at the bar, she happened to mention you were staying here."

  "So you climbed the wall?"

  He glanced down at his impeccable loafers, slacks, and starched dress shirt. His palm caressed the silk tie he wore, it was his favorite Gucci. "No. I came through the gates behind a truck hauling a wood chipper."

  She remembered Ren speaking to the gardeners about some downed eucalyptus limbs he'd noted on the compound property. Lucky her, she thought wryly, they took their responsibilities seriously.

  Tad cruised about the racks of costumes, then turned his back to study the shelves of shoes. "This is quite something."

  "I don't want you here," Cilla said. "I told you I don't want to see you anymore."

  Turning, he let out a sigh. "You're miffed, I get that—"

  "I broke up with you months ago," she said from between her teeth. "We're over."

  "That's not how I want it to be."

  Her fingers curled into fists. "You cut off my hair, Tad."

  He waved a hand. "My bad. I apologize for that. But look, you can grow it out again. It's already longer than it was."

  Her eyes felt hot as they stared in his direction. She'd tried being calm during their break-up. Reasonable, even when he pushed to get back together. Though a temper tantrum seemed warranted after he cut her hair, she'd elected to hold her outrage in.

  All her life she'd been the quiet one tucked away in her tower, so maybe that's why Tad hadn't heard her loud and clear when she'd told him they were through. Perhaps she'd just not been direct enough.

  "You came into my house uninvited. In the middle of the night." She advanced on him, and it was gratifying to see him back up, retreating into a corner of the room, almost disappearing between two racks of clothes. Her voice lowered, but it sounded deadly to her. "And then you cut. Off. My. Hair."

  Cilla was standing five feet from him when she again heard the distinctive creak of the storeroom door's hinges. Her head whipped in its direction as Ren stepped through.

  His gaze instantly snapped to her, and she knew he wasn't aware that Tad was in the room. "Hey," he said. "You weren't in bed when I woke up."

  An explosion of movement came from Tad's direction. Then he was on Ren, letting fly a sucker punch that plowed into the taller man's ear.

  Horrified, Cilla could only stare, frozen, as Ren stepped back, shaking his head. "What the—?" He blinked at Tad who'd retreated a few feet and was bouncing on his toes, his fists hugging his chin, pugilist-style.

  Then Ren looked over at her, his expression unreadable, his voice low. "Did you invite him here?"

  "No! He—"

  "I'm going to take you apart," Tad interrupted, scuttling in Ren's direction. "Are you sleeping with my woman?" He glanced toward Cilla, then looked back at Ren. "You're sleeping with my woman."

  "Your woman?" Ren said in icy tones.

  Without responding, Tad rushed forward. Cilla did too, throwing herself in front of Ren. "Leave him alone," she told Tad, pressing her back to Ren's chest and holding her arms out at her sides like a human shield.

  Her ex came to a halt. "Get out of the way, Cilla."

  "Baby." Ren's hands clasped her shoulders and it sounded as if he might be smiling. "Stand down."

  "He hit you," Cilla said, twisting her neck to look at his face. He was smiling! "He shouldn't have hit you."

  "And we'll be taking that up," Ren responded, "as soon as we discuss this habit he has of breaking into places where you sleep."

  "I followed the gardener through the gates," Tad said. "I didn't break in."

  "Well." Ren's tone was conversational now. "So you know, I'll break your face if I ever see you around Cilla again."

  The threat had Tad bristling and he danced forward again. "Like
I said, Cilla, get out of the way."

  "Move, baby." Ren's hands tightened on her shoulders, but she dug in her heels.

  "Tad, it's time for you to go," she said.

  "Not until I teach this guy a lesson."

  At her back, she felt Ren's chuckle. "Cilla." His hands moved to her waist to usher her away. "I've got this."

  Then it happened. Before Ren had her completely out of range, Tad moved in. She guessed he was trying to facilitate putting distance between her and the impending mano a mano exchange by giving her an extra push or something, but the outcome was more of a shove. Her feet tangled in the too-long ruffled hem of the dress.

  One minute she was upright and being directed to the side, the next she'd fallen onto her butt. Hard. The jolt reverberated up her spine. The sting of pained tears pricked her eyes.

  Silence fell like an anvil in the room. Ren leaped to help her to her feet. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice tight with new tension.

  There was a thick, scary vibe in the room. "I'm fine," she said, and didn't rub her tailbone because he looked mad enough as it was. Over his shoulder, she could see Tad was backing toward the door, his expression reading oh, shit.

  Ren guided her a few more feet away, then, moving slowly, he rounded on Tad. "You took one shot, now I'll take mine. You can leave after that, or..." And in a lightning move, he was in Tad's space. His fist was in Tad's face.

  The sound of the impact was more splat then thud and Cilla saw blood spring from her ex's cut lip. "Now you go," Ren said, "or you take me on."

  Tad took him on.

  Or tried to anyway.

  Cilla backed behind the chair as Ren got in blow after blow. Each time he connected, he'd ask, "You done?" and each time Tad would launch himself back into the fray.

  Five times this went on before Tad landed on his butt on the hard floor and stayed there, face bloody, eyes dazed.

  Ren bent over to lean in close to the other man. "You understand me, yes?"

  "I jus' wanted to talk to her," Tad said, sounding sulky through his swelling lip.

  "You never get to talk to her again, asswipe. For God's sake, you cut off her hair."