Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7)

by Christie Ridgway

  “Open your hand.”

  Gasping, Cami started, then jackknifed up in the bath. With another gasp, she stared down at herself but saw that the bubbles created an effective shield. Her gaze flew to Eamon, crouched beside her, a glass of wine in his hand.

  “Lucky I brought one of the plastic goblets,” he said mildly, his gaze focused on her face. “I almost lost hold of this one. Sorry I startled you.”

  That’s what he’d done on that very first night. She’d had no idea the whole of her body, mind, heart, could be engaged in the space of a shared glance.

  Stupid, silly dreamer.

  She snatched the wine from his hand and tossed back a swallow. The tart coolness flowed down her throat.

  “Put it over there,” he said, nodding to the opposite side of the bath. “There’s a niche in the wall to hold it.”

  Wary, she slid him another look, supremely aware of her nakedness beneath the bubbles. Her skin felt silky from bath oils and flushed from the heat.

  “Go ahead,” he urged. “You’ll enjoy what’s next, I promise.” Then he stood, pulling his phone from his pocket. Music began playing through the speakers in the ceiling—he must have wirelessly connected. “You should like this playlist.”

  Because she’d shared it with him mere days before they broke up…when she’d been ignorant of what was just around the corner waiting to hit her and strike deep. Megan Trainor and John Legend singing about loving someone as if you were about to lose them. Then Eddie Vedder’s low voice in his rendition of “Just Breathe.”

  “Tip back your chin,” Eamon whispered from behind her, tugging on the ends of her hair. Warm water poured over her head. She started to move, but he placed his palm on her forehead. “Be still.”

  More water wetting her hair. Then something cool landed on her crown, and he began massaging again, his long fingers spreading shampoo over the strands. Under his unhurried touch, a wave of aching yearning crashed over Cami. The heavy weight of it relaxed her muscles, and she felt her shoulders drop.

  It was merely that need for physical affection, she told herself. Not his particular brand of wizard-craft. The benign neglect of her childhood made her rife for a pair of knowing, willing hands. Any person’s would do when she’d been coiled up like this.

  Then the strains of a new song came over the speakers. Vedder again, this time with his ukulele, performing “Longing to Belong.” Then Damien Rice and “The Blower’s Daughter.” As the musician sang, behind her Eamon hummed along softly. I can’t take my eyes off of you.

  Cami felt tears gather behind her closed lids, and she breathed deeply against the sting.

  “You all right, a ghrá?”

  She nodded. “Better,” she whispered.

  Because she was. So much better. Though hurt throbbed, she could forgive herself, the stupid, silly dreamer, because she hadn’t fallen for some generic mysterious stranger from her fantasies simply because he’d lit a fire beneath her libido. She’d fallen for this man, this particular man, with his deep loyalty and his domineering ways, with his x-ray vision—“She needs attention and affection”—and gentle hands.

  I can’t take my eyes off of you.

  Who could blame her?

  She no longer blamed herself.

  Eamon gave in to Cami, agreeing they’d go on the back of his bike to his law office and then to the Laurel Canyon compound to meet her tribe. He’d protested, but she’d unearthed his extra helmet in the garage and pulled the cover off the BMW C 600 herself.

  “I’m not a piece of dandelion fluff that’s going to fly off in the first breeze,” she’d said.

  As she’d climbed aboard, rolling her eyes.

  It reminded him of how his life seemed to be spiraling out of control. Every choice he’d made after the Sons’ threat had turned back on him. Instead of Cami being free of him, they were living together. Instead of keeping his dad’s MC well-clear of the situation, too, he’d had to bring them in.

  Cami’s

  There was now a war going on inside of him as well, the affection he had for the tempting woman right now snuggling his back struggling with the idea that he should keep a healthy distance between them. Except he didn’t want to keep her out of his sight or her body out of his reach.

  Fuck. He’d been living like a lone wolf for years, since as a young teen in ragged high tops and a cast-off leather jacket he’d arrived at prep school. After college and obtaining his law degree he’d continued to stay somewhat aloof, sniffing at the edges of the Unruly Assassins and also at Spence’s wealthy world, held back by circumstance or temperament. Then he’d knocked on Cami’s door, and being so drawn to her had drawn him into unyielding bonds and clawing concerns.

  Yeah, spiraling out of control. As he bounced into the underground parking garage of Rooney & Sadler, he couldn’t help wondering if this was exactly what Irish had felt when he’d picked up the phone and heard the shouts and screams and sobs that were the aftermath of a bloody skirmish in a biker war he’d intended never to touch his family.

  Eamon pulled into a motorcycle space and killed the engine. In a second, Cami released her hold on him and jumped from the back of the bike. Then she pulled off the helmet and shook out her hair, a big smile splitting her face.

  “I love that.”

  It clutched at him, that enthusiasm. “Motorcycles are dangerous,” he said, thinking of her falling, sliding, scraping even an inch of her lovely skin.

  “Oh my God.” She stared at him, her green eyes nearly popping out of her head. “You can be such a fuddy-duddy.” Without waiting for him to reply, she flounced in the direction of the elevator, her tight jeans and low-heeled boots causing her ass to sway.

  Or maybe that was her attitude.

  Watching her progress, he shoved his hand through his hair. The night before she’d been pensive and subdued after her performance. He’d felt like a shit because, as usual, Cami had opened an emotional vein on stage and let it all out.

  Stronger, colder, better

  We’ll be free from him, girls, and finally free from silly dreams.

  He’d done that to her, he’d realized. Doused her shine, stomped on her heart, detonated her dreams. But she seemed to have woken up a new woman this morning, one with a swagger in her step and a smile on her lips.

  What the hell was a man to make of it?

  In utter confusion, he followed her.

  The elevator doors opened to the office’s reception area, devoid of the receptionist herself, as it was the weekend. But Spence stood behind the secretary’s desk, pawing through a drawer. He glanced up, his gaze sliding from Eamon to Cami’s bright head.

  “Well…” he said, smile growing. “Fancy finally meeting you, Your Highness.” Coming around the desk, he held out a hand. “Spence Sadler.”

  “Cami Colson.”

  She beamed sunshine and kittens at his partner, and Eamon barely resisted the urge to yank her back against him.

  “We’re only here for a second. Need to drop off some papers for my assistant.” He pulled the file from inside his jacket. “Why are you working today?”

  Spence continued to stare at Cami, his expression bemused. She’d slipped off her own jacket to reveal the tight t-shirt that wrapped her waist at the band of her low-slung jeans. Its color matched her eyes, and long earrings dangled nearly to her shoulders, the stones the same pale jade. The shaft of her brown boots were tooled and dyed in an intricate pattern of ivory roses and green leaves.

  After another long moment, Eamon was forced to snap his fingers in front of his partner’s face. Instead of decking him like he wanted. “Spence?”

  “Sorry.” With a sharp shake of his head, the other man redirected his attention to Eamon. “With that hair, those eyes. I’m not sure she’s real.”

  “She’s real,” he ground out. She’s really mine.

  His glance darted to Cami, but she didn’t seem put off by his partner’s personal comments. Rather, she was affording him her own assessing
glance.

  Eamon had never hated his best friend’s aristocratic, entitled handsomeness as he did now—and hated his own ridiculous jealous reaction, as well.

  “If you can get that brain behind your pretty face in gear,” he said to Spence, his tone a tad belligerent, “maybe you might answer the question.”

  The other man blinked, then grinned. “Okay. Sorry. I’m at the office to get caught up on a few things. I need to look through some paperwork we have here.” His expression sobered. “Grant Healy is filing for divorce.”

  “From prison?”

  “Yeah. I guess Veronica didn’t take the news well, and both divorce lawyers are champing at the bit for anything we have.”

  “Ugh,” Eamon said. “Pre-nup? I can’t recall.”

  He nodded. “I think it’s not looking too good for her. But enough about that failed romance. Why are you two inside on such a beautiful day?”

  “We’re heading to meet my family in Laurel Canyon,” Cami said. “Brunch.”

  “And you’re bringing along an escort,” Spence said, a speculative light in his eyes.

  Cami released a put-upon sigh. “He’s turned out to be more than a little difficult to leave behind.”

  “I see that,” Spence said. “If you’d like to trade-up for a more pleasant sort—”

  “We’ve got to go,” Eamon interrupted, before he had to watch his partner proposition his…Cami. He slapped the file onto the desk. “But if you happen to talk to Voight, you can tell him I’m billing him double my usual rate.”

  Spence appeared unconcerned. “I’m sure he’ll whine and moan and want to know why.”

  “Because now he won’t be going through a crushing divorce like Grant and Veronica Healy. We saved Voight’s fucking marriage.” Eamon grabbed Cami’s hand. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re turning out to be such a romantic,” Spence called to his back. “It’s so cute!”

  Eamon flipped his best friend the bird and stepped inside the elevator.

  “It is kind of cute,” Cami teased as they traveled downward.

  He slanted her a narrow-eyed look. “Don’t start.”

  “Hey, if you’re cranky about having to go with me—”

  “I’m not cranky—” he started, his voice heated. Christ, listen to me. “Everything’s great. I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere but right where I am.”

  She laughed. “Nice try, pal. But okay.” Going on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his jaw.

  Briefly.

  But even that nothing kiss had his libido and his good sense engaged in another dizzying wrestling match. Because if he grabbed her like he wanted to, pushed her against the wall and ran his mouth along the tender skin at her throat, he could find the exact point where she’d applied the maddening perfume she wore that was messing with his head. He curled his fingers into fists, then flexed them again, need wreaking havoc with his control.

  Then the elevator doors slid open and she sashayed out, leaving him to breathe deeply of air laced with her fading scent.

  At least the visit to the Laurel Canyon compound gave him something else to think about. They parked in a gravel lot not far from the gate, near a small bungalow he learned had belonged to the band groupie Gwendolyn Moon.

  Eamon turned his gaze to the expansive property opening up before him. Lawn and shrubs, a hillside orchard. A massive pool and pool house. Then three other structures, homes as different as can be.

  Cami pointed to a modern structure with odd angles and walls of different colors which reminded him of a Picasso painting.

  “That’s Hop Hopkins’s place.”

  Father of Reed and Walsh, whom Eamon had met at Payne’s, as well as the elusive Beck, an adventure writer.

  “The castle is where Cilla, Brody, and Bing grew up,” Cami continued.

  Then she started on a path leading to a sprawling, rustic building that looked as if Wyatt Earp might saunter from its front door—upon which hung a long-horned steer skull, natch—at any moment.

  “Home sweet home,” she said, approaching an adjacent large outdoor kitchen which sported counters, huge grill, refrigerator, and a long table under an open roof.

  There, the two of them were greeted by Cilla, Alexa, Cleo, Rose, Honey, and Ashlynn who were unwrapping cellophane from platters and bowls.

  “Where are the guys?” Cami asked, glancing around.

  “They’ll be along,” Cilla said.

  Eamon took a second look at the woman. He was pretty good at reading people, and the small smile on her face and air of excitement about her made him wonder if she held a secret.

  Before he could figure it out, Cami snapped her fingers.

  “I forgot to grab those napkins you wanted from Gwen’s cottage, Cilla.”

  He started forward. “I can—”

  “I have it,” she waved him back. “It will just take me a minute.”

  That left Eamon with the other women. Leaning against a countertop, he took them in. Blondes, brunettes, tall, petite, each one of them a stand-out in her own way.

  Cleo cocked a brow at him as she pulled open a nearby drawer. “Are you okay?”

  He grinned at her. “Just admiring the scenery.”

  The woman glanced around, smiled back. “It’s good you’re not intimidated. The first time I saw this group gathered…” She shrugged.

  “Maybe because my exposure began with just a single music princess.” Speaking of which… Shielding his eyes with his hand, he directed his gaze toward the groupie’s cottage. “What the hell?”

  Cilla turned in the direction he was looking, a salad bowl in her hands.

  In the distance,

  “Do you know those men?” he asked, though he already guessed the answer.

  “Oh, Lord,” Cilla said. “It happens. Lemons fans. They trespass on occasion.”

  Eamon was already jogging Cami’s way. She pointed toward the gates, obviously inviting the unwelcome newcomers to leave, but instead of moving off, they moved closer. One got behind Cami, mugging, while the other appeared to take a photo with his phone.

  “Shit.” Eamon put on the afterburners and reached Cami while she still held onto some of her cool.

  Over her shoulder, she glared at the man behind her. “What did I say? This is private property.” Then she transferred her growing ire to the man taking pictures. “Get that out of my face,” she hissed.

  Eamon didn’t bother speaking. With one hand he wrapped Cami’s upper arm and with the other he grabbed the offending phone.

  “Hey!” The photographer yelled.

  Eamon pulled Cami to him. “You okay, a ghrá?”

  “We only came for a tour,” the other man said, waving a folded map.

  “Hand that over,” Cami said, snatching it from his fingers to give it a quick study. “Great. This time the mapmakers have it right.”

  “Rip it up,” Eamon advised, then pushed her behind him. “Now, gentlemen, it’s time for you to get gone.”

  They were burly, beer-bellied, and growing belligerent.

  “I paid eighteen bucks for that,” one growled, reaching around Eamon to get to Cami.

  He moved in to the asshole, his midsection bumping the guy’s soft one. “Time. To. Go.”

  The stranger’s bushy eyebrows met over his nose, and he tried crowding Eamon. “Who says?”

  Eamon shoved him back. “Cami,” he called over his shoulder, “dial 911.”

  “We don’t need cops,” the other man whined.

  “No,” Belligerent Bob said, eyes going beady. “You’re going to need an ambulance.”

  Then he swung at Eamon.

  His forearm flew up to block the blow. “Bad idea,” he muttered, then punched the stupid fuck in the face.

  Bob staggered back. Then he lowered his block head and meaty shoulders and charged.

  Eamon side-stepped and in trying to change course, Belligerent swung around, arms flailing. One of his half-fisted hands clipped Cami in the temple. She cried out.


  The sound of feminine pain and distress triggered Eamon’s rage.

  As the searing need to protect raced through his bloodstream like flaming gasoline, each individual motion didn’t register. He was aware of moving, of his hands closing over fabric and fat and bone. Space was navigated. Hoarse protests reached his ears.

  Then his vision cleared, and he took in the sight of two bodies sprawled on the dusty side of the road outside the compound’s front gate.

  Breathing hard, he stared down at them without a clear recollection of how the enemy had been vanquished.

  Then a thought—Cami—reached his lizard brain, and he whirled to find her staring at him.

  “Baby…” He had to swallow to lubricate his tight throat. “Baby, are you okay?”

  She nodded, then held out her hand to him. “Come on,” she said, her voice soft as she drew him inside. “Let’s get you a cool drink.”

  “And ice for your head.” His chest eased enough for him to draw in breath. He glanced back as the gate clicked shut, hiding the trespassers from his sight. “Did you call the police?”

  “No.” She towed him along the path toward the Colson home. “I called Ren. He’ll be here in just a few minutes and will make sure they’ve slunk off.”

  The other women fussed as they returned to the outdoor kitchen, their concerns and questions a low buzz that couldn’t seem to break into logical sequences in his now-logy mind. His body felt still amped up, from the adrenaline flood, he supposed. But when he brushed at Cami’s hair to examine her temple, she winced.

  He cursed his clumsiness.

  “Rose,” he said, gesturing to the closest of the ladies. “Can you make Cami an ice pack?” Trying to be gentle, he pushed her into a seat. “Sweetheart—”

  She caught his hand. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re quite the hero. My hero.”

  “No.” He shook his head, remembering that long-ago night, the noise, the paralytic horror that had frozen him in place. “Right place. Right time.”

  “Right hook,” she said, smiling.

  He couldn’t even remember delivering one. With a shrug, he extricated himself from her hold.