Inspecting the hand-tied quilt covering the bed, Cilla ran her fingers over the psychedelic-inspired design. "You know about Gwen?" she asked, referring to Guinevere Moon, an original Velvet Lemons groupie who'd been the closest to a mother figure the band's offspring ever had. This had been her house.
"Of course," Ren replied. "I couldn't get here for the memorial service, but I came as soon as I was able to make arrangements for my replacement."
As head fixer for some other band's tour, Cilla supposed. "Her real name was Donna Carp," she said, her heart squeezing to think that the spiral-curled, caftan-wearing gentle soul was now gone. "Gwen's, that is."
There was a short silence, then Ren laughed. "Baby, you didn't think she really had Guinevere Moon on her birth certificate?"
Mortification spread heat over Cilla's face once more. Okay, so she had. "Thanks for thinking I'm a fool," she said, glancing up to glare at him.
The spit in her mouth dried.
Ren had tossed his shirt over the side of the bed and then stripped free of the undershirt he'd worn too. Beneath that...
He was cut. Ripped. His abs were perfectly defined above the waistband of his jeans. His pecs were slabs of thick muscle that drew the eye to broad shoulders that led to arms that were sinew, bone, and more muscle. Over his left pectoral began a primitive-yet-elegant tribal tattoo that swirled in black ink over the cap of his shoulder to reach as far as his elbow. Though most of his forearm was unmarked, on his wrist was a lone, stylized half-curve. She stared at it and then his long fingers, unwilling to let her gaze wander back to that beautiful chest.
She'd been fifteen when she'd last seen him. He'd been twenty-two. Then, she'd only dreamed of his kisses, chaste kisses at that, and hadn't wondered about his body or his hands or what he could do to a woman with them.
It was what consumed her thoughts now.
That, and how they were sharing a bed.
Galvanized by that fact, she leaped from beneath the covers, her bare feet landing on the carpet. The overlarge shirt swung around her body, the hem tickling the top of her thighs. With Ren's gaze on her, her attempt at escape seemed a foolhardy choice. Suddenly her legs felt too naked, and she was acutely aware of what was under her tee—just a scrap of lacey panties. In another not-so-suave move, she swiftly re-inserted herself under the quilt and between the warm sheets, pulling them high to conceal more of herself. "It's, uh, cold out there," she said, by way of explanation. Her breathless state made her voice sound reedy.
Ren's expression had gone blank and his thoughts were impossible to interpret. Staring at her, he ran a palm along his stubbled jaw. "You cut your hair, Priss."
Her fingers flew to the bobbed ends. She still wasn't accustomed to how the dark blond stuff curled and waved now that eighteen inches of weight had been taken from its length.
"I thought you'd vowed never to take scissors to it," he continued.
He remembered that? She shrugged. "Like you said, I've grown up." The haircut hadn't been her idea, though, and a wave of humiliation at the memory of it washed over her.
Ren's gaze narrowed. "Priss..."
"
Cilla
."
"Cilla, then. Something wrong? Something bothering you?"
A lot was bothering her. Up to and including the fact that her old longing for Renford Colson was not dead, but just hibernating until the day his hot body arrived on the doorstep. Now her hormones were stirring and she felt oddly out-of-sorts and unfamiliarly ravenous. Not unlike the California black bears, she figured, that would emerge from their hollow trees and mountain caves in a few short weeks.
"It's been a lousy month or so," she said. He couldn't doubt that. "Gwen's passing, the wild circus the Lemons made of her memorial service before they rushed back out on tour, and then there's the Beck situation."
"Beck?" Ren frowned. "What about Beck?"
The Velvet Lemons' drummer had named his three kids, Beck, Walsh, and Reed—all boys—after musicians he admired: Jeff Beck, Joe Walsh, and Lou Reed. Ren's father had given all three of his progeny, two boys and a girl—Renford, Payne, and Campbell— the surnames of their long-gone mothers. Cilla never got a straight answer from her own dad. She figured he didn't remember why he'd picked out Priscilla, or why he'd chosen Brody and Bing for her twin older brothers.
She took in a breath, stalling. Beck was the oldest of the nine and Ren was the next closest in age. How would he take the news? "He's missing. Nobody told you that?"
Ren went still. "I don't have regular communication with anyone."
The princes and princesses of rock royalty had scattered as each came of age, but she hadn't realized how out of touch Ren had been. "You don't talk to Payne or Campbell?"
Ren was shaking his head. "Not very often."
"Beck hasn't been in steady contact with Walsh or Reed either. That's why we don't really know exactly how long he's been missing."
"Missing," Ren repeated.
"He took a freelance assignment to do a long piece on the Nile for one of the nature magazines. About nine months ago. No one has heard from him since."
"Hell."
"His dad and the magazine put feelers out, though it's not clear whether Beck is actually lost or merely following the story. It just seems weird that he's been silent for so long."
Ren relaxed, and ran his hand through his hair, giving Cilla another glimpse of that interesting, incomplete-looking tattoo on his wrist. "I'm sure Beck's fine."
Cilla wished she had his certainty. "I hope you're right."
"I am." He half-turned to punch the pillows behind him then settled back, crossing his arms over that magnificent chest. His biceps bulged.
Gathering the covers closer, Cilla pretended she didn't notice them. "So...you're just, uh, passing through on your way back to London?"
"Moscow to London via Paris and L.A.? I know we had shitty upbringings, Pri—
Cilla
, but our schooling wasn't so bad. Pretty sure you'd see there's no logic in that."
There wasn't logic in anything at the moment. Particularly how she was absolutely electrified by the presence of Ren who was gazing on her like she was a ditzy puzzle and not a desirable woman.
Though she'd been doubting the desirable part for months already. Her fingers wandered again to the shorn ends of her hair.
She forced her hand to her lap. "So what exactly does bring you home?"
He drew up his knees and rested his wrists on the top of them, his big hands dangling. "I got a package from Gwen's lawyer, telling me about some box she left me, as well as a key to this place. Then Bean tracked me down. That was a first."
"String Bean" Colson, the band's lead guitarist and Ren's father. "What did he have to say?"
Ren shrugged. "The gist of it was he wanted me to come to the canyon, look things over at the compound since the band's been gone for months. That, coupled with Gwen's death..." Looking down, he ran a finger over the tattoo on his wrist. "I decided to check in."
His gaze lifted to her face. "What are you doing here, Cilla?"
Hiding. Licking my wounds. Trying to resurrect my sense of self in the one place where I always found comfort.
"I received my own package from Gwen—including a key as well. So I decided to leave my place at the beach and move to the canyon for a while. She left me her costume collection and I thought I might sort through it from here."
A brief smile gave her a glimpse of Ren's straight white teeth. "You always liked to play dress-up."
Didn't that make her feel five years old? "It's my business now," she said, bristling a little. Cilla's career had been seeded by Gwen. The older woman had left home at sixteen and become an infamous band groupie. Over the years she'd amassed a vast number of costumes from the most renowned rockers in the world and Cilla had always been fascinated by them. "I make custom clothes for professional dancers, skaters, and yes, even music stars."
"We really have been out of touch," Ren said. "I had no clue."
Cilla lifted a shoulder. "Every Lemon kid left the compound as soon as he or she could and never looked back."
He studied her. "Which means you, as the youngest, was alone at the end."
At the beginning and in the middle too. But they'd all had to raise themselves with only Gwen as a stabilizing figure. "I'm okay." She had been, anyway, until Tad Kersley.
"Sure you are," Ren murmured, his gaze not leaving her face.
His steady regard lifted chill bumps on the surface of her skin. She suppressed a shiver and tried to think of something to drop into the awkward silence developing between them. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
Ren exploded into motion. "I've gotta get into a shower."
Cilla drew back. "Oh, sure. And I can make you some breakfast before you leave."
"Leave?" Ren paused in the process of scooping up his discarded clothes.
"You know." She made a vague gesture. "I'm here. I'll keep an eye on the compound."
"All alone? It's pretty isolated."
It was better than sharing that isolation with him. Cilla wasn't up for dealing with the way he made her tingle all over. Even if she was only just looking, her sexuality was already messed up enough without having to brush up against Ren-tosterone on a daily basis too. "Really, I'm good."
He was looking at her again, in that intense fashion of his. One hand absently traced over the bare skin covering his ribs, re-drawing her attention to all his masculine bone and muscle. God, he was gorgeous, she thought, her own flesh turning hot and her breath catching once again in her throat.
"Yeah," he agreed softly. "I can tell you're good."
Not if he could read her mind. Not if he could know how his sexy body and his beautiful green eyes made her hyper-aware of every erogenous zone between her head and her heels. "So then..."
"We'll talk about it after I shower."
Her palms went damp in desperation. "Really, Ren—"
"I'll think about it."
"Look." She grasped at straws. "It's not seemly."
"What?" he asked, clearly puzzled.
Did rock royalty even comprehend such a word? Cilla waved her hand. "Even if you stay at Bean's house, your old house—"
"If I stay, I'm staying here."
"Well,
I'm
staying here." She had to spell it out for him? "So, you know...
you
can't. Two single people, one a man, one a woman, sharing close quarters..."
A smile split his face. "So that's not 'seemly'," he said, shaking his head. "Priss—"
"
Cilla
."
His smile didn't dim. "C'mon. 'Two single people'? Surely we're more like...like..."
Oh, don't go there
, she thought on an inner groan.
I've enough doubts about myself and my attractiveness to the male sex without you saying what I think you're about to say
. But then, of course, he did.
"...brother and sister."
Ren exited Gwen's small, canary-colored cottage that dripped with gingerbread trim and strolled into the morning sunshine, its warmth immediately starting to dry his shower-damp hair. Narrowing his eyes against the California-brightness, he sucked in a breath and tried shaking off the strangeness of the morning.
Jet lag was seriously screwing with him, he decided. Usually a few hours of sleep would clear his mind. But today, he'd opened his eyes and things had gone from weird—an unexpected woman in his bed—to weirder.
Priscilla Maddox's mouth had turned his normal morning wood to a rod of aching steel.
Shit.
Shoving that thought from his head, he turned in a circle, taking in the pool and tennis court in the distance as well as the three homes where he and the other rock royalty had grown up. At seventy-five yards away, Bean's place was closest. Western-styled, with a shake-shingle exterior and a front door sporting a steer skull, it looked the same as when Ren had lived there. Beyond it was where Mad Dog Maddox had built a rock-faced castle-type abode, with a Rapunzel tower which Ren remembered had been a particular refuge for little Priscilla. The third member of the band, Hop Hopkins, had a severe glass-and-chrome two-story home where Beck, Walsh, and Reed had grown up.
His mind snagging on the missing member of that family, Ren pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and pressed a speed dial number.
"Yo," a male voice answered. "Isn't it like the middle of the night wherever you are?"
"I thought when you went home everything was supposed to seem smaller," Ren said to his half-brother Payne, by way of answering. "It's all so...
so
." So sun-drenched. So lush. So bright with flowers and birds and colors.
The arresting blue of Cilla's eyes.
There was a small silence. "Are you telling me you're at the compound?"
"Yeah. I needed a break." When he said it, Ren realized it was true. He'd been on a grueling schedule for months, years, maybe, and if he told the complete truth, learning of Gwen's death had thrown him a little. "And Bean put the pressure on me to personally ensure the place was doing okay in the Lemons' absence."
"That's bullshit. A gardener comes by. The pool guy. Seven of the nine of us live within an hour's drive if traffic isn't jammed. We'd look in if asked."
"Well, I'm in California now." And not resenting the arm-twisting so much. He
did
need a breather. Then his brother's words sank in,
seven of the nine,
and he remembered his purpose for calling
.
"Why the hell didn't you call and tell me that Beck is missing?"
"I didn't know you'd care."
That rankled. Ren paused as he started up the path that led toward the fruit orchard planted on the hillside behind the pool. "Way to make me feel like an asshole."
"I didn't mean to," Payne responded mildly. "We all live pretty independently."
"Shit," Ren muttered under his breath. "Give me a Cami report," he ordered, referring to their younger half-sister, Campbell. "And I don't want to hear that—surprise!—she's married with a passel of children."
"As if any of the Lemon progeny are eager for that state," Payne said, "given that not one of us knows what a normal, healthy relationship looks like."