Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) (11 page)

“You don’t happen to be one of those Doomsday preppers, do you?”

He laughed as he stepped out of the car, her bag in his hand. “No worries, Big Eyes. The house came to Rooney & Sadler as payment. This stuff came with it. Even better, no one can trace the property to me because the title went from our client’s holding company to another we’ve set up for the firm.”

She scrambled from her side of the car and followed him toward the two steps leading into the house. “What kind of person pays with a place in Malibu?”

“A rich and guilty one. But we gave him a vigorous defense, and he got the best possible sentence he could hope for.”

Cami knew her eyes grew bigger. “Somebody from the MC?”

Turning, Eamon smiled and chucked her under the chin. “Somebody who’s a friend of Spence’s filthy rich grandparents. White collar crime, baby.”

Then he pushed open the door, and she followed him into a tiled entryway. In three long strides he crossed it, leading her through an open doorway.

A huge bedroom. With a huge bed. A huge desk setup at one end. Built-in cabinets at the other. A massive TV was mounted on a wall, and there was another doorway that led to an
en suite
bathroom.

No doubt that would be expansive, too.

Eamon tossed her bag onto the mattress, drawing her attention to it again.

Images she’d been doing her best to suppress blossomed in full living color. She saw them play out on the screen of the gray satin bedspread. Her body heated, a shameful warmth centering at the back of her neck beneath her hair, at the small of her back, behind her knees.

Between her legs.

She’d nearly had sex with Eamon in the early morning hours. And then, too turned on to deny herself, she’d played star in her very own—mental—porn film by masturbating alongside him. Her reasoning remained hazy even now. Yes, she’d been incredibly aroused, but there’d been a need to punish him, too. No intercourse for Eamon, but he could watch her find her own satisfaction.

You can’t have this
, she’d been thinking, as her fingers took over.
You can’t touch this
.

You can’t touch
me.

But it had backfired, because as she’d caressed herself she’d longed to be caressing him. And it had been that soft kiss in the end, the soft kiss he’d given her, that had shoved the silly, romantic dreamer in her over the sexual cliff.

He cleared his throat. “Go ahead, get settled, then I can show you the rest.”

“Okay.”

At the doorway, he lingered. “Cami…”

“Yes?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. Just explore on your own, would you? I have a couple of calls to make. There’s not much to discover, really. There’s the master bedroom suite, then the kitchen, dining room and living area are all one big space. But make yourself comfortable. Have some more coffee, prepare a snack, whatever.”

“Sure.”

Another long moment, then he shook his head again and disappeared.

Instead of unpacking, Cami snooped. She could live out of her bag easily enough, so she opened drawers and closets just to check out what was there. Fancy toiletries in the bathroom, a brand-new robe on the door hook. Hanging from the closet pole, a wooly hand knit cardigan and a light waterproof jacket. Two pairs of rain boots in different sizes were lined up on the floor, as well as rubber flip-flops in black and hot pink.

In the distance she could hear Eamon’s muffled voice, and she decided to continue her poking around outside the bedroom he’d assigned her. Her feet stuttered to a stop as she reached the living area.

One hand with his phone to his ear, Eamon used the other to lift the final blind that covered the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors. Beyond them was a balcony with a glass railing. As far as the eye could see and below the projection itself was the Pacific Ocean. Walking forward, mesmerized by the sight, she realized the waves were actually crashing beneath the house. The force of them vibrated beneath her feet.

“Wow,” she mouthed, figuring the house must be set on pylons at this end. Eamon opened a slider, letting in the salty essence of ocean and the insistent sound of surf, and still talking, walked outside.

So she stayed where she was, head swiveling to take in the state-of-the-art kitchen, the small sitting area tucked in a corner, the dining room table fashioned of roughhewn wood that could easily seat a dozen. On the other side of it was a living area that had a fireplace, comfortable leather seating, another TV. The doorway she could see beyond that must lead to the master bedroom, which looked to be connected to the same balcony that ran across the whole front—or rear, however you wanted to look at it—of the house.

The waves must crash right beneath his bed
, she thought, and was grateful her room seemed to be on solid ground. Because the rest of her would be shaky enough stuck here between four walls with Eamon.

“Cami,” she heard him call. “Come on out.”

As she stepped onto the balcony, he slid his phone into his pocket. She barely noticed, as the view overwhelmed her. The house was situated on a deep crescent of the bay. Water certainly did run below the house, and she held on to the edge of the glass railing and peered over to see white foam rushing around heavy pylons.

Dizzy, she took a hasty step back. “Wow,” she said again.

“Yeah. You can see why we weren’t too sad to take the place instead of cash.”

Eamon glanced up at the blue sky. The sun beamed down on his face, a benediction he might not deserve, but for a second she couldn’t look away.

“Even in winter the sunshine can make it warm as summer.”

“It certainly is beautiful.” She noted the comfortable loungers and another outdoor seating area, the built-in heaters that would give off warmth when the sun couldn’t do the job.

“Only drawback is you have to wait for low tide to walk on the sand,” he said, “but then there’s some good beachcombing.”

“Right.”

“And under our circumstances,” he added, “that’s a plus. It makes the location even more protected.”

Just Cami and Eamon, bounded by gates and ocean when the four walls wouldn’t do. No easy way in, no easy way out. Feeling on edge, she stepped back up to the rail and looked right and left. She could see the balconies of the neighboring houses. They weren’t close enough to escape onto, but she could yell if someone was out there. Or send up smoke signals, if proximity to her former secret lover became too much.

“Cami…” Her expression must have given her away, because he crossed to take her hand. “Don’t worry. I only want to protect you.”

“I know,” she whispered, though still not reassured as his touch sent a current of warmth up her arm. Because she had the much tougher job of protecting her heart.

Chapter 6

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Eamon’s partner, Spence Sadler, demanded. The other man was an early riser, so Eamon had dialed him just as the sun was coming up to fill him in on the current situation.

“Sure.” Eamon stretched his legs on the balcony lounger and studied the horizon, where the blue-gray of the ocean met the gold and rose of the dawn sky. “I’ve got Cami out of her Santa Monica house and holed up with me safely behind the gates and my alarm system here at the Malibu place.”

“That doesn’t sound like my action-figure friend.”

“I can’t exactly go into the Savage Sons clubhouse with guns blazing and demand retribution for shooting up my girlfriend’s windows and her guitar, can I?”

“Your girlfriend?” said Spence, a sly note in his voice.

“Shut up. You get what I’m saying. They think she’s my girlfriend.” Eamon rubbed his jaw. “Probably.”

“Exactly what I’m trying to point out. You actually don’t know what you’re doing because you’re not even certain it wasn’t kids playing stupid with a pellet gun.”

Eamon felt his blood pressure rocket. “Am I supposed to take that chance? Let me answer that for you—no fucking way.”

“So instead, you lock yourself up with the ex you’ve been trying to forget. Genius move on your part, bro.”

“Screw you.” Though the fact was, Eamon hadn’t worked very hard at trying to forget Cami. He’d only hoped she was managing to forget him.

Liar
, a voice whispered in his head.
You’ve wanted her to miss you like hell.

Could he really be that big a dick? Knowing that he would never risk a real future with her, did he want her to remain attached to him?

“It’s only for a few days,” he said, closing his eyes. “Once the deadline for Wick to take the deal has passed—and whether he’s decided to cooperate or not—there will no longer be an incentive to pressure me to pressure him.”

“But until then—” Spence started.

“—Until then I’ve got Cami where I want her.” Eamon winced at the unfortunate phrasing and gave up hope that his partner wouldn’t notice when the other man started laughing.

Spence sobered soon enough, though. “There’s another possibility. If they can’t get to your girl—I mean, your
ex
-girl—what’s to stop them from coming after you? Maybe they’ll figure that would get Wick’s attention.”

Eamon snorted. “As if. Wick’s too fucking selfish to care what happens to me. The Sons might not realize that, but I’m sure they’d hesitate to hurt Irish’s son in any way. They don’t want my father up in their faces—and he wouldn’t hesitate to get out the blowtorches if that happened.” Irish Rooney’s kid might not be a patched-in member—per Irish Rooney’s own decree—but that didn’t mean Irish was indifferent to the fruit of his loins.

“Which presents yet another possible solution. You could toss the situation into Irish’s lap right now. He’d get to the bottom of it all.”

“And possibly land the Unrulies in the middle of a war,” Eamon said. “When the club’s gone legit.”

“For now.”

Eamon nodded. “For now.”

Because the temptation was always there to make money the old-fashioned, dangerous, criminal way.

Spence’s sigh sounded over the line. “Okay. Is there anything I can do—say give Wick’s attorney a call and see which way the wind is blowing?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eamon said, done with the subject. “Now, what about pressing Rooney & Sadler business I need to address. Is there any?”

“Voight called again. Now he’s certain he wants you to find out if his wife is stepping out on him. And he’s insisting on photos.”

Eamon groaned. Voight was an old college buddy. “I thought we’d convinced him to have an honest conversation with Gretchen instead?”

“Voight.”

Which elicited another groan, because that was all the explanation necessary. Their friend had the attention span of a gnat and no more common sense than a mushroom.

“I’ll get to it when I can,” he told Spence, then broke off as a text came in. “Hey, gotta go. There’s a delivery for me at the front gate.”

It took him short minutes to collect the groceries and the guitar that he’d asked Bart to bring by. After dumping the food in the kitchen, he walked toward Cami’s bedroom, the musical instrument in hand.

The door stood a few inches ajar. If it had been tightly closed, he would have left the guitar propped against the wall in the hallway, but instead he slipped inside the darkened room. His will was just that weak.

Cami slept heavily, the covers around her neck and her face buried in the pillow. He could only see the tangled mass of her hair, and he stepped forward, his hand ready to brush it back.

But he stopped himself just in time.

He’d given up the right to touch her in that easy, intimate manner when they’d broken up. And, looking down at her small, sleeping form, he remembered the event in excruciating detail.

The night following the Molotov cocktail incident he’d gone to hear her play, arriving, as he always did, when the lights were already low in the club. Sliding onto a stool at the bar, he’d recognized some of her family members at a table up front.

Then he’d allowed his gaze to move to where Cami was seated on the stage, though her voice was already weaving its seductive way around him, the emotion in it both silky ribbon and unyielding rope that bound them together. It was an original of hers, the melody tripping along like a rock skipping on the surface of water. The words were bright and happy, comprising a paean to the intoxicating joy of falling in love.

And each one had cruelly raked across the surface of his heart because he knew that she’d written them about him. Not because his ego was that big, but because she’d said as much, playing him the song for the first time while sitting cross-legged on the bed a week before, her head bent so her hair hid her expression from Eamon’s eyes.

Which was silly, of course, when the lyrics told him everything he’d needed to know.

Then, he’d smothered the guilt in arrogant pleasure, choosing not to think of the day when they’d part. But that last night he’d paid—the suffering magnified by the knowledge that he’d be hurting Cami as soon as they were alone.

Then she’d doubled down on that pain delivery. Unknowingly, of course. But she segued into another song, and it communicated other things—that she sensed his presence in the club and that their first meeting remained a special moment to her.

“The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” She sang it with raw, naked sentiment, and even though he thought he was hidden from her view because of the spotlight in her eyes, she stared straight at him. Every note of the song burned like salt in an open wound, leaving him barely able to breathe.

This was how his father felt every day of his life, he’d thought. Despite the brotherhood of the club and the companionship of his girlfriend, Suze, Irish’s pain over the way he’d lost his wife bit and bled just like this. And never, ever let up.

Now Eamon shook his head, trying to stem the flow of the memory. No need to replay the past, not when the present was difficult enough.

Quietly, he placed the guitar on the chair beside the bed, hoping its presence would be a comfort once she awoke. Because Cami had been remembering, too, he felt certain, and it had kept her holed up in her bedroom the day before, the TV her only diversion.

Listening to its muffled sound had given him the idea that she needed to have on hand her go-to form of entertainment and pleasure…before he broke down and volunteered to ease her boredom with his body.