Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) (21 page)

He didn’t appear to hear. Instead, Eamon’s “domineering ways” kicked in. Without a by-your-leave, he managed to pull her from her blanket nest and half-carried her toward the master suite—
master
, being the operative word, she supposed.

“You know…”

Her objection trailed off as she glimpsed the huge tub topped with cloudy mounds of bubbles. A bath pillow sat waiting for her head at one end and, yes, she could hear the surf through the half-open window that let in a breath of salty air to contrast with the delicious, flowery fragrance steaming off the heated water.

His hands squeezed her shoulders, giving them a massage, and he chuckled when she let out a tiny whimper.

“Gotcha,” he said in her ear.

She tried gathering the will to move away from his magic fingers. But the knots had tightened into vicious coils since the first regrets struck after she’d closed the show with the Vedder encore. But she’d turned some of her inner world over to the man, so why not her overtight muscles?

Silly dreamer, still not knowing to protect herself.

After a few minutes, he touched his mouth to the top of her head.

“Better now. So get in before the water gets a chance to cool.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, but he was already exiting the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

And she could berate herself inside the steam and liquid heat just as easily as outside it, she decided. Her yoga pants, t-shirt, and underwear were thrown off in an instant. Then she poked a foot in the water, hitching in a breath as her chilled toes met the change in temperature.

With another quick glance at the door, she sat her bare butt on the cool tiled edge then swung her legs, followed by the rest of her, into the bath. Sucking in another breath, she stilled, allowing herself to become accustomed to the heat. Within seconds she could move again, and she scooted toward one end of the immense tub, positioning her head on the waiting pillow and stretching the rest of her along the slick bottom surface.

“Ahh,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

Some of her tension seeped away. But it only seemed to make her more aware of that spike skewered in the center of her heart. One hand fisted, and she bumped the side of it against the edge of the tub. Nothing in her Laurel Canyon childhood—the one filled with self-indulgence and dissipation and never anything close to monogamy—should have built in her an expectation that when a tempting stranger walked into her life he could spell for her something other than trouble.

That he might spell forever.

“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.