Touch Me

by Christie Ridgway

  "Why are you here?" she asked, sitting up.

  His gaze dropped from her face to the size XL T-shirt she wore, an authentic Byrds concert souvenir, one of the several such clothing items she'd collected (read: purloined from her careless father) during her lifetime. "Priss," Ren remarked with a note of mild surprise, "you've grown up."

  Grown-ups didn't react to the red flush they could feel crawling over their skin. Grown-ups didn't check out their chest to determine if it was a modest B-cup that led him to such a conclusion. So ignoring both compulsions, she repeated her question. "Why are you here?"

  "Couple reasons." Ren flipped over then jackknifed on the mattress to face her. Both palms rubbed over his eyes and down his cheeks, his beard making a scratchy sound. He'd fallen asleep in his worn jeans and wrinkled dress shirt. On the floor near him were a pair of battered boots and a leather bag, both as black as his hair. His hands went to the buttons marching down his chest.

  She swallowed. "What are you doing?"

  "I've been wearing this damn thing for—Christ, who knows?—it's got to be a couple of days. However long it took me to get here from Russia with a fucking long layover in Paris."

  Her gaze didn't leave his nimble fingers as they continued unbuttoning to reveal a stark white undershirt beneath. "You didn't stop off in London?" That was where he was based. Ren had started as a roadie for the band, then moved into concert tour planning and security. When he'd left the employ of the Velvet Lemons, he'd set up shop across the pond and continued doing the same thing—but for other bands.

  Cilla couldn't blame him for giving up working with their fathers. The three Lemons might as well have been named the Odd Ducks. They'd achieved superstardom in the 1970s and when they were nearing forty, somehow decided they wanted more than sex, riches, and scandalous reputations. Each had produced three kids before declaring their paternal urges satisfied. No mothers came attached to the children they'd fathered. They'd been bought off or wandered off and as long as Cilla could remember the nine rock progeny had spent their childhoods in the expansive Laurel Canyon compound that consisted of three separate houses and then this smaller cottage where she and Ren had chosen to sleep.

  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.

  Buy Light My Fire

  Excerpt: Love Her Madly

  Rock Royalty #2

  Christie Ridgway

  © Christie Ridgway 2014

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Years ago, Rolling Stone magazine dubbed the nine collective children of the most famous band in the world “Rock Royalty.” Now all grown up, the princes and princesses are coming back to L.A.’s Laurel Canyon to discover if love can be found among the ruins of a childhood steeped in sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.

  “Bad twin” Bing Maddox has wanted his brother’s BFF Alexa Alessio for months, but he's stayed away because she’s too hearts-and-family for his jaded soul. Ever since a good deed turned to a dark regret, he’s buried his guilt in a series of forgettable flings with women who wanted nothing more. But when delicious Alexa needs a plus one to some upcoming wedding events, he gives in to his urges and goes all out in pursuit of getting her into his bed.

  Alexa Alessio doesn’t know how it happened—one moment she was being smart and keeping herself separate from seen-everything, done-everything, wildly sexy Bing Maddox and the next she was agreeing he could be her date. Sure she wants back-up when her cousin marries Alexa’s own stolen ex, but Bing’s made it clear he wants her on her back. Her heart says yes—but her common sense tells her it might be the very thing broken when commitment-phobic Bing moves on. She can have him, but can she hold him?

  Chapter One

  The fascinators were the final straw.

  Alexa Alessio’s fingers curled into fists just thinking of the miniature hats as she marched out her back door and practically leaped over the waist-high fence to her neighbor’s rear yard. Her strides ate up the well-trimmed lawn and she let herself into the kitchen, her temper as hot as dragon fire.

  The door shut with a near-silent snick behind her and she forced herself to a halt, even though every impulse demanded she return to the family bridal shop and do damage to her spoiled, sneaky, thieving cousin. But Alexa was the calm cousin, the super-serene Alessio, and she was here to get control before she did something completely out of character.

  Feel to the marrow. Love like there’s no tomorrow. Those lines, painted on the wall of the bridal salon, were the family motto. Alexa had always considered the words dangerous ones to live by and did her best to keep her moods and emotions on an even keel. Common sense and past disappointments predicted that white-hot passion could only lead to getting burned.

  But today she’d been sorely tried, which was why venting to her best friend seemed a good plan. So here she was, in Brody’s kitchen, and she was going to let off steam in hopes that this boiling rage would finally cool.

  The man was standing with his back to her, examining the contents of his refrigerator. She opened her mouth to speak—okay, spew—but then it closed and she blinked, for the first time in an hour seeing beyond red.

  Brody wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  Of course, as her running partner, she often saw him half-naked. But this time, with him in a pair of royal blue nylon shorts and nothing else but his Nikes, he…

  She knew he had a great body. At six-two and whatever poundage was required to have broad shoulders, a strong back, lean waist, and well-developed arms and legs, he was virility wrapped in golden flesh. This was nothing new to her.

  Except… This little flutter in her belly was new. The weird tingle at her hairline was new. She’d never looked at Brody and realized her tongue was tied and her blood was running too fast and her skin was prickling beneath her clothes.

  That response was reserved for—never mind.

  It had to be temper.

  It was time to tamp it down.

  Half-turning, she stalked to one of the windows and stopped by the round, two-top table positioned there. “If I lose it, will you post bail?”

  “What? Alexa?”

  She must have startled hi
m. “Sorry, I thought you heard me come in,” she said, staring out the window at the sky. Wasn’t blue supposed to be a calming color? “It’s Drea.”

  “Ah.”

  “She’s gone so far as to pinch the design for my fascinators.” Her ire flashed hot again and her fingernails dug into her palms.

  “Uh…”

  Brody wouldn’t know a fascinator if it bit him on his fine ass. “They’re little hats,” she explained. “I was sixteen years old when I planned my wedding and I sketched exactly what I wanted for the bridal party. Now she’s taken my old drawing and insists Nona make them up for her and the bridesmaids.”

  “Sixteen?”

  “Yeah, well, the family’s in the wedding gown business, right? Of course I was designing clothes for the event before I’d even been allowed on a date.” Outside, a mockingbird swooped, the white of its underwings reminding her of the feathers her grandmother would use on the bride’s hat. Her back teeth ground together.

  “Didn’t anyone point out…?”

  “That those were my idea? Of course not. Drea can do no wrong, you know that.” A year before, her cousin had spent three months in the hospital, battling an infection that had nearly taken her life. “Even though she’s completely well now, not a single person in the family will stand up to her.”

  Alexa rubbed her forehead. Of course she was glad her cousin was healthy again. But Drea had been self-centered before her illness and her near-death experience hadn’t made her any more angelic.

  “Lex. Is this really about—”

  “No.” She shook her head, not wanting to go there. “Maybe if I wasn’t in the bridal party, I could ignore all this. But Drea just had to have all the Alessio girl cousins as her bridesmaids. Mama and Nona couldn’t fathom why I’d think of refusing.”

  “Lex—”

  “And I didn’t want to refuse. I can’t not do it. I have some pride, you know.”

  “Got that.”

  Alexa closed her eyes. “How am I going to do it?” It was a whine, and she hated whiners, but if any situation ever called for it… “What if I…I lose it and start screaming in the church?”

  “Over a hat?”

  He knew it was more than a hat. “Did I tell you the color of my bridesmaid dress is citrine?” It was more than the color, too.

  “Don’t know citrine.”

  She opened her eyes. “A greeny-yellow,” she said, gazing out at the side yard in search of an example. “I’ll look like an under-ripe lemon.” Her voice lowered. “To go with my sour mood.”

  “Lex…” There might have been an undertone of sympathy in his voice.

  “Don’t pity me,” she warned. “I won’t be crying at the altar. I’ll be steaming mad.”

  “Should someone talk to—”

  “No one can talk to anybody about this. I don’t want a single person besides you and me to know I’m upset in the slightest.” Wouldn’t that be humiliating?

  “Whatever you say.”

  All along, her plan had been to attend the event unescorted. That way, she could escape from the reception ASAP. But now she was having second thoughts. She still didn’t want a date date, but a buddy, a pal, a confidant who could be relied upon to yank her back from the brink of disaster…or from doing damage to the woman wearing a white fascinator…

  “You’ve got to go with me,” she said in a rush. “To all the stupid pre-events and on the big day itself. Just to make sure I don’t do harm to myself or…or others.”

  “Maybe Nico needs a solid punch in the face,” her best friend muttered.

  Alexa’s stomach pitched. Nico. “It’s not about him.” That she’d gone away one weekend, engaged to the Italian Stallion that was the man of her family’s dreams only to come home to find her fiancé had hooked up with her cousin and that they were already talking of marriage…

  It wasn’t about losing him at all, at least not anymore. It was about losing face.

  She swung around, even more certain what she needed. “You have to come with me,” she declared. “Promise you will, Bro—” The rest of her best friend’s name stuck in her throat. She stared at the man in the kitchen with her, at his tall frame, his bare chest, his familiar features.

  He was turned toward her now, with his nearly-black hair tumbling messily over his forehead. His brows were straight slashes framing his vividly blue eyes and their spiky, thick lashes. His nose was straight, his jaw square, and the tiny hint of a dimple in his chin didn’t provide even a dash of boyishness to his astounding good looks. He was all hard-edged, darkly intense male.

  Her gaze dropped to the carved-out curves of his pecs and abdominals. A fist-sized sun was tattooed on the skin over his ribcage. The orb of it was yellow, with red flames snaking and swirling from its perimeter, reminding her of Medusa’s hair.

  Just like described in the legend, staring at that tattoo turned Alexa into stone, even as a new burn crawled over her flesh.

  Because this wasn’t Brody she’d been talking to. She was face-to-face with his twin brother, Bing.

  Who wasn’t her friend. He was something else altogether, so much something else that she tried to avoid him when she could and always avoided looking directly at him.

  Buy Love Her Madly

  Excerpt: Break On Through

  Rock Royalty #3

  Christie Ridgway

  © Christie Ridgway 2015

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Years ago, Rolling Stone magazine dubbed the nine collective children of the most famous band in the world “Rock Royalty.” Now all grown up, the princes and princesses are coming back to L.A.’s Laurel Canyon to discover if love can be found among the ruins of a childhood steeped in sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.

  Reclusive novelist Reed Hopkins enjoys his solitary existence until single mom Cleo Anderson and her two kids move next door. Suddenly he has neighbors…and the exasperating woman wants to be neighborly. He needs a better security system. A mean dog.

  Cleo can’t control her compulsion to make the strong-but-silent man on the other side of the fence smile. Her kids are iron filings to his magnet too and a lonely woman can’t help but begin to dream. Then trouble arrives on her doorstep and Cleo’s concerned that she’s in danger of losing much more than her heart…

  Chapter One

  Reed Hopkins shoved away from his desk. It was impossible to write about blood and fear, monsters and mayhem, with the scents of cinnamon and baking bread in the air.

  There was also the woman.

  He couldn’t smell her, but of course she was awake as well, in the bungalow just on the other side of the nine-foot, ivy-covered fence directly behind the separate structure that functioned as his office. It used to be a peaceful, productive sanctuary until a couple of months before. Then the guest house that was part of the estate on the other side of his property line had become occupied and she had begun her dabbling in the dark arts—er, baking in the very early morning hours. Her insomnia was wreaking havoc with his latest deadline.

  His mouth watered at the smell of yeast and spicy sweetness and he jumped to his feet. Maybe a view of a crescent moon and creeping vines would put him back in a horror frame of mind.

  But when he stepped onto the back porch, he knew he wasn’t alone out in the fresh air. Oh, they were still separated, but she was out there too. He could sense her presence as surely as Jesse, the fourteen-year-old hero in his series of books, The School, could sense the evil goings-on at his cold and militaristic educational institution.

  Every night Reed told himself he was going to keep his ass planted in his desk chair. Every night, he failed in that promise.

  It could all be blamed on his imagination.

  A creak came from the other side of the dense foliage covering the grape-stake fence rails. He fancied it came from an aluminum, turquoise-colored mid-century modern patio chair. He had no way of knowing, of course, as he’d never had reason to visit the place behind his—for all he knew the estate was styled
like the Taj Mahal. But in his mind’s eye he saw her settling onto that metal seat, her ample curves covered in an apron. There was a streak of flour on her cheek, he decided.

  He strained his ears for further sounds. Surely she knit.

  “How are you tonight?” she called in her quiet voice. It wasn’t clear whether she was a contralto or if it just sounded that way when she spoke in hushed tones.

  “I’m good.” Sometime ago he’d imagined the one she didn’t want to awaken. Her husband would be Len, a solid sort who slept the sleep of the righteous. Just as Reed was hitting the sack, Len would be off to his day job of delivering clean linens to local restaurants. Napkins, tablecloths, and those starched jackets that chefs wore.

  “What did you think of the carrot muffins?” she asked.

  “They were very good. Great, actually.” Maybe she couldn’t sleep because she worried so much about her husband, whose heart condition and middle-aged weight gain meant she had to give away every delicious thing that came out of her ovens. “Were they made from a personal recipe?”

  “A friend of mine gave me a cookbook to fatten me up,” she said, “when I started losing weight on the divorce diet.”

  Losing weight? He wanted her pleasingly plump, like Mrs. Santa, with silver hair and apple-red cheeks. How else would she fill out that ruffled apron—

  “Wait.” What? Divorce diet? “Len left you?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Who?”

  Oh, hell. His writer brain was tripping him up again. Len was his made-up man for her, the chubby, aging baker next-door. “Never mind, never mind. You’re divorced?”