Cliff's Edge

by Meg Tilly

  “Come on, boy,” Eve said, looking at Samson and slapping her hand against her thigh as she headed for the door. “Time to do your business.” The big dog huffed as he hoisted himself lazily off the bed. Suddenly, his head snapped up, eyes intent, nose twitching. He gave a short sharp woof and tore out of the room, his nails clattering on the hardwood floor as he galloped down the hall.

  “Guess he really has to go,” Eve said as the dog skidded around the corner and disappeared from view.

  She broke into a jog. She didn’t want to start her holiday with a lake-sized doggy accident awaiting her janitorial skills.

  Twelve

  EVE PADDED TOWARD the kitchen, trailing her hand along the top of one of the deep gray sofas, enjoying the feel of the magnificent antique Persian Kashan rug under her feet.

  Grrrrrrssh . . .

  She froze.

  There was only one thing that made that sound. That was the whir of Luke’s posh coffee machine grinding beans. Oh shit! Someone was in the house. Hopefully, Luke and Maggie had a housekeeper they’d forgotten to tell her about. Because Samson was a smart dog, but working the coffee machine was beyond his rudimentary—

  “Hey there. How you doing, boy?”

  Jesus! Unlikely that warmed-honey drawl belonged to their housekeeper.

  The initial wave of fear that had engulfed her had abated, and anger had taken up residence. This asshole is going to rue the day he decided to break into my sister’s beautiful home.

  Eve scanned the living room for a weapon, grateful for her mom’s insistence that both her daughters be well versed in self-defense. Maggie had attended the required year of classes, going through the motions reluctantly, but Eve had flourished and had continued taking classes long after the year was up. She loved the feeling of satisfaction that came from knowing how to defend herself. Knowing how to disarm an assailant, fight standing or from the ground, made her feel powerful, like she had secret superpowers.

  There. That poker will do. Stepping carefully, silently, she made her way past the thick wood coffee table to the stone fireplace where the black iron poker was waiting. She wrapped her fingers around the handle and lifted it, taking care not to let it bang against the other implements in the fireplace tool set.

  She approached the kitchen door on silent catlike feet, the poker gripped in both hands and hoisted like a batter ready to hit a home run. Isn’t Samson supposed to be some kind of trained killer watchdog? she thought, her heart thumping hard in her chest. And how’d this guy get past the high-tech alarm system?

  She was scared, but it didn’t matter. Luke and Maggie had asked her to look after their home, and look after it she would.

  She took a deep breath, then made her move.

  Thirteen

  THE DOOR OF the kitchen slammed open, crashing against the wall.

  “What the he—” Rhys choked on the words, his mug slipping out of his fingers and shattering on the floor.

  “NAAAAARRRRGGHHH!” An inhuman shriek assaulted his ears as a wild woman leapt into the doorway, the door shivering on its hinges. Her clothes were partially torn off her body, long ebony hair swirling around her like a luxurious cloak. She wielded a black iron poker, a feral snarl on her lips, clearly thirsting for blood.

  For a split second Rhys was ten years old again, fists cocked, standing in front of his mom, who was cowering on the floor. “Come one step closer and you’ll regret it,” he’d told Howie, his mom’s asshole boyfriend. It hadn’t helped. Howie had thrown Rhys out the door of their beaten-up trailer. By the time he’d scrambled to his feet, the asshole had locked the door. He couldn’t get in, no matter how hard he’d pounded. His mom’s cries ricocheted through him like buckshot as Howie systematically beat the crap out of her. Three fractured ribs, a dislocated jaw, two teeth knocked out. After they released her from the hospital, she went back to him. She always went back.

  Rhys wasn’t that scared ten-year-old kid anymore. This wasn’t Howie. This was a luscious green-eyed beauty. Yes, she was unhinged, but he could deal with that. Christ, half the actresses he worked with fell into the unhinged category.

  “Nice entrance,” he said, dryly, letting his voice negate the adrenaline coursing through him. “Quite the dramatic—”

  “Shut up,” she growled, shaking the poker at him. “Leave now, or live to regret it.”

  “Ma’am,” he said, taking a slow, calm step toward the poker-wielding woman, his hands open, posture unthreatening. “I mean you no harm. If you would just put down the—”

  “GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE!” the crazed she-devil roared, settling into her stance, her body coiled and ready to strike.

  Rhys contemplated—for a split second—trying to disarm her, but if he miscalculated, the pick end of that poker would do serious damage to his face. His agent would never forgive him. Neither would the fans.

  “All right,” he said, backing toward the kitchen door. “Take it easy.” If only he’d looked where he was stepping.

  He hadn’t.

  One moment his feet were solidly on the ground, and then they weren’t.

  He hadn’t noticed the damned dog, Samson, stretched out behind him. Rhys went sprawling ass over teakettle across the kitchen floor.

  Her body was a blur as she lunged, landed on him. The poker clattered to the floor. Before he had time to process what was happening, she had him hog-tied with the toaster cord.

  So much for all the skills he’d learned hanging out with Luke. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “This is not the peaceful morning I envisioned.”

  “That’ll teach you not to break into people’s houses,” she growled in his ear.

  * * *

  • • •

  SHE SMELLS GOOD. He was aware that it was an odd thought to be having while hog-tied and at the total mercy of what was probably a deranged fan. How had she gotten past Luke’s security? Must be some kind of techie. A deranged techie fan with delectable breasts pressed against his shoulder, causing his cock to make its presence known. The chorus from “I’m Only Human After All” danced through his brain. He pushed it away, forced himself into his analytical mind. The interesting thing is her tactic: pretending I’m the intruder. First time one of them has used that trick. Reverse psychology. And if he were being totally truthful with himself, it was kind of working.

  “I didn’t break in,” he said, his face plastered to the floor. “I’m a friend of the owner.”

  “Nice try, buddy.” She got off him, scooped up the poker. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” She moved toward the house phone. “Don’t even think about moving or I’ll bash your brains in.” She picked up the phone.

  “What are you doing?” Rhys, for the first time in this extraordinary encounter, felt a slight tendril of fear.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m calling the cops—”

  “Don’t. Please. It would be a serious mistake!” He could just see the headlines. The press would have a field day, and this quiet oasis would be ruined, not just for him but for Luke and his wife as well. “I’m Rhys Thomas.” Just mentioning his name usually did the trick.

  She started to dial.

  Okay, the famous actor card wasn’t going to cut it; she clearly had no idea who he was. “Luke Benson’s a very good friend,” he added hastily. “I’m here on his invitation.”

  “He’s out of town,” she said, looking at him like he’d just defecated on the floor and was telling her it was cake.

  “I know. He’s taking a belated honeymoon to Laucala Island. I’m the one who recommended the place.”

  She paused.

  “My wallet is in my pocket—phone, too. You can check my ID. Luke’s in my contacts. Give him a call.”

  Fourteen

  “OKAY, MAGGS. THANKS. Sorry for disturbing your holiday.”

  Rhys watched her chat on the phone from his pos
ition on the floor. If his hands were untied he would have applauded. Her voice was light and breezy, happy even. Her face told another story. “No worries,” she was saying. “We’ll sort it out.” A slight pause. “Why is Luke laughing?”

  Ah! There it was, in that last sentence. Truth. The slight bite of irritation lurking underneath the happy-happy.

  “I see.” She was trying to maintain the smile, but it was more of a grimace. “Well, tell him thank you for thinking of me, but I can manage perfectly well on my own. I don’t need or want his help.”

  She darted a glance at him. Hm . . . that was interesting. He wished he were privy to the other half of the conversation.

  “All right, love you. Bye-bye.” She hung up and glared at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Just so we’re clear,” she said, enunciating clearly, “I’m not. Interested.”

  “All righty, then. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, would you mind untying me?”

  “And I don’t care who the hell you are. I am not giving up the corner bedroom.”

  “Duly noted. Although, I have to say, you have an unfair negotiating advantage, what with me being trussed up like a Christmas pig ready to be roasted.”

  She untied him, eyes averted. “Sorry about the unconventional welcome,” she mumbled, color rising up her neck, flooding her cheeks. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Ditto,” he said, getting to his feet, massaging his wrists to get the circulation going. “Kudos to you, though. You were fast. Caught me off guard.” He wondered if the rest of her body flushed when she was embarrassed, and suddenly he had an image of her naked body beneath his. He cleared his throat, tried to focus, to act normal, but her pajama top was torn and hanging off her shoulder. The creamy top half of her breast was exposed. She looked pretty damned hot, in a fucked-up psychopathic way.

  Samson gave a short bark by the door. “Have you eaten breakfast?” she asked, her hand gliding over the dog’s head to settle behind the ears for a nice scratch. Samson leaned into her, clearly relishing the attention.

  “No,” Rhys said. “I’m starving.”

  She sighed, opened the back door and let the dog out, then turned. “I’m not much of a cook, but I am willing to attempt it.” She shrugged self-consciously, still not looking at him. “To make amends.”

  “I’m happy to do the honors if you like,” he said.

  Her gaze snapped up to his. “Really?”

  She had gorgeous eyes. Deep green almond-shaped eyes that had a slight tilt upward at the corners, framed by gloriously thick lashes. Elfin eyes, he thought. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I enjoy cooking. Find it relaxing.”

  “Relaxing,” she said, shaking her head as if he’d said he enjoyed a bout at the dentist, too. “Okay.” A slow-blooming smile lit up her face, causing something to constrict in his chest, in his throat. “Far be it from me to battle you for kitchen supremacy.” She gestured grandly to the kitchen as if presenting him to the queen. “Have at it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  EVE STEPPED INTO her bedroom feeling pretty jaunty, all things considered. She had defended the house from an intruder. Granted, it hadn’t been necessary, but it might have been. It was good to know that if she needed to take action, she could, that those self-defense classes hadn’t been for naught.

  She’d been looking forward to having the house to herself. However, given the restless night she’d had, it might be nice to have another human bumping around.

  She crossed to the bathroom.

  Best of all, I get to keep the corner bedroom, and the guy likes to—

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror. “Ahhh!” she squawked, recoiling in dismay. “Perfect.” She snorted in disgust. “I meet a gorgeous stranger, and what am I wearing?” She pulled off her ancient pajamas. “These!” She threw them against the wall, but it wasn’t very satisfying. The pajamas didn’t have the form or weight to make much of an impact, just plopped against the wall and slid down to the floor in a pathetic pile of fabric. “Not that I’m interested in him. I’m not. But still, a woman’s got her pride.”

  There was a knock at her bedroom door.

  “Go away,” she called, staring at her reflection. Her hair looked like a chicken had been roosting in it and her slept-in mascara had given her serious raccoon eyes.

  “Uh . . . how do you like your eggs?” His warm baritone slipped through the keyhole and under the door and wrapped itself around her. The man had a damned sexy voice, brandy and smoke with a touch of gravel to make it interesting. Musicians, actors, big egos, big trouble. And you are not a woman who needs to drink from the same poisoned well twice, she told herself sternly. But being strict wasn’t working. There was something about the tone and tenor of his voice that called up images of hot sex on silk sheets. Pure trouble. She felt as if she’d downed a hot buttered rum in one gulp, restless heat pooling low in her abdomen.

  Buck up! Apparently the guy is some kind of professionally trained actor. Of course he’s going to have a sexy voice. No one would hire him if—

  “Hello?” It sounded like he was leaning against the door. All he’d have to do is turn the knob and . . .

  A tidal wave of sensuous heat was threatening to engulf her. Clearly it had been way too long since she’d had sex.

  “I’m easy,” she yelled, then slapped a horrified hand over her mouth. What the hell? “About breakfast!” she amended. “Don’t care how you serve it, just as long as it’s hot—” Oh Jesus. Just shut up. Stop. Talking. Now. “The food. I meant the food! As long as the food is hot—” She shook her head in disgust. What the hell was happening to her? “I’m in the shower,” she said, marching over and stepping inside. “Can’t hear you. Sorry. Bye.”

  Bye? she mouthed. Oh brother. She turned the water on full blast.

  Cold.

  Freezing cold.

  She stuffed her fist in her mouth to stifle the shriek. Stayed put beneath the icy water beating down on her shivering body as she waited for it to warm up. It felt like rightful punishment. “Let this be a reminder,” she told herself through chattering teeth. “I need to moderate my moods and actions. I’m too passionate, too impetuous, always leaping into situations without thinking things through. Like hog-tying what’s-his-name on the kitchen floor or talking Maggie into the Intrepid Café and taking on all that debt. Let this ice-cold shower be a simile for your life. You need to smarten up.”

  Fifteen

  EVE APPLIED A light sheen of gloss over her lips, Maggie’s words on the phone dancing through her head. Luke says Rhys is perfect for you. Quirky sense of humor. He’s an artist, too. Not a painter, of course, but an actor, a good one, so he understands the creative process.

  “I don’t want an actor,” Eve murmured to herself as she took a step back and studied her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes bright. I’m looking for someone steady, with a nine-to-five job. Not some lothario who’s always on the road. Been there, done that, she thought, smoothing the flowing fabric of her skirt. She loved how blurred the edges and details were of the large flowers scattered across the fabric. An impressionistic profusion of whitewashed aqua, lilac, and dusky rose with some green thrown in to represent stems and leaves. One knew they were supposed to be flowers, but their specificity was a mystery.

  I am one hundred percent not interested, she told her body, which was thrumming with giddy first-date nerves. She went into the bedroom and got her ballet flats out of the closet and slipped them on. She was tempted to grab her beloved strappy velvet shoes with the square heel and the vintage glass button. The dusky rose matched her dress perfectly, but she resisted. Given the incident this morning, it would look like she was trying too hard. Keep it casual, she told herself as she shrugged on a faded cropped jean jacket.

  She rummaged through her suitcase,
found her velvet jewelry bag, removed the two antique brooches her grandmother had given her, and pinned them on her shoulder.

  The first brooch Eve had received when she was twelve. Her grandmother had rented a beach house that summer so they could escape the sweltering heat wave that had blanketed Eugene. Within an hour of getting Grandmother’s phone call, Mom had their bags packed, the car loaded, and they were out on the open road. Eve felt sorry for their dad. He’d stayed behind. The long-awaited fixtures for the Emerson brownstone collection had finally arrived and needed to be installed pronto.

  When they’d pulled up to the beach house, Eve’s mom had given a gay toot on the horn. Grandmother and her sister, Great-Aunt Clare, had tumbled out of the house with big smiles on their faces. Hugs were given all around. The welcome, cool caress of the salty ocean air made Eve feel almost giddy. She could hear the noise of the surf crashing on the packed sand behind the cottage, calling her to play.

  It had been a glorious summer until that night two days before they were supposed to return home, when everything had changed.

  Eve had gone to bed early with a slight fever and headache. She’d woken discombobulated. She could barely make out the profile of her little sister sleeping beside her, one arm tossed over her head. It was pitch-dark outside the window. No stars. No moon. And there were voices arguing, low and intense. Her mom and Great-Aunt Clare were fighting. Most of the words indistinguishable, but a few still managed to drift up the stairs and suck all the air out of the room around her. Maggie. They were fighting about Maggie.

  Eve got out of bed quietly, intending to shut the door. She didn’t want her little sister to wake up and hear. But when she reached the door, Great-Aunt Clare started sobbing. “But Maggie’s mine. She’s my daughter, not yours! And I am sick and tired of pretending otherwise.”