Cliff's Edge

by Meg Tilly

“I get it,” he said, his voice gentle, and then she heard him move. Felt the heat of his body stepping in front of hers, the warm pads of his thumbs slide across the crests of her cheeks.

  She blew out a shaky breath and opened her eyes. The sight of him, his totally there presence made her feel as if she’d just slammed into a brick wall. So goddamn beautiful, she thought. Momentarily lost. Drowning in the dark pool of his eyes, his soul. He understood. Didn’t think she was weird. Totally got what she was saying. Got her.

  She wanted to lean forward, taste his mouth, twine her fingers through his sun-kissed hair. Wanted it more than she wanted her next breath, but she didn’t move. He had women throwing themselves at him all the time. She would not take advantage of his kindness that way.

  “We won’t turn the house alarm on during the daylight hours,” he said, his thumbs making another pass across her cheeks. “Unless circumstances heat up. Then we will reassess. We’ll leave the perimeter alarm on as a safeguard. This way no one can breach the perimeter of the property without triggering the alarms. This will give us plenty of advance warning to get inside and secure the house, et cetera. Sound good?”

  She nodded, unable to trust her voice. She felt humbled by his kindness.

  “There . . . there. Don’t cry.” He slid his hands to gently frame her face. “Come on, now, sweetheart.” He dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead, his lips warm, tender. “Things aren’t so bad.” Another kiss placed near the corner of her eyes, capturing a tear. “We’ll work it out. Promise.”

  She raised her hands, meaning to stop him, his kindness, before it undid her completely. It was her intention to be good, to give him space, not give in to her baser impulses, but the minute her hands covered his, all her noble ideas flew out of the window. Resisting was as futile as trying to put out a forest fire with a child’s plastic bucket. She plunged her fingers through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it, forcing his head down so his mouth fused with hers. Lips parting, teeth bumping, the stroke of his tongue, rough and silky velvet all at the same time. The taste of him roared through her like a thunderbolt. His arms, his scent surrounding her, engulfing her senses, sending shivers coursing through her, both hot and cold.

  “Oh my God, oh my God.” Along with the heat, panic rose, too. What have I done? She forced herself to wrench away from him, from his beautiful seductive mouth. “Oh my God,” she murmured, her fingers rising to her swollen, hungry lips. “What the hell?”

  “I know, right?” he said.

  That his eyes were mirroring the rampaging hunger she felt was exhilarating. It also frightened the hell out of her. “I just . . . I don’t want . . .” she said. “I can’t—fall for someone like you.”

  Twenty-two

  WHAT THE HELL did that mean? Can’t fall for someone like me? Rhys paced the confines of his bedroom. I’m a damn good catch! She’d given him a taste of her—and a boner the size of Montana—then had torn out of the living room as if the devil himself were on her heels.

  He glanced out the window. Yep. She was still there, out in the far field. Painting. It was clear, even from this distance, that for her painting was a full-body, all-encompassing experience. Her lithe form moved as if she were being buffeted by a windstorm, creativity and passion spiraling outward from her like the advancing wave front of a sonic boom.

  His phone chimed. He strode to the dresser and glanced at the screen.

  A text from his agent, Jon: UPPED OFFER. 14 MIL. 11% OF GROSS. GREAT OFFER! RECOMMEND WE ACCEPT.

  Rhys shook his head. He’d had this conversation with his agent numerous times in the last week. The script was shit. Didn’t matter how much money they tried to throw at him; he was not going to agree to star in Busted. To do so would be career suicide. He switched his phone to vibrate and returned his attention to the conundrum that was Eve Harris.

  Why is she so averse to starting a relationship with me? Not that I’m looking for a relationship. God, no. But still. One kiss made her run from the room?

  He cupped his hand around his nose and mouth, exhaled, and took a whiff in through his nostrils. Breath’s fine, doesn’t stink.

  He glanced in the mirror as he passed. Mug’s still the same. Body’s toned. I can string two sentences together, three if need be. I’m well off. Hell, Rhys, call a spade a spade—you’ve got a shitload of money. No debt. Clean bill of health. All your teeth. He attempted a laugh, but it came out hollow. So why the hell did she run like I was a card-carrying member of the zombie apocalypse?

  He turned and stared out the window.

  He couldn’t make out her features. She was too far away, but he could feel her energy tugging at him like an invisible silken cord gently spooling him closer and closer.

  * * *

  • • •

  AT FIRST SHE had difficulty finding her way in. Circled her easel, the blank canvas staring back at her. Mocking her. You aren’t an artist, it said. You are a time-wasting untalented fraud. There is a reason no one has purchased your paintings.

  “No, I’ve sold a few—”

  Sales to family and friends don’t count. Snide. So snide, her inner critic.

  “Enough!” she shouted, causing a flock of white-crowned sparrows to spiral upward until one took charge and chose a direction. The rest followed in a dark flurry of wings. Eve’s gaze flew with them over the treetops until they disappeared from view.

  “Right,” she said. “No more of this foolish discourse.”

  She dug into her backpack and pulled out her noise-canceling headphones. Even though the offensive noise was in her head, she was hoping they would help. She plopped them on, synced her playlist to Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep,” and cranked the volume loud.

  Good move, she thought as the music stormed through her. There was absolutely no way she could listen to that song and be stuck in her head.

  As a matter of fact . . .

  She put “Rolling in the Deep” on a continuous loop. Pushed up her sleeves and got to work, the power and fury of the song booming through her veins, inspiring her to roar as well.

  Possible stalkers, mind-altering kisses, a movie star so handsome her eyes ached to look upon him? Gone. Vanished into the ether like a mouthful of smoke. She was an artist now, and she was damn well going to paint!

  * * *

  • • •

  FINALLY. TOOK FOREVER. Rhys clicked off the Dropbox site, having finished the kills on the stills from the Rider movie. The set photographer had been the overzealous, click-happy type, took way more stills than was necessary.

  He shut his laptop and stood, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. Glanced out the window. She was still in that field painting, but she’d have to stop soon, as the sun was setting.

  He went into the kitchen. Got a cup of coffee, then returned to his bedroom and shifted the armchair so it faced the window. Sat down, drank his coffee, and enjoyed the view.

  * * *

  • • •

  HE’D WATCHED THE sun disappear behind the mountain range, the sky start to shift to gray. The wind picked up, whipping off the ocean, cold and brisk, causing the trees to sway and rattle their branches.

  By the time he reached the far end of the field, she didn’t appear to be painting anymore. Had pushed off her headphones and stepped back from the canvas, a slight frown on her face, arms crossed over her chest. She didn’t seem displeased, just focused.

  “How’d it go?” he asked. She seemed surprised. Must have been so deep in the work that she hadn’t registered him and Samson approaching. He recognized her dazed look, a combination of fatigue and exhilaration. He’d experienced it often enough when he was deep into a character, the feeling of straddling two worlds, the real world and the creative, imaginary one.

  “Hi,” she said, dragging her eyes away from her canvas. He could sense the moment he slowly came into focus for her. It was
almost as if he were watching her wake from a dream.

  The sky was shifting to dusk, but there was still enough light to see the flush sweeping up her face. She must be remembering the kiss.

  He smiled, a little wolfish perhaps, but who could blame him? The kiss was on his mind as well.

  She turned back to her canvas.

  The temptation to make his way around to the front of the easel was enormous. He was curious to see what she’d spent the day working on, but more than that, he wanted to stand beside her and breathe her in.

  However, he didn’t like it when he had to share a character that wasn’t yet completely formed. He found sharing something he had been working on too soon could stunt the process. So he stayed where he was.

  She yawned, stretched out her arms, her shoulders, reminding him of a sleek cat stirring from a favorite perch.

  Her shoulders must be cramped from painting for so many hours without stopping. Maybe she’d like a massage? But the minute that thought arose, he vetoed it. When I know her better, he thought. I don’t want to spook her. Whoa! I’m thinking about a possible future with her? He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and took a large step back.

  She yawned again, stretched some more, her high, small breasts thrusting upward. What would it be like to wake next to her? Her shimmering ebony hair spread over the pillow. Her eyes at half-mast, sleep-filled and lusty, her body lit by moonlight coming in through the—

  She placed her paintbrush in a jar with the others and stirred it, the sharp smell of turpentine adding a bite to the air. “What time is it?” she asked, rotating her wrist.

  “A little after seven.”

  “Wow. I had no idea it was so late.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes it’s like that when you get in the flow. Means it was a good day. Jacket?” Rhys asked, holding out the spare he’d grabbed along with a flashlight as he exited the house.

  “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” She put it on and rubbed her palms briskly up and down her arms. “Didn’t realize I was cold.” She smiled at him like she was grateful, and the expression on her face caused an unexpected warmth to bloom outward from his chest.

  * * *

  • • •

  RHYS’S FORESIGHT IN bringing a flashlight proved to be fortuitous. Her favorite filbert brush slipped out of her hand while she was packing her supplies. With the sun’s light now long gone, it would’ve been extremely difficult to find.

  They walked back to the house in comfortable silence, Samson loping beside them. Eve was carefully carrying her partially finished painting out from her body, so as not to smear paint on the jacket Rhys had loaned her. The jacket smelled of him, a fresh, clean scent with a touch of wood smoke. She liked wearing his jacket, as it made her feel warm and protected.

  “You happy with the day’s work?” he asked.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said. “For now. Who knows what I’ll think when I look at it tomorrow?”

  The pool of light caused by Rhys’s flashlight bobbled. She glanced over. “You sure you’re okay? I can handle my equipment. I brought it out here on my own.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Just shifting hands.” He’d insisted on lugging her easel and paint box back up to the house.

  “All right, then.”

  When he’d picked up her stuff, she’d felt all elbows and knees. Shy. Hopeful. Which was a totally weird sensation. She was thirty-one years old, with way more experience under her belt than she ever wanted to cop to. Yet something about walking back to the house with him made her feel young. Like how she’d thought her teenage years would be. A boy she liked carrying her books home from school.

  They deposited her painting and equipment in the gardening shed. On the way to the house they saw a great snowy white owl flying overhead, magical in the moonlight, making Eve’s breath catch in her throat. A rush of wings and then it was gone, only a faint hoo . . . hoo . . . in the distance as a reminder of its existence.

  “Wow,” Rhys said, more breath than voice.

  “Yeah,” she said. The two of them stood staring up at the night sky.

  Samson broke the spell, nudging her with his head as if to say, Come along now. I’m ready for dinner.

  Once in the house, Eve fed the dog, then got out a frying pan and heated up some lasagna Maggie had left in the fridge, while Rhys opened a bottle of Chianti.

  He handed a glass of wine to her. “Cheers,” she said, and took a sip. He did, too, watching her over the rim of his glass with those sexy, soulful eyes of his. Damn him. She did not want to be feeling this way.

  “Listen,” she said, turning back to the lasagna and giving it a poke. “I think we should set some boundaries. Do I want to jump your bones? Yes. I do. Who wouldn’t? You’re hot as hell.” He started to open his mouth, but she held up the goopy spatula as if she were wielding a red stop sign. “However, that doesn’t mean I’m going to act on my baser instincts. I’ve been down this road before. I know where it leads. Being in the kind of relationship you could offer is something I have no interest in exploring.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. “And what kind of relationship would that be, pray tell?” he asked, his voice deceptively smooth. She could see the tension that had settled around his eyes.

  Who the hell says “pray tell”? she thought irritably. “Short-term. A fling. A vacation fuck buddy.” She turned the lasagna a little too vigorously, and a splatter of red sauce spackled across the toe of his clearly expensive, well-made boot. “Not interested.”

  “Okay. First.” He held up one long tan finger. The man had nice hands. She’d give him that. “We had one kiss. One kiss does not a relationship make. Two.” Up came another finger and with it an image of what he could do with those fingers.

  Eve blew out a breath and swallowed as she struggled to compose herself. Stay focused. This is important. You can’t just fall on your back because you like his hands.

  “I’ve had,” he continued, “short-term flings and vacation fuck buddies up the wazoo. And I can tell you right now, I’m not interested—”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” Eve spat, feeling a surge of anger. “I know I’m not feeling this heat all on my own.”

  It was his turn to hold up a hand. “Let me finish.”

  She snapped her lips together, gave a short nod.

  “What I’m not interested in is starting a relationship with a timer ticking. Yes, I’m attracted to you. No, we don’t know how things will turn out. Might be, we get to know each other and realize we don’t particularly suit.

  “However, for the record, I’m tired of short-term. Am looking for something more. Whether that ‘something more’ is you?” He shrugged. “Who knows? But I’m not so chickenshit that I’m going to tuck tail and run without exploring if there’s a possibility for something more.”

  He reached around her and turned off the burner.

  Eve could feel her face flush. She’d thought he was reaching for her. Had wanted him to.

  “Starting to get crispy,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The lasagna,” he said, tipping his head toward the pan. “You were drying it out.” He went to the cupboard and removed two plates. “Mind if I ask whatcha got against actors?”

  “You’re on the road a lot.”

  “And?”

  He was right. He deserved an explanation. “My ex was a musician. He was on the road all the time and . . .”

  “Fooled around.”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, so I get where your prejudice comes from. You’ve been burned. But in the defense of actors and musicians worldwide, perhaps it’s not fair to paint us all with the same brush. That would be like me avoiding you because Vincent Van Gogh cut his ear off. Yes, some actors and musician types are hound dogs, but some”—he gestured to himself—“aren’t.”

>   He was looking at her with those gorgeous eyes, a slight furrow on his brow, as if he were a surgeon waiting to see if the sutures were going to hold.

  “Point taken,” she said. It was embarrassing to concede that he was probably right, she wasn’t being fair, but there was a feeling of lightness, too. A sense of relief, as if she were finally releasing a fist that she had kept clenched for far too long.

  She plated the food and they brought it to the table.

  Rhys was right. She’d dried the lasagna out some, but it was still edible and they were hungry, so they made fast work of it.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Rhys said, scraping the side of his fork along his plate to capture the last scraps of food. “I made an appointment for a locksmith to meet us at your apartment tomorrow.”

  His lips closed around his fork. Such a great mouth, she thought, calling on her stores of self-control not to lean over the table and devour him. It’s a sin that a man like him is allowed to roam the streets looking like sex on a stick.

  “I figure we can get two birds with one stone.” He was still talking. “I need to spend some time acclimating myself to the Intrepid kitchen so I can hit the ground running for Tuesday’s opening. While I’m doing that, the locksmith can be changing out the locks.”

  Locksmith? Changing the locks? Sheesh, you were just zoning out there, basking in a sea of lust. “Rhys,” she said, clearing her throat. “I really appreciate the idea, but—” Yes, now that she was thinking with her mind rather than her nether regions, better locks made sense. It was sweet of him to think of it. However, there was no way she could afford the kind of outlay that specialized locks would require. Not now. Maybe in six months, if the business kept growing the way it was.

  “My treat,” he said. “And save your breath, because there is no way I’m going to back down on this.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, the break-in might have been a one-time thing. But just in case it wasn’t, let me do this. Please. I would not be able to look your brother-in-law in the eye if I didn’t take some kind of preventative action.”