by Teresa Hill
Was that how her mother felt? This scared? This paralyzed?
Emma picked up the cordless phone, which she'd kept by her side all night and all morning, even though she wasn't answering it, and walked slowly to the door. Just in case, she hit the power button on the phone, carefully dialed nine-one and kept her finger on the one. If anything happened, all she'd have to do was press that button one more time.
As she stood by the door, willing her breathing to slow, she realized that over the pounding of her heart she could hear someone calling her name.
But it wasn't Mark.
Oh, thank God.
She flung open the door, and there was Rye.
Emma couldn't say who moved first. If she threw herself into his arms, or if he pulled her to him. Not that it mattered. Within seconds, she was there, held firmly against him, her face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt.
He was six feet or so of solid muscle, something she found thoroughly reassuring at the moment. His arms tightened around her. She sank against him, worried her legs might not hold her up much longer. But then, they didn't have to. Because he had her. He wouldn't let her fall.
She must have scared him as much as he'd scared her, because he kept asking if she was okay.
"Yes." The word was muffled against his shirt. She wasn't ready to relinquish an inch between them.
"He's not here?" Rye asked.
"No." Some of the tension in his body eased. His hold became one that was more about comfort than protection.
"You're shaking like you're scared to death, Emma."
"I was afraid you were him."
"That's it? That's all that happened?"
"No. He called again," she admitted, her face still buried in his shirt.
"Bastard. What did he say?"
"He's mad that I'm not back in Chicago. He thought I'd just go running back to him. Can you imagine that? He's mad because I'm not there asking him to forgive me for running away from him."
"He's an idiot," Rye said, practically growling.
"I know."
And then Emma felt better, fear receding and reality sneaking in.
She realized abruptly that she was clinging to him—a man she'd just met the day before. She'd shown him herself at her weakest and most vulnerable point, and now she'd thrown herself into his arms.
Yes, she was fairly certain now that's what she'd done.
And they were standing in the cold on the front porch in broad daylight.
She eased back in his arms, looked up to find his gaze running over her face and then her body, as if he had to convince himself she was okay.
"Sorry," she said. She hadn't meant to scare him.
She stepped back, because she thought she had to. But it was harder than she imagined it would be. She was more shaken than she cared to admit, and he was still right there.
She had her hands clasped to her chest one minute, then reaching for him the next. She stopped to think about what she was doing at the last moment, leaving her hands hanging in the air, not sure what to do with them anymore.
He knew. He covered her cold hands with his warm ones and pressed them against the worn, smooth cotton of his shirt. His heart was thrumming heavily, and she felt his chest rise and fall with the next breath he took. It was cold enough that when he exhaled foglike breath billowed out of his mouth and hung there between them, dissipating in the next seconds into nothingness.
She kept waiting for the feelings that hovered awkwardly between them to do the same, but they didn't. They seemed to be suspended there, frozen as the two of them were. Strangers, too, and yet...
She had the strongest urge to ease herself back into his arms. To raise her head and press her lips to his cheek. It was a bit rough and dark. He hadn't taken the time to shave, and she found herself wanting to know what it would feel like to have him kiss her with those soft, full lips and his rough cheeks. She was fascinated by the idea, no matter how completely inappropriate it might be.
Emma had been raised with all sorts of male relatives, young and old. They were a big, loud, affectionate bunch. This was just a hug. A kiss on the cheek. Honestly, it was nothing at all.
She left her hands where they were, raised up on her toes, and for a mere second, brushed her lips against one of those cheeks that intrigued her so.
"Thank you."
Chapter 3
A shiver went down her spine at the light touch.
Her lips tingled in the oddest of ways where they touched him. He smelled heavenly.
She figured out pretty quickly that treating him like a brother or a cousin wasn't going to work, and eased back, trying to figure out what to do next.
He stood there, his back ramrod straight and said, "I didn't do anything."
"You're here."
At the moment, that was all she needed. Him here with her.
He took a step back, a slight flush to his cheeks, and she thought she must have embarrassed him, something that made him absolutely adorable. Not that he wasn't that already. This just made him all the more so.
He had dark blond hair, almost brown, and the kind of dark eyes a woman thought she could drown in, thick, spiky lashes women tormented themselves with mascara to try to get. The stubble of whiskers gave him a slightly rough look she found altogether appealing. And his body was all filled out, like a man's, not a boy's.
She wondered how old he was. Late twenties, maybe? That might be a problem, if anything were to come of this. Not that she was looking to get involved with anyone. Not after what she'd just been through.
But at the same time, she was suddenly completely aware of him as a man. It was in the wide shoulders and the rough cheeks, something about the way he walked or maybe the way he filled out those smooth, worn jeans.
There, she'd admit it.
The man was sexy.
Emma found herself frowning up at him and then feeling completely bewildered about what had just happened. She'd been scared half out of her mind, and then grateful and then... Well, now she was mostly breathless, the blood just humming through her veins in the oddest of ways.
"I'm sorry. I..." And then she frowned once more. "Come inside, okay? Just come inside."
He bent over and picked up the phone, which she must have dropped, and handed it to her, then came inside. She clicked off the phone and put it down on the table by the door, then shut the door firmly behind them and locked it.
He stood in the foyer staring at her. It was cold outside. She just realized that, and they'd been out there for a while, and now she was freezing. She was also tired from lack of sleep and probably had her hair sticking out every which way.
He leaned toward her, his hand against the side of her face gently fingering the bruise on her cheek once more. "The guy backhanded you, huh?"
"Yes." It looked worse this morning, redness and puffy giving way to a blackish/brownish swash of color she hadn't yet attempted to hide.
"I don't suppose you reported him?"
"No." His look told her he didn't think that was the smartest thing she'd ever done. "It's the first time anyone knocked me down. I wasn't quite up on the proper procedures. I just got the hell away from him."
Rye backed up once again, and she realized she'd been short with him, when all he'd done was try to help her.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "That was the last thing I should have said to you. You've done nothing but try to help."
It wasn't quite true that this was the first time something like this had happened to her, either. Did she really have to tell him about that? Every damned thing?
"It's all right," he said. "The guy's got you shaken and scared, but... Is that all he did, Emma? Knock you down and then start calling here wanting you back? Because if it's anything else... I know it's not easy to talk about things like this, but, did you see a doctor?"
"I didn't need a doctor." And then she realized what Rye was getting at. She sagged against the wall at her back, so very tired now, hating this.
"He just hit me. I know I'm falling apart here. I know you're looking at me and thinking it must have been a lot more than one guy hitting me one time, but it's not so much about this as... My mother was a battered wife, okay?"
"You're mother?" He frowned. "You mean...?"
"Not Rachel. Not Sam. My other mother. I... I don't even know what to call them all at times, and I really don't like calling him my father. But he beat up my mother. Quite often, I guess. It's not all that clear in my mind now. It's been so long. He beat her up, and when I was ten we left him, and then... It's a long story."
"Okay," he said gently.
"I think I'm reacting now as much to what happened in the past as I am with what really happened with Mark."
She studied his reaction, waiting for the way he looked at her to change. People tended to do that, look at her differently once they knew, and she hadn't told anyone about this in the longest time. But his gaze remained steady, reassuring, calming, as if he could handle whatever came along. Which was exactly what she needed now.
"Pretty ugly story, huh?" she said finally.
"I've heard ugly stories before."
Which actually made her smile. "Yeah, well... That's mine."
She'd told him, and it was okay. Maybe it was easier because he was a complete stranger. He didn't know the Ever-So-Capable Emma McRae, the one who tried so hard to do everything right, to never worry anyone, to never cause any trouble. This was so unlike her.
"So," he said matter-of-factly, "what are we going to do with you now, Emma?"
"I don't know." She smiled again, thinking the really hard part was over. He was here, and she wasn't so scared. "I was thinking maybe you'd stay awhile. I think I'd like it if you stayed."
"Then I'll stay," he agreed.
"Thank you."
And then she was back to shaking. It just wouldn't stop.
He must think she was a basket case, a crazy person who let her boyfriend hit her. A wimp. Someone with lousy judgment in men. Someone who couldn't be trusted to look out for herself. There were so many things she'd always thought about women who let this happen to them.
Emma frowned. There it was again. Let this happen.
"Hey," he said, much too kindly. "I'm not bad in the kitchen myself. Since I'm staying anyway, why don't you let me feed you this morning, show you what I can do? You sit down and try to relax."
"I can't ask you to do that," she said, worried again about how she'd look in his eyes. Warm, brown, understanding eyes.
"You didn't. I offered."
"Oh. Okay. If you don't mind."
"I don't mind."
It felt absurdly like a date, except she had a bruised face and was wearing the clothes she'd had on yesterday, the ones she'd slept in. She was all rumpled and worn out.
"You know, what I'd really like is to take a shower and get dressed."
"Whatever you want," he said.
She nodded again. His kindness might be more than she could bear this morning. Tears stung her eyes, and she turned her head away once again. "I should show you to the kitchen."
"I know where the kitchen is," he said softly.
And he knew how close she was to weeping all of a sudden.
She'd just felt so alone, so completely and terrifyingly alone all night, and now she was so happy he was here.
"Go ahead," he said. "Take a bath, nice and hot. Trust me on this. I've been on the losing end of a fight before. Soak some of the soreness out. I'll take my time down here. We'll eat whenever you're ready."
"Thank you," she said, still not looking at him as she turned and headed for the stairs.
* * *
Rye stood there and watched her go, thinking he never should have left her alone last night. That Sam McRae, whoever the hell he was, for damned sure shouldn't have.
They'd call him. That was all there was to it.
If he was any kind of a father, he'd come home and take care of this.
If he didn't, Rye would have a thing or two to say to the man. He didn't care if it was any of his business or not. He was the one who'd seen how damned scared she was.
He moved slowly through the house and into the kitchen, putting his arms on the cream-colored granite counter and leaning into it.
Life seemed immensely complicated at the moment, when until two days ago, it had been dreadfully simple. There'd been no one for him to worry about but himself. It had been that way for so long, and why he had to go and try to change that, he couldn't understand.
This was what happened when people got tangled up in other people's lives. There were always all sorts of complications, nasty little feelings of obligation, responsibilities.
Not that he regretted in any way helping Emma. He hated the idea of men beating up on women. One of the nastiest men he'd ever met had been like that, thinking he was somehow entitled to use other people as his own personal punching bag. No way he was going to leave Emma to face someone like that alone. He didn't care if he had just met her.
She was sweet and kind and lost right now. Somewhere in the back of his head was the nagging idea that he really couldn't afford to risk getting involved in a potentially volatile situation like this, but he couldn't walk away, either.
Rye walked into the kitchen and opened up the refrigerator, thinking that if he couldn't impress Emma with his cooking, maybe he could at least distract her from her worries.
A hot bath and a good meal, on top of a second sleepless night, would likely send her right off to sleep. He didn't like seeing the dark circles under her eyes, any more than that bruise on her cheek.
So he cooked, and when he'd gotten things started, he shoved his hands into his pockets and wandered restlessly around the downstairs he'd only let himself glance at the day before. There was a sunroom off the right side in back, full of greenery and white wicker, a generous backyard with a basketball hoop on a square of concrete at the back of the driveway, and a tree house in the big sycamore in back.
There was a video game system hooked up to the TV in the den, a half-dozen games spilling out of a nearby cabinet, children's artwork neatly framed and hung beside the big fireplace there.
There were a few nicely preserved antiques, a comfortable-looking afghan thrown over the back of the sofa, one big enough for a man to be comfortable on, and in a quiet spot in the back hall were a series of awards.
Sam McRae had been president of the Chamber of Commerce a few years back and the Jaycees' Man of the Year. The mayor had given him a commendation for his work in beautifying the town and starting some sort of festival. That Christmas thing Emma had talked about. He built playgrounds for underprivileged kids and started the local chapter of Habitat for Humanity.
Rye laughed at that. Not at the work. He wasn't that much of a cynic. But at the idea that this man could have been the one he was looking for. His Sam McRae had been a juvenile delinquent by all accounts, an angry, out-of-control kid who'd lost his parents young, someone nobody had wanted. What were the odds he'd have ever ended up like this?
No, this wasn't the man he was trying to find.
He went back into the kitchen, fiddling with the meal in progress, trying not to think about what his search had gotten him into.
He tried not to wonder about all the other Sam McRaes on his list, about how much longer he could stand to do this and if he would ever find the man he was looking for.
Emma finally came back downstairs. Rye frowned at the cloud of tempting fragrances that seemed to hover around her.
He'd been trying really hard to ignore those odd moments on the porch when she'd clung to him, then eased up on her tiptoes to thank him so sweetly. Damned if the muscles in his abdomen didn't go all tight, either at the memory or the sight of her or that smell. It settled deep in his lungs, warm and languid, making him hungry in ways he didn't want to think about.
"Hi," she said, looking better, more at ease, not like she might collapse any minute or break down into tears. "You were right. About the bath and sor
e muscles. It helped."
"Good."
She smiled shyly and drifted a bit closer, the smell coming along with her.
Vanilla, he decided a moment later. She smelled like vanilla. It made him think of warm cream dribbled over something sweet and sinful.
Emma and warm, smooth vanilla cream.
Not a good image for him to have in his head.
Sam's daughter in warm, smooth vanilla cream.
Even worse.
He'd think that would be enough to cure him of any lust-like thoughts where Emma was concerned. He'd think of her as Sam's daughter. The right Sam's. The man might well have one, and Rye would never have a single lust-filled thought about her. It was a completely logical, practical argument, and it wasn't working worth a damn at the moment.
If the smell of her wasn't dangerous enough, the sight of her was even harder to take. Her skin was still flushed from the heat and slightly damp in places, as if she'd toweled off in a hurry. Her hair was piled carelessly on her head and the pieces of it that had escaped were damp, too. Her cheeks were flushed, and he could see that she'd taken pains to cover that bruise again. But it was worse today than it had been yesterday.
Beneath all that, she looked all fresh faced and innocent and young. She was feeling shaky enough, as is, and he didn't mess around with nice women like her, not anymore.
"Something smells good," she said, coming closer, bringing that vanilla scent with her.
Rye bit back a reply, something that would likely have come out as, Something certainly does.
"Hungry?" he said instead, too late realizing that probably wasn't the best conversation opener, either.
"Yes." She came right up beside him, damp and warm, and she might as well have doused herself in vanilla cream. Not that the scent was overwhelming. Just that it smelled so good he wanted to take a bite out of her.
Dessert, he thought. Emma.
"You made crepes?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Wow." She turned around and gave him a delighted and thoroughly speculative look. "I'm impressed."
So was he. In a very bad way.
"Let's eat," he said.