Bed of Lies (59 page)

* * *

Rye checked into the inn and had five different people ask if he was here for the Christmas festival. Obviously it was a big deal around here. That afternoon, restless and with nothing to do, he started walking the streets of downtown.

He found two discreet signs, one on a house under construction and another being renovated, announcing that the work was being done by McRae Construction. The second time he saw one, there was a man out front checking his mailbox. Rye struck up a conversation with him, telling him he'd been thinking of having Sam do some work for him.

"You can't go wrong with Sam. He lives six blocks over, in that house that was Rachel's grandfather's. Been a part of this town for twenty years now."

"He's been here that long?" Rye asked.

"Longer, now that I think about it. He was a freshman in high school when he came here. I graduated a year or two before he did. I remember because his grandfather had a house over on Sycamore Street, not far from one of my uncles'."

"His grandfather lived here, too?"

"Yeah, and Sam did, once his parents died."

"That would have been rough. Losing both his parents like that."

"Oh, yeah. Life's just harder on some people."

What did that mean? That it had been for Sam? Too bad.

The man he was looking for lost his parents at a much younger age, then got passed from relative to relative, foster home to foster home. He had no idea where the man ended up. There was a birth certificate supposedly showing the man to be thirty-nine now, but none of the Sam McRaes he'd found had a birthday that matched the one on the birth certificate. He had a feeling the Sam McRae he was looking for was older than that, anyway. Absolutely nothing fit.

"Guess Sam was lucky he had a grandfather to take him in," Rye said, remembering where he was, what he was supposed to be doing.

"I don't know if I'd go that far." The man shook his head. "Hate to speak ill of the dead, but Old Man McRae... I don't think anyone has fond memories of him. But somehow Sam turned out just fine. You don't have to worry. He'd do a good job for you."

Rye thanked the man and went on his way. The wind was picking up, and the sun was sinking fast. It was getting cold, and he was tired. Tired of looking for a man he sometimes thought he'd never find. What did he even think he had to gain by finding him? What could he ever say to Sam McRae?

Still, he kept going, finding himself in front of the diner Emma had mentioned. The food was indeed plain home cooking and very good. He sat at the counter, striking up a conversation with the waitress and two men who eventually came to sit on either side of him.

The story was always the same. Sam McRae came here as a teenager after his parents died. Which meant this couldn't be the Sam McRae he was looking for. He could cross one more name off his list.

It also meant there was no reason to stay here, except for Emma.

He sat in his room fighting the urge to call her. He had the number. He'd had it for months and never used it.

Finally, he convinced himself he was being ridiculous. If the woman needed help, she had plenty of people to call. If she needed him, she knew where he was. But she hadn't called him, so she must not need him.

He finally went to bed but slept badly. He got up the next morning and planned to leave, but decided to talk to her one more time. He needed to hear her say she was okay.

He called and called and called and never got an answer. No way he could leave like that. So he drove back to the house, managed to knock in a quite civilized way at first, and then, when she didn't answer, gave in to the urge to pound on the door and call out her name.

* * *

The phone finally stopped ringing shortly before ten the next morning.

She'd turned off her cell phone and hadn't answered the house phone, no matter how many times it rang. Not after the second time he'd called. At some point that morning, she'd been too rattled to even look at the Caller ID display and see his number once again.

And then sometime after the phone stopped ringing, someone started pounding on the front door.

She started shaking something fierce. Honestly, it was the most horrible thing. She felt absolutely powerless, in a way she hadn't felt in so very long. Almost enough to make her sick to her stomach.

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?"