Bed of Lies (60 page)

"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 sore 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.

"Okay." She turned to the cabinets. Opening one, she raised up on her toes to reach the top shelf, giving him a perfect view of her tempting backside encased in a pair of jeans that fit like a glove and hugged every enticing curve.

He practically growled, "How old are you?"

"How old do you think I am?" She eased down off her toes, two plates in hand, seeming to take delight in throwing it right back at him.

But at least she was smiling. He liked seeing Emma smile. Trying not to growl at her or take a bite of her, he said, "Twenty-three? Maybe twenty-five?"

Please,
let her be twenty-five.

"Close enough," she said.

"Emma?" He took a plate from her and filled one for her, cheese crepes topped with a sauce he'd made using some of her aunt's blackberry jam and some whipped cream.

"It's just a number, right?" she said, taking her plate and smiling mischievously.

"No, it's not just a number."

Not when he was thinking he might be ten years older than she was, maybe even more. Not that he was going to let anything happen between them. Still...

"I'm starving," Emma said. "Can we eat? And I was thinking... If you don't have anything to do today, maybe you could help me with the Christmas lights. I need to get them up soon."

He frowned. "You didn't tell me how old you are."

"Old enough," she claimed, seating herself on one side of the breakfast bar and waiting for him to do the same.

He made a plate for himself, sat down across from her, a good bit of pretty granite countertop stretching between them, which had seemed like a good idea at the time. But it meant he got a front-row seat as every spoonful went into her delectable-looking mouth.

And he was supposed to be figuring out how old she was, dammit.

He had a nagging sense that he wasn't going to like her answer, once he got one out of her. But honestly, how young could she possibly be? She'd said she was finishing college. So she had to be twenty-one or twenty-two.

Twenty-one?

He frowned.

Twenty-one-year-olds were practically infants, weren't they? Didn't they still giggle and flirt shamelessly and guzzle beer at parties with frat boys?

She probably went to parties with frat boys.

Rye sat there while she moaned and groaned in appreciation over bite after bite. He tried to block out the sound, because it made him think of Emma in her bath, in her vanilla-scented water with her now vanilla-scented skin.

If she was a day over twenty-three and he was anyone but who he was, he would have let himself imagine feeding her crepes in the bathtub, getting her out, and eating her up. Yeah, that would have worked for him.