Cliff's Edge

by Meg Tilly

  She paused. No sense wandering past Rhys. Don’t want to give him a chance to correct the “misunderstanding.”

  She scanned the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows were beautiful, but not so good if one wanted an emergency exit.

  She sussed out the bathroom. Aha! There was a latched window of frosted glass over the sink. It might be a little tight in the hips department, but she was pretty sure she’d be able to manage. Better this way, she thought as she opened the window, folded up her easel, and chucked it out. If Rhys has to sit with my heartfelt gratitude all day, it might make him too embarrassed to back out. I’m a frikkin’ genius! She chuckled happily and maneuvered her paint box out of the window. It was a tight squeeze, but turning it diagonally worked. She flinched as the box hit the ground, the metal clasp popped, and tubes of paint scattered. Luckily, the box itself didn’t break. “All right. My turn now.” She pulled herself onto the counter and began the arduous process of wedging herself through the small window.

  Seventeen

  “AND TO THINK,” Rhys said to Samson, who was waiting beside him expectantly, “that I was worried I might get bored here on little old Solace Island. Ha! Not with that eccentric warrior woman residing down the hall.” He tossed another slice of bacon and watched the dog leap up and snap it out of the air, his jaws closing over the fatty strip of pork like a steel trap. The wolfhound made like an anaconda and swallowed it in one gulp. “Note to self,” he said, “keep dog well fed and appendages away from his mouth.”

  He leaned back in his chair, took another slurp of coffee, contemplating the morning’s unusual events. It had been a refreshing change interacting with her. He’d watched her carefully, waiting for that moment when she realized just who he was, but it never came. There was no fluttering about and clutching her heart. Her eyes didn’t get that dazed, stunned look while she hyperventilated herself into a stupor.

  Granted, there was a sensual awareness on both sides, but the sparks appeared to stem from her awareness of him as a man, not him as a movie star.

  “Jesus,” he said, taking another sip of coffee. “Wouldn’t that be something? To stand or fall on my worth as a man, as a human being, without having my movie-star status tattooed on my forehead. I wonder what her name is. Luke must have mentioned it.”

  “Oh crap!” a voice shouted from down the hall, jolting him upright. “Helloooo! I need some help here!”

  It was the woman. She was in distress!

  Rhys leapt to his feet, tore through the living room and down the hall, Samson hot on his heels.

  “Helloooo! Good God, is the man frikkin’ deaf?”

  He burst into her bedroom. She wasn’t there.

  “RHHHHYYYS!”

  She’s in the bathroom.

  Samson bounded in, no problem. Gave a woof. Poked his shaggy head back out the bathroom door and looked at Rhys as if to say, Come on, dude. Rhys was unsure of what he would find, but hey, a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do, so he followed Samson in.

  She was clothed. At least the lower half of her body was, which was all that was visible from his vantage point. She was wiggling quite vigorously. Her faded jeans clung lovingly to her luscious ass, which was prominently displayed and level with his face.

  He was filled with an irresistible urge to step between her flailing legs. Remove her beat-up tan construction boots with the laces untied and dangling, and peel off her jeans. Once he had her lower half stripped bare, he’d touch her, taste her, he’d spread her petals, and look at her as intimately and as long as he liked. He could have his way with her. Make her moan and undulate with need, totally at his mercy as he licked, lapped, buried his tongue and fingers deep inside her, until she was boneless and satisfied.

  Nevertheless, he resisted. There was a big difference between indulging in a harmless two-second fantasy and acting like a misogynistic dickhead.

  “Hey there,” he said, his voice raspy, as if he’d been wandering in the desert without water for days.

  “Whaaa!” was her startled reply.

  “It’s me. Rhys.” He cleared his throat. “You seem to be stuck.”

  She muttered something under her breath. He couldn’t make out the words, but he could read the intention loud and clear.

  He knew he was a terrible man, but good God it was enjoyable to find her in this predicament. “What was that?” He grinned.

  “Would you help me, please?” It sounded like she was speaking through clenched teeth.

  “Sure,” he said, putting on a cheerful air that he knew would bug the hell out of her. Since there was no way scenario one was going to happen, he might as well get some sort of satisfaction out of this interlude. “You coming or going? Kinda hard to tell. By the way, how’d you get stuck up there?”

  She gave an angry kick with her legs. Muttered something else.

  “Pardon?” he said politely. “I’m afraid I couldn’t make that out.”

  “Something . . . fell.” She was pissed, trying to sound calm, but he could tell. She was enunciating way too precisely. “Out. The window. I was trying to get it.”

  “Ahhh . . . I see. Well, do you want to continue your outward journey? Or would you rather I pull you back in?”

  There was a short pause while she seemingly sorted through the pros and cons presented by the two options.

  “Continue out,” she said.

  “All right. I’m going to have to—” He blew out a breath. He didn’t feel jokey anymore. How was he going to manage this? What was he supposed to push on? He could leverage his shoulder against her ass, but after where his mind had gone, that would make him feel like a letch. Maybe he could wrap his arms around her thighs and push that way. It was either that or shoving on the bottoms of her feet, which would be too precarious and unlikely to work.

  “Hello?” she said, her butt shifting up and to the side as if she had twisted her body around and was trying to glare a hole through the wall at him.

  “Yup. Just . . .” Taking a hold of her ass and giving it a good firm shove was the most straightforward solution. However, she was not a dude. Proprieties had to be observed. “Hang on.” He stepped to her side, crouched down, and wrapped his arms around her warm thighs. The moment his skin made contact with her, heat coursed through him like an electrical charge. Thank God she chose to go through the window, he thought as he hoisted her legs up onto his shoulder. It would be pretty damned embarrassing if she had decided to come in this way. There would be no way she’d miss the enormous woody he was suddenly sporting. You are carrying a rolled-up rug, nothing more, he told himself as he tried to help navigate her hips through the window. But he was lying. She was the most delectable bundle of woman he’d come across in a very long time, and his cock was not fooled. He tried to shut down his senses, but it was impossible to do. Her ass was near his face, and when he breathed in, he was surrounded by citrus, verbena, a touch of cucumber, and woven throughout was a scent that was all her.

  She smelled right. Like she was the missing piece he hadn’t known he was searching for.

  * * *

  • • •

  ALMOST THERE. HER palms were now flat on the ground. She walked them forward a couple of steps to make room for her body to land. “Okay,” she called over her shoulder. “You can let go.”

  “You sure?”

  “Mm-hmm. I’ve got it. Thanks.” She felt Rhys release his grip on her ankles. She kicked off with her feet, tucked her abdomen.

  “Oomph!” She heard him grunt.

  Damn. Must have clipped him with her foot. “Sor—” She hit the ground with a thump. Not the most graceful of descents. Oh well. It’s done and I’m in one piece.

  She got up, brushed herself off. “You okay?” There was a red mark riding high on his cheekbone. It hadn’t been there at breakfast. “Didn’t mean to . . .” She gestured toward his face.

 
“No worries.” He seemed deep in thought.

  “Well. Thanks for the . . . ah . . .” What does one call it? For helping stuff my fat ass out the bathroom window? And by the way, Miss Evelyn Harris, what possessed you to try to force your way through that minuscule window like an overstuffed sausage when there are plenty of operating doors available to walk through—

  “Hey, I was thinking about your whole be-a-chef-for-a-day scheme and—”

  She puffed out a breath. “Look,” she said. “I understand. It’s a lot to ask. The thing is . . .” She shook her head, squatted down, and started gathering the scattered tubes of paint, wiping the dirt off on her shirt and replacing them in the paint box. “I don’t just hate cooking. I’m a terrible cook to boot. I love my sister to bits, and I’m really glad that she and Luke are having a vacation, but I’m terrified, too.”

  “Terrified?”

  “That my horrible cooking will scare off our regulars and I’ll personally be responsible for bankrupting the café. That I’ll somehow manage to burn the place down. Yes. I am that bad of a cook. I’m worried, because even when both Maggie and I are working full-tilt, we’re running our feet to the bone. How the hell am I going to juggle both the kitchen and the front of the house? Of course you don’t want to be a chef for a day. I get that. You’re some kind of goddamned movie star—if my sister’s to be believed. Why the hell would you want to spend your vacation slaving over a hot oven?” She slammed her paint box shut, latched it, and stood to face him. “I understand. Truly. I do.”

  He blinked once. Twice. And she was momentarily mesmerized by what a gorgeous color his eyes were. Blue. With a deeper hue, almost a midnight-blue, encircling the pupil and the outer rim of his iris. And then, if that weren’t beautiful enough, he had a starburst of steel gray scattering outward from the center.

  “I’d like to do it,” she heard him say. She transferred her gaze from his eyes to his mouth. Strong, firm, full lower lip, slightly chapped, totally kissable.

  “Do what?” she said. Maybe he’ll let me paint him. She didn’t usually do portraits. Landscapes were what called to her. However, for him she’d make an exception.

  “Help out at—what was that you called it?”

  His face was its own sort of landscape. Beauty and symmetrical perfection, hiding shadows and secrets. “Called what?”

  “Your café?”

  “What about it?” Maybe she’d paint his face as a landscape—

  “What is the name of your café? As a matter of fact, why don’t you give me your name as well? You already know mine from riffling through my wallet, but I never got the privilege of learning yours.”

  She was vaguely aware of the fact that she was being rude and forced herself to pull away from her creative mind and back to the present. She blew out a breath, her mind clearing. “Sorry,” she said. “Daydreaming. We named our café the Intrepid. I’m Evelyn Harris, but most everyone calls me Eve.”

  “Well, Eve, I’ll help out.”

  “You will?” She wasn’t sure if she’d heard him correctly. “Seriously?”

  He nodded. “Whether I’m an unmitigated disaster or not remains to be seen, but I am happy to do what I can. Can’t promise I’ll last the two weeks. After the first day, we might agree that having me as your chef was a colossal miscalculation.”

  “Seriously, Rhys, anybody would be better than me!” She laughed, relief flooding through her. “I have to admit, that was the last thing I expected to come out of your mouth,” she said, a huge smile on her face. “Thank you. Thank you so much!”

  “Also, if I do last out the week, I have a previous engagement Thursday night, but since you close at three p.m., that shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “Absolutely. No problem.”

  “I can’t promise you miracles. I will need to get acquainted with the kitchen beforehand. See if what you’re asking is doable. If I’m going to attempt this, I want to give it my best shot.”

  Eighteen

  “WE’LL GO IN through the back door,” Eve said, leading the way. “If people see activity in the front of the house, they’ll think we’re open and we’ll be mobbed.” She inserted a key into the lock, first the dead bolt and then the door handle. The door swung open and they stepped inside. “Here we are,” Eve said, switching on the light.

  Rhys flipped his sunglasses to the top of his head and looked around the kitchen, a low whistle escaping from his lips. “Nice setup,” he said, a feeling of anticipation and nerves tingling through him. There was a stainless-steel beast with glass doors lurking against the wall. He tipped his chin in its direction. “I take it that’s the oven?”

  “Yeah.” Her brow screwed up slightly. “What the hell’s it called? Ah . . . a double deck bakery oven.” She paused, obviously trying to recall her sister’s commentary. “Convection.”

  “Electric or gas?”

  “Gas. With a preheat time of . . . What was it? Oh yeah, fifteen minutes.”

  “Nice.” He ambled over to take a closer look. “Looks like each of the four ovens has their own individual temperature controls.”

  “Yeah, that’s so you can cook pies at the same time as cookies, cakes, and so forth.”

  “Jesus.” He shook his head ruefully. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  “Not to worry. Maggie premade the pies; they just need cooking. Ditto with the cookie dough, muffin mixes, et cetera. We should have enough to get us through the—”

  There was a muffled thump overhead.

  Eve clutched his arm, eyes wide. “Wait—”

  “You okay?” he asked.

  There was a creak, then a few more soft thuds across the ceiling.

  “Shhh,” she whispered, listening hard. “Did you hear that?”

  What? he mouthed. She seemed freaked out. “The footsteps,” he whispered. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

  She nodded, face tense.

  “It looked like there was an apartment over the café.”

  “There is,” she hissed back. “Mine.”

  “You don’t have a roommate?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s just me.”

  “Stay here. I’ll check it out.” He headed out the door.

  “Like hell I will,” she retorted. “I’ve seen you in action. You’ll probably get yourself killed.”

  He shook his head. He would have argued, but there wasn’t time. He took the metal open-rung stairs up to her apartment two at a time, Eve hot on his heels.

  * * *

  • • •

  EVE GRABBED THE back of his shirt. “The door,” she whispered, her stomach in knots. “I locked it.”

  Her front door was not only unlocked, but it was slightly ajar. Over Rhys’s shoulder she could see a hairline sliver of her living room.

  Slowly, quietly, he pushed the door open.

  Shhtt . . .

  They froze.

  The intruder was definitely in there. She could hear someone moving around her apartment.

  Rhys charged inside.

  “Hold on!” she called. “It could be dangerous.” But it was too late. He’d already disappeared.

  “Hells bells,” she muttered, racing in after him, her heart pounding. “Now I gotta go save him.”

  She could hear yells coming from her bedroom, the thump of bodies hitting each other, crashing into walls, things breaking.

  By the time she got to the bedroom Rhys had already immobilized the heavyset man. Who knew the pretty boy could move so fast?

  The intruder was quite hairy. She couldn’t see his face as his head was turned away from her and smashed against the floor. Rhys had the intruder’s beefy tattooed arm wrenched up high behind his back. It looked painful.

  “Call nine-one-one,” Rhys barked.

  “Right.” Eve reached into her purse
, her mind spinning in overdrive. I’ve seen a forked-tongued dragon tattoo on someone’s biceps recently, but whose? “Damn, having difficulty with the zipper.” The inside pocket zipper’s teeth had caught a piece of the purse lining and wasn’t budging.

  There was a scuffle, a thump, followed by a low pain-filled moan.

  “Don’t try that again,” she heard Rhys say. He didn’t raise his voice, but the deadly warning was clear. His voice sounded so different from the amused drawl she associated with him.

  Eve gave another hard yank, and the zipper gave way. “Okay.” She jammed her hand in the purse, her fingers closing around the phone. “Got it.”

  “Eve?” the intruder grunted. “Eve, is that you?”

  “You know this man?” Rhys asked, his head swiveling to look at her, his eyes fierce, intent.

  The intruder’s voice sounded familiar. Eve moved so she could see the man’s face. The guy had a hell of a lot of hair splayed across his—

  “Larry?” she said cautiously. “Larry Shumilak?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Um . . . Can I get up now? This is very uncomfortable.”

  Yes. It was definitely Larry. “I know him,” Eve told Rhys as she slowly straightened, her mind reeling.

  An impenetrable mask slid over Rhys’s face. “He your boyfriend?” he asked, his voice cool, detached.

  He thinks I’m dating this guy?

  “No,” Eve said, determined to keep her face as expressionless and detached as Rhys’s. “Of course not. He works at the Intrepid, and I’m sure he has a reasonable explanation for what he is doing here.” Eve squatted by Larry’s head. Never mind that she was furious. She was going to question Larry calmly and collectedly.

  “Larry,” she heard herself bellow. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

  * * *

  • • •

  “MILK?” EVE WAS asking. “Sugar?” Had the world gone insane? Rhys shook his head. When she’d thought he was an intruder, she’d slammed him to the floor and hog-tied him. But this guy? Who they’d caught red-handed in her bedroom—