by Teresa Hill
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.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He looked up at her, finding her chewing slowly, her pretty mouth pursed into something that looked like a kiss at the moment. "Nothing."
"Headache?" she tried cheerfully.
"No."
"Bad news?"
"No."
Her cheer faded. "Mark didn't call again?"
"No. Nothing like that," he promised, putting down his fork and staring out the window into the backyard, anywhere but at her. "I'm just thinking about you and your little situation."
"Oh. You'll stay here today?"
"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Emma. Anyway, that just addresses today. You can't stay here by yourself worrying that any minute he's going to show up at the door."
"Do you think he would?" She looked so worried. "Because I thought of that, and I've been trying to tell myself I'm just being silly to be so scared."
"I don't know. You know the guy better than I do."
"No, I don't." She put her fork down, pushed the plate away, all enjoyment she might have taken in the meal gone. "I thought I did, but I didn't ever think..."
He was sorry he'd brought this up. "You didn't think he'd hit you?"
"No. He never came close to losing his temper like that." She stared at her plate. Her face tilted forward. Her hair fell across her bruised cheek.
"Okay." He forced himself to go on. She needed to hear this if she was going to be safe. "So the guy's got a temper, and you don't know what he might do. I think, to be safe, you shouldn't be here by yourself. Call Sam."
"I can't," she insisted.
"Why not? If your aunt needs help, Rachel could stay there and Sam could be here with you."
"I don't want to ask him to come. I don't want to ask him to leave Rachel."
"Why not?"
She sighed and pushed a stray strand of hair back from her face. "It's a difficult situation—"
"So's the one you're in," he said.
"How well do you know Sam?" she asked instead.
He frowned, thinking that had to come up sooner or later. "I... It's—"
"Complicated?" she suggested.
"Yes."
"Thought so."
Rye sighed and looked down at her hand, curled against the side of her plate. Her hand was trembling. "You have to do something."
"I know. I just... I don't know what to do," she said finally, getting to her feet and walking over to the window. It just about broke his heart. She sounded overwhelmed and so damned lost.
He pushed back his plate and stood up, fighting the urge to go to her.
"You don't understand," she said. "This is not who I am. This scared, indecisive person. That's not me. I'm not like that."
"I believe you. You're just caught up in a bad situation. It happens. I understand about bad things happening, Emma. How they can throw you, make you feel like a completely different person."
"That's it." She turned back around, staring at him, as if she wanted to ask more—how he knew, what had happened to him to make him understand. Thankfully, she didn't ask. "I feel like this couldn't possibly be my life, and I want mine back. How do I get mine back?"
"A little bit at a time. First, you have to figure out how to handle the situation you're in. Take care of today."<
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"Well, I was thinking I would spend today with you."
"Emma, you don't even know me." He'd never hurt her, but hell, she didn't know that. "You let me in this house again."
Went upstairs and took off all her clothes and climbed into the bathtub. He groaned, shutting out the image that insisted on invading his head.
"You're going back to trying to convince me not to trust you?"
"Hey, a little skepticism is a great thing, especially when you're a young, beautiful woman."
"I'm not—"
She broke off, her cheeks flushed all the more, not looking at him now. He closed his eyes and bit back a curse. She was getting to him. That sweet, fresh-faced, innocent look of hers was killing him.
"I just want you to be safe, Emma, and I want both of us to be able to sleep tonight." Not that he had a prayer of that, not after smelling that Emma-after-her-bath smell and seeing her all flushed and fresh faced, her tight little jeans, and innocent eyes.
"And someone who was out to hurt me would say things like that?"
"He would if he was smart. It sure seems to be working for me. After all, I'm right here with you," he said, frustration getting the better of him.
"You think I'm an idiot, don't you?" She went from flattered to mad in about half a second.
"I think you can't be too careful. Look at what this jerk did to you."
"I know." She touched a hand to her bruised cheek, as if to test and see if it were still there, still as bad as she remembered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into my problems."
"You haven't dragged me anywhere, Emma," he admitted, taking those inevitable steps closer. He could rest his hands on her shoulders or maybe hold her hands. That seemed safe. He did that, just took both her hands in his. "I've come quite willingly. I'm afraid I'm just not that good at taking care of anyone. I've been on my own for a long time now."
"I think you're doing just fine at taking care of me. And... Well..."
She eased up on her tiptoes and placed a frustratingly brief, soft kiss on his lips this time.
"And I appreciate it. Thank you."
He just stood there. There was something so innocent about that little kiss. It might as well have been another peck on the cheek, like the one she'd given him earlier when she'd been so scared and he'd held her in his arms.
Except it rocked him all the way down to his toes again.
"Emma," he warned, holding himself absolutely still and straight.
"Hmm?" She brought her hands up to rest ever so lightly against his chest. The delicate touch burned right through the fabric of his shirt. She still smelled so good and the world was spinning oddly around him.
He hadn't had anyone to hang on to in so long, and how her mere presence could be so comforting and so unsettling at the same time, he could not understand. But he couldn't pry his hands off her.
"Things are crazy right now," he said.
"I know. For me, too."
And yet she stayed stubbornly right there, her face maybe an inch from his. He wanted to tell her she really shouldn't go around kissing men she barely knew, even those little pecks on the cheek. They gave a man ideas.
But this wasn't him getting ideas. She was inviting something entirely different now. A taste of her. All that sweetness, that innocence.
"I think I like you," she said. "Is that such a bad thing?"
"Yes. It's a very bad thing." A complicating thing. A pointless thing. Nothing could ever come of this.
He still stood here hanging on to her. Her eyes were a smoky green and there was a little gleam in them that told him she thought she was being quite forward and was delighted with herself for it. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were right in front of his.
In the end, it was the sweet softness of her that got to him. He hadn't held a woman like that in years. There hadn't been any like her, not where he'd been. Surely he could have a little bit of that. Just a taste.
He touched the tip of her nose with his, nuzzling closer. He heard her catch her breath and thought long and hard about the skin of her cheek, about her mouth, her neck. With her hair piled high, Emma had an absolutely delectable-looking neck.
Who's to say what he would have done in the end, given the chance. Probably gotten into the same kind of trouble she started. But she lifted her face that last fraction of an inch, and one more time, her lips settled against his.
They were so very soft. He teased at them with his tongue, at the opening there, thinking, Let me in, Emma. Just like this. It would be enough. He'd make it enough.
Her mouth opened to his. His entire body tensed at the possibilities. He gave himself up to the wonders of kissing Emma, put his hand to the back of her head, tangled within her hair, which he wanted down. Now.
His other hand went to the small of her back, arching her against him. Her breasts pressed against his chest. He let his hand slide down to her bottom, cupping it, pressing her against him.
He could devour her right here in the kitchen.
"Damn," he said, pulling back.
He had to remember who he was, what he'd done, what he was here for. This wasn't his place, just some side road he'd taken and found her. She was just a woman in trouble, and he would be moving on before too long.
"This is a bad idea, Emma."
She gazed up at him, looking dazed and confused. "What is?"
"You and me," he admitted. Might as well get it right out there in the open. This was impossible.
"How do you know?"
Because it felt too good, and since when did life get to feel this good to him? Since when did anything really good ever last for him?
"You don't know who I am. You don't know anything about me."
"So tell me. Tell me who you are and why you came here. Tell me why this is such a bad idea."
He was still trying to figure out what to say when the phone rang.
The blood drained from Emma's face at the sound. Poor Emma. She was so scared.
"I'll get that," he offered.
Even if it was Sam McRae. They'd settle this once and for all, and he could move on to the next name on his list.
"No," she said. "I will."
Chapter 4
Emma snatched it up and said, "Hello."
"Em? What's wrong?"
She let out the breath she'd been holding and said, "Sam. Hi."
Rye sat down in his chair, not exactly looking relieved.
"What's wrong?" Sam asked again. "You don't sound like yourself. Is it that boy? Rachel said the two of you broke up."
"We did."
"Is that all?" Sam asked.
"No." Emma hadn't meant to say that. It had just come tumbling out. She'd always told Sam everything. Well, practically everything.
"Tell me," he insisted.
"I didn't want to say anything. Not with everything that's going on with Ann and the baby, but..." Emma looked for some fine line she could walk here without spilling the whole thing. "He isn't taking this well, Sam. He's mad, and he's been calling here, even though I've asked him to stop."
"What happened between the two of you?" Sam asked, steel in his voice.
"I'll... Can we do this when you and Rachel get here, please? I'm fine, and I'll tell you everything. I promise. Just... not now. Not on the phone, okay?"
"You're fine?"
"I am. I promise."
"Okay, but what did he say?"
"I think I've embarrassed him, more than anything," she said, thinking how odd to find herself interested in one man while explaining to her father on the phone about the one she'd just left who was stalking her. Her humiliation just went on and on. "His parents were expecting to meet me, and I guess he doesn't want to tell them we broke up. So he's making excuses and waiting for me to get back there, even though I've made it clear I'm not coming."
Sam started firing off questions. "So he's not listening?"
"No."
"Has he threatened you?"
"No."
"I think you should come up here. Right now. You don't need to be in that house by yourself. Or you could go to Rachel's sister's or her brother's, her father's. Take your pick."
It made sense. She knew that, and it was so tempting.
But it felt like running away. It felt cowardly, and she already felt like such a coward. She already resented the way Mark seemed to have invaded her whole life, making her second-guess everything she'd ever believed about herself and her ability to take care of herself. She didn't want to be anyone's victim, not ever again, and running felt like admitting that she was.
"I really just want to stay here," Emma said.
"No," Sam said.
She frowned, knowing that tone well. Sam didn't use it often and certainly not arbitrarily. But he'd made up his mind. She'd never flat-out refused him anything, because she loved him and trusted him. She knew he loved her.
Emma looked across the room at Rye, who'd given her the same argument in much the same way. He'd even sounded like Sam when he did it.
"What did he say?" Rye asked.
Sam had just said the same thing. It echoed in her head. What did he say? Not just the words or the tone. The voice.
They sounded alike.
Looking up at Rye now, the color and shape of his eyes, that little notch in his chin, the way he simply held himself, he even looked like Sam.
And he'd come here looking for Sam....
Not about business, but something personal, and seemed oddly reluctant to even let Sam know it. Why in the world would he do that?
"Emma?"
They both said it at once, Sam's voice coming through the phone, Rye's from across the room. It was just the same. She forgot all about Mark and the phone calls, the threats, and the bruise on her face.
The voices were the same.
Could it be?
She thought... just maybe, she was standing here with Sam's long-lost brother.
It just hit her out of the blue.
Sam had a brother she'd never seen. One Sam hadn't seen himself in ages. For the longest time, she thought he didn't have anyone at all, and she'd wondered how he'd stood that. She couldn't imagine a world without her siblings, particularly after they'd lost their mother. She'd said something about that one day, and Sam had told her he had a brother but not much else. It had obviously been so hard for him to talk about.
