The Edge of Heaven (11 page)

He drove her home without saying a word, which was fine with her. She was perfectly content to think about him kissing her.

No one had ever kissed Emma like that, so sweetly, so softly, and yet with so much need. A lonely, weary, save-me kind of need. She wondered what he might need and how she might give it to him, because she found herself wanting to give him anything.

If only she knew what he needed.

They pulled into the driveway. He walked her inside, carefully checking the entire first floor once again, finding nothing out of place.

"Emma," he said, standing in the living room, hands on his hips, shooting her a look that was vintage Sam, that don't-even-think-about-arguing-with-me-now look. "You know you can't stay here by yourself."

Amused, her chin came up. "I can't?"

"You promised Sam. I heard you. And even if you hadn't promised him, I won't let you stay here by yourself."

"You won't let me?" she repeated.

"Okay, maybe that's not the best choice of words. I couldn't. How about that? I won't be able to sleep at night for worrying about you. Do you really want to keep me up all night, Emma?"

"Well..." She grinned, letting the word trail off.

He looked completely dismayed, probably thought she was going to throw herself at him again. She never did that. If anything, she was usually a bit shy. He'd probably never believe her if she told him that.

"Emma, this is serious. Don't make me park my truck in the driveway and sleep there all night. Go somewhere where you'll be safe."

"You could stay with me," she suggested.

"Yeah." He nodded, not looking happy. "Me and every other guy claiming to be Sam's friend. We've been through this."

"I'm not issuing invitations far and wide," she pointed out. "Just to you. You're the one who won't be able to sleep anyway."

"Neither will you," he insisted.

She grinned, wanting to kiss him again, as a thank-you for caring and for being here. Kiss him out of that bad mood, or maybe out of his frustrations with her. She wanted to tell him everything was going to be okay, because she was starting to believe it.

"Okay," she admitted. "You're right. I won't, not here by myself. And I really do have some common sense, not that I've shown any of it to you. I told you about the carriage house the other day. There's a bed and a bathroom. We've had people stay there from time to time. I was hoping you'd stay. It's nothing fancy, but..."

"I don't need anything fancy," he said.

"I'd be locked up nice and safe, inside the house," she reasoned. "There's an intercom system connecting the two, so if anything happened, all I'd have to do is press a button. You could be right here in seconds."

"Emma?" He was still frowning, still obviously uneasy about something. "These people? Your family? They're good to you, right?"

"Yes."

"Then why can't you bring yourself to even tell them what's going on? Why won't you tell them about this problem with Mark? I understand about the baby, about you wanting them to be together now, but what about you, Emma?"

Emma closed her eyes.
Damn.

Helluva time to fall for someone, wasn't it? When her ex-boyfriend had turned nuts on her. Now she was making Rye think there was something wrong with her family.

His family, too.

When he already seemed so reluctant to have anything to do with them.

Which meant it was time for more of that painful kind of honesty and openness she was hoping to escape for just a bit longer, until maybe it didn't sting so much and maybe she wouldn't look so bad in his eyes.

His family, too, she reminded herself.

"It's not about them," she said. "It's about me. About who I am and how I want other people—especially my family—to see me. Have you ever done anything you were ashamed of? Deeply, deeply ashamed?"

"Yes," he said, the word positively wrenched from him. "More than I'll ever be able to explain."

What in the world? She'd blown off every attempt he'd made to tell her how bad he was. She didn't believe it for a minute, still didn't, but there were obviously things he deeply regretted.

Hanging by his sides, his hands were clenched tightly into fists, as if he might pour every bit of tension in his body into them, making her want to touch him once more, something she'd promised herself she would not do.

"Rye—"

"We were talking about you, Emma, and you seem to misunderstand a basic fact about your situation. You didn't do this. Someone did it to you."

"I know that, and I'm not saying it makes a whole lot of sense, but that's how I feel—ashamed. I'm not used to feeling that way, and I guess I'm not handling it well."

"You don't have to handle it well," he said, looking like he might take her in his arms again and just hang on to her.

Come to me, Rye,
she thought.
Just come to me.

Whatever it was, she'd help him. There was a fine sense of give and take to a relationship. She'd seen it in Sam and Rachel's marriage. The way they depended on each other, propped each other up when things got bad.

She'd never imagined finding anyone she could depend on like that, but now, here he was. She wanted him to be able to depend on her, too.

"Do you always handle everything well?" he asked.

"Believe it or not, normally, I do."

"Well you don't have to do that now. It's time to let all those supposedly wonderful people you call your family take care of you."

"I was hoping you would," she said. "Just for another day? Please?"

He frowned at her, obviously torn.

"Let me get something in the hall." She went, hoping he'd follow, and he did. There was a desk tucked under the stairs, keys hanging on a neat row of hooks. "I'm going to pull myself together, I promise, and then I'll tell Sam, and everything will be fine. But I just need a day or two to figure things out."

And she needed to keep him here. She needed to know what was wrong. Emma found the spare key to the carriage house and held it out to him.

"Sam's not going to think any less of you," Rye said, making no move to take it. "Not if he's the man you claim he is. No one's going to think any less of you because you made a mistake about a guy, Emma."

"I hope not."

"We all makes mistakes," he said.

"You could tell me about yours," she offered, key still in hand. "I'd understand."

"My mistakes are in a whole different league from yours."

"Give it up, Rye. You're not going to convince me that you're not a nice man. You've been so kind to me, so helpful, so understanding."

"That's not who I am," he insisted, shaking his head.

"It's exactly who you are, and I'm grateful for all those things."

"Don't thank me again, Emma. Please. I don't think I could stand it."

Don't touch me,
he meant.
Don't kiss me. Don't get that close.

He sighed and closed his eyes. She thought for a moment he was at war with himself, that she could feel him swaying toward her, catching himself just in time and then pulling back.

The room seemed charged with energy, want, and need, excitement and fear. Every little gesture, every word seemed to mean so much. She had a feeling that one misstep could ruin everything. It made her think every relationship in her life to this point had been nothing, that this was the first one that mattered.

She'd always thought it would happen someday, and she'd thought it would be fairly simple—she'd see him and she'd just know, and that would be it. She'd thought her heart would never truly steer her wrong.

It had told her all along that Mark wasn't the one. Just like she thought perhaps the man standing in front of her was the right one.

"All right, I'll stay," he said, finally taking the key. "I'll give you one more day, and then you call Sam."

Well then, that would have to be enough.

"I'll take you to the carriage house and make sure you have everything you need."

"I'll take myself. You lock the door behind me and go to bed."

"All right. Thanks for staying."

* * *

He waited until he heard the dead bolt on the back door click into place. He'd checked the place. It was sound. She should be fine, and he would feel better being close. Thankfully not in the same house as her. Emma curled up in a bed right upstairs or right down the hall was too much to even think about.

Emma with her wandering hands and sweet mouth.

Emma, Sam's daughter?

He hadn't begged the universe for anything in years, but he was ready to beg now. Please don't let him have come here, found his brother, only to be lusting after his brother's adopted daughter.

It was laughable really.

What an introduction that would be.

Hi. I'm your long-lost brother, and I'm sorry but I can't seem to keep my hands off your daughter.

Rye walked through the backyard and let himself into the carriage house with the key Emma had given him. What more could a man intent on snooping ask for than this—a damned key and hours alone with which to search.

As soon as he found something that told him he was in the wrong place, he'd stop and soon after that, he'd leave.

As soon as he knew Emma was okay.

This was all some odd coincidence, anyway.

His brother wasn't supposed to have a grandfather, for one thing. And he hadn't lost his parents at fourteen or fifteen. He'd been much younger, if Rye could trust the records he'd found. But honestly, how could that be? In those hazy images in his head, his brother had always seemed so much older than Rye. So even the ages didn't make sense.

Hell, he might not even have the right man's name on his list, but he could cross them off one by one, because there was nothing else to do.

He locked the door behind him and pocketed the key, then flipped on the lights and found himself in a big room. The carriage house was indeed very, very old, but it was solid. A neatly restored structure that now housed a large, well-organized, well-equipped workshop. From the looks of it, he suspected Sam McRae was very good with wood.

He ran his hands along a very old piece of crown molding, intricately carved, chipped in places, broken in others. Someone was painstakingly restoring it. It was nice work. He couldn't have done it himself, but he appreciated the skill and patience it took to do it right.

Passing through the workshop, he came to what had to be Sam's office. There were papers piled everywhere, but again, things were orderly, organized. Along the back wall, he saw a cot and through a doorway to the left, he suspected he'd find a bathroom. Everything he needed.

He reached for the top middle drawer in the desk and slid it open. It was that easy. Slide open drawers one by one.

"God," he muttered, sitting down and staring at the wall.

It was an awful thing to want so very much and be scared to have it.

He'd been living scared for a very long time, living like everything he had might be ripped away from him at any moment, and it seemed safer just to never have that much in his life.

But surely he could have something. Surely it was safe now.

He started digging through the drawer. Almost everything here was work-related, he realized an hour later. Sam McRae had a very prosperous business. He wasn't a wealthy man, but he was clearly comfortable. His customers sure seemed happy with him. They wrote him letters thanking him, sent pictures of their newly renovated houses, everyone beaming at the camera.

There were few personal bits of information. His social security number on a few of the forms Rye found. If he had the social security number for the man he was looking for, that might prove quite helpful. Unfortunately he didn't.

Other than that, the personal papers must be in the house.

If he wanted to search, that wouldn't be a problem. All he had to do was get Emma back into the bathtub. He could probably get through the whole downstairs in the time she was up there soaking, if he could keep his mind on what he was supposed to be doing.

Sam's daughter,
he told himself.

No more kissing her. No more hanging on to her. No more sweet lips or sad, understanding eyes. Not for him.

He glanced out the window one more time, finding everything just as it had been. Nothing moving in the yard. No sounds of any kind, except for a dog barking a few houses away.

The light was still on.

He didn't blame her. If he was scared someone was coming after him, he might sleep with the light on, too. It was so much easier to get lost in your fears in the dark, so easy to get lost completely.

He paced the narrow confines of the office for the longest time, and he thought about going outside and walking around the backyard. But Emma might hear him, and she might be afraid. Someone might see him and call the cops. He really didn't need that. So he forced himself to calm down and not to think of this little room as a cell. Narrow spaces tended to do that to him—make him just a little bit crazy and even break out into a cold sweat sometimes.