Five Days Grace (47 page)

Excerpt from

Edge of Heaven

The McRae Series

Book Two

by

Teresa Hill

USA Today Bestselling Author

Emma finally came back downstairs, and 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 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.

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.

"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?"

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.

"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."

"Bad news?"

"No. Nothing like that," he promised.

"You'll stay here today?" She stared at her plate. Her face tilted forward. Her hair fell across her bruised cheek.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Emma. You don't even know me." He'd never hurt her, but hell, she didn't know that.

"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."

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. "This is a bad idea, Emma."

She gazed up at him, looking dazed and confused. "What is?"

"You and me," he admitted.

"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?