The Edge of Heaven by TERESA HILL Read Free Book Online

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. 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