The Edge of Heaven by TERESA HILL Read Free Book Online Page A

nearby cabinet, children's artwork neatly framed and hung beside the big fireplace there.
    There were a few nicely preserved antiques, a comfortable-looking afghan thrown over the back of the sofa, one big enough for a man to be comfortable on, and in a quiet spot in the back hall were a series of awards.
    Sam McRae had been president of the Chamber of Commerce a few years back and the Jaycees' Man of the Year. The mayor had given him a commendation for his work in beautifying the town and starting some sort of festival. That Christmas thing Emma had talked about. He built playgrounds for underprivileged kids and started the local chapter of Habitat for Humanity.
    Rye laughed at that. Not at the work. He wasn't that much of a cynic. But at the idea that this man could have been the one he was looking for. His Sam McRae had been a juvenile delinquent by all accounts, an angry, out-of-control kid who'd lost his parents young, someone nobody had wanted. What were the odds he'd have ever ended up like this?
    No, this wasn't the man he was trying to find.
    He went back into the kitchen, fiddling with the meal in progress, trying not to think about what his search had gotten him into.
    He tried not to wonder about all the other Sam McRaes on his list, about how much longer he could stand to do this and if he would ever find the man he was looking for.
    Emma finally came back downstairs. 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 said, looking better, more at ease, not like she might collapse any minute or break down into tears. "You were right. About the bath and sore muscles. It helped."
    "Good."
    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.
    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