Free Falling (5 page)

“My point exactly.” Free skirted the table to
make her way to the antique gas stove. She shook the copper kettle
to see that it contained enough water before she set the flame to
low beneath it. With slow, deliberate steps, Mac joined her at the
stove.

“I mean, if a guy works hard all day, he
should be able to relax at night,” she added, her voice rising to
meet her heart rate. She was rambling.

“Wouldn’t a shot of bourbon accomplish the
same thing without all the fuss?”

Unnerved by his nearness, she moved to the
opposite counter and reached for the cupboard to the right and
above the sink, where Mrs. Lassiter had always stored her cups and
glasses. “No, that wouldn’t be the same at all,” she said without
looking back at him. “Alcohol pollutes your body.” Free tightened
her grip on the old tarnished knob. Aware of the old door’s
tendency to stick, she yanked hard to open it at the same instant
Mac chose to lean against the counter beside her. The rough edge
smacked him square in the face. He grunted a colorful
expletive.

Free winced in empathy, the cup she’d
automatically reached for clutched in her left hand. She bit her
lip as she slowly closed the door and looked at the man she’d just
whacked once more. His eyes were closed and both hands covered his
nose. How could she have clobbered him again?

“I am so sorry,” she offered guiltily.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice muffed behind
his hands. He didn’t open his eyes and Free had a bad feeling that
she had really hurt him this time. Maybe she had broken his nose.
There wasn’t any blood, but she didn’t know if that meant anything.
Could you break a man’s nose without shedding blood?

She touched his hand softly. “Would you like
me to—”

“No!” he cut her off. His eyes snapped open
and he held up one hand to halt any further assistance from her.
“No. I’m fine.”

His sharp tone hit an already exposed nerve.
“I said I’m sorry,” she groused. “You don’t have to get all bent
out of shape. It’s not like I meant to break your nose or
anything.”

He gingerly traced the bridge of his nose
with his thumb and index finger. “I’m beginning to think the
competition hired you to do me in.”

“Can I help it if you keep getting in my
way?”

Mac aimed a look of annoyed disbelief at her.
“In the future, remind me to stay out of your way.”

Free’s gaze suddenly locked on the cup she
held in a death grip. White bone china with a rose pattern and gold
trim…Mrs. Lassiter’s china. She frowned, then surveyed the room as
a whole for the first time. Everything was just the same. The
furniture, the rugs on the floor and the bric-a-brac adorning the
cabinet tops and wall. “Didn’t they take anything at all?” she
asked, her voice barely a whisper. She had known the furniture had
stayed. But every last thing?

“What?”

Free shook her head. She set the cup down at
the counter and all but ran from the room. Hardly believing her
eyes, her gaze traveled over the long hall. She stuck her head
briefly into the dining room, then moved on to the parlor.
Everything was just as it had been the day Mrs. Lassiter died. She
paused at the door to the parlor and stared at the fireplace on the
other side of the large room. Everything except the lovely old
portrait above the mantel. She padded across the thick carpet that
graced the shiny floor and stared up at the unfaded square of
wallpaper where the painting had been.
Had they taken only the
painting?

~*~

Mac stood in the doorway and watched Free
Renzetti wander around the cluttered parlor. He had never seen so
many knickknacks. The house was chock full of trinkets. Obviously
the former owner had been sentimentally attached to everything she
had every purchased in her entire life.

“I can’t believe this.” Free shook her head
and wandered across the room. “Didn’t they want any of her stuff?
Didn’t they care that these things were near and dear to her
heart?”

Mac drew in a deep breath and walked slowly
to where Free had stopped by an occasional table near the front
window. She seemed more than a little upset and he didn’t really
know what to say. “I only know that when John bought the place, all
this” he swept his arms outward in an expansive manner “was
included.”

Free lifted one delicate shoulder in a
semblance of a shrug. “At least they took her picture.” She gazed
again at the bare wall above the mantel. “She was eighteen in the
portrait. And very beautiful.” Free smiled as if recalling some
pleasant memory. “Loretta Lassiter in Paris.” She turned to Mac,
her eyes wide with excitement. “She grew up in Europe, you know.
Her father was a political attaché or something like that. She used
to tell me stories about the parties and the traveling.”

“You’ve never been to Europe?” he asked,
knowing the answer already. Her childlike awe gave her away.

Free shook her head slowly. She picked up a
snow globe and turned it upside down, then watched the glitter fall
around the Parisian scene depicted beneath the glass and water.
“Someday I’m going to Paris, though Mrs. Lassiter told me so many
stories about the place I feel as if I’ve been there already.”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

Her eyes were shimmering blue pools, wide
with amazement. “You’ve been there?”

Mac felt suddenly all-knowing and powerful
because of the admiration and awe now directed at him, not to
mention excited as hell. “Several times,” he said nonchalantly.

Free plopped the snow globe back on the
table. “Well, tell me! Tell me everything!”

Mac opened his mouth to speak but the shrill
sound of the whistling kettle cut him off. “Just a minute,” she
blurted, then dashed toward the sound.

Mac picked up the snow globe and walked
unhurriedly back into the kitchen. What was it about this flighty
woman that made him want to throw her across the nearest piece of
upholstered furniture and have his way with her? He sighed
mightily. She just turned him on—physically, anyway. On a mental
level, Mac knew that she was the total opposite of what he liked in
a woman. Maybe that was the attraction.

Maybe he’d burned out his last brain cell, or
maybe he had let John’s well-meant warning about being alone the
rest of his life get to him. Whatever the case, getting involved
with Free Renzetti bordered on insanity. Just knowing her for this
short while had gotten him thrown in jail, and his body sported
more bruises than when he’d played high school football.

No way was he getting mixed up with a
fruitcake like her, no matter how gorgeous she was. Precisely at
that moment, Mac’s gaze came to rest on her. She placed a steaming
cup of tea next to the pie on the kitchen table. The scent of
blueberries tickled his nose. Blueberry candle? Chamomile tea?
Apple Pie? Whatever it was, it was irresistible.

She spun around to face him and all that hair
swirled around her shoulders, the hint of gold catching the light.
She smiled and his heart stumbled, once, twice. Mac shook the snow
globe and watched the tiny flecks flutter down around the little
Eiffel Tower. Anything to keep his eyes off her.

“Your tea is ready, but first you have to
tell me about Paris,” she urged breathlessly, drawing his gaze back
to her. The excitement in her eyes lured him two steps closer than
he’d intended to go.

“I went, I came back. What exactly do you
want to know?”

“Did you visit
Montmartre
? Did you
walk the halls of the
Louvre
? Did you take a boat ride on
the Seine?” Her eyes grew wider as her anticipation mounted with
each question.

He thought for a moment, then said, “Yes,
yes, and yes.”

“Mac!” she scolded.

“What?” He was enjoying her frustration way
too much.

“Details, I want details. Did you take
someone there with you or did you meet someone while you were in
Paris?”

“Ah.” He dipped his chin and raised a
speculative eyebrow. “Now we get to the heart of the matter. You
want to hear a romantic story. Did the old lady tell you romantic
stories about the City of Lights?”

Free planted her hands on her hips and glared
at him. “Just answer the question, Mac, your tea is getting
cold.”

“Okay.” He edged closer, directly in her
personal space now, but she didn’t seem to mind. Hell, if the woman
wanted to hear a romantic story, he might as well get intimate. “I
did meet this woman on one particular trip.” He paused, then leaned
closer and dropped his voice to a more seductive level. “She was
French, of course, and beautiful. We took a long, slow ride down
the Seine. It was a perfect day, warm and sunny.” Free’s eyes never
left his, she didn’t as much as blink. If she even breathed, he
couldn’t tell. Hell, he was hardly breathing himself. Every muscle
in his body was tense and growing harder by the moment.

“What did she look like?”

Mac blinked. “She…she had…” His train of
thought derailed as his gaze lingered on Free’s hair. The woman had
the most amazing hair. It looked so soft, and the way it caressed
her skin and curled around her cheek and chin—he sucked in a harsh
breath. “Can I…” He met her expectant gaze and went as hard as a
rock. “I need to touch your hair.”

When she didn’t protest, he slowly lifted his
hand, giving her ample opportunity to stop him. He swallowed hard
and his senses whirled with expectation. Silk, pure silk, wrapped
around his fingers when he tangled them in the mass of soft,
seductive curls. Simply touching her hair was the most powerfully
erotic sensation he had ever experienced. Desire coursed through
his veins, urging him closer and closer until his face was so near
to hers that he could feel her shallow, rapid breaths as they
feathered across his mouth.

She touched his chest with one tentative hand
and it was all over. Mac thumped the snow globe down on the table
behind her and wrapped one arm around her waist. He pulled her hard
against his body and covered her lips with his own. She tasted like
cinnamon. Hot, sweet cinnamon. And he wanted more.

He traced her lips with the tip of her tongue
and she opened for him. He thrust into the warmth of her soft mouth
and need gripped him with such force that he shook from it. He wove
his fingers more deeply into her hair and cradled the back of her
head, holding her in place while he thoroughly explored her sweet
mouth. Free moaned softly and he held her more tightly. Her soft
sounds of pleasure sent renewed desire as well as a feeling of
protectiveness surging through him.

She pushed against his chest, and he groaned
in protest. He didn’t want to stop. Mac wanted to ease her bottom
onto the edge of the table and make love to her right here, right
now.

“Wait,” she murmured raggedly.

“What’s wrong?” Mac nipped at her full bottom
lip. God, she smelled so good. Like cinnamon and roses. He wanted
to taste all of her.

“Do you smell something?” she asked, dodging
his mouth as he tried to capture hers once more.

“Only you, gypsy woman, only you.” Mac buried
his face in the curve of her neck and planted a kiss on that
sensitive flesh. The faint essence of roses lingered on her skin
and made him crazy with want. How could she know all the scents and
tastes the drove him mad?

She pushed at his chest again, harder this
time. “I’m serious. I smell
something
. Something burning,”
she said slowly.

Free turned in his arms, then screamed
suddenly. The sound shattered the haze of passion enveloping him.
She jerked out of his hold and flew toward the sink. What the hell?
She ducked beneath the sink and retrieved something from the
cabinet.

Then he smelled it, too. His glazed eyes
focused on the table. The gift bag was on fire. Flames licked over
the plain brown paper as if it were soaked in gasoline. Mac
realized then that he had knocked the bag over with the snow globe.
It had fallen on the lit candle. The bag was burning and soon the
rest of the papers on the table would be as well.

A smoke detector somewhere in the kitchen
wailed and reality slapped him in the face. His blueprints, his
contracts, hours of work were about to go up in flames.

“Son of a bitch!” Mac reached for the Armani
shirt he’d left hanging on the back of a chair to smother the
flames and in the process knocked the cup of tea over. He cursed
again as the brownish liquid flowed onto his papers. The flames
engulfing the bag suddenly flared higher as the box of matches
ignited with a whoosh. At that same instant Mac saw Free in his
peripheral vision wielding a bucket. “No!” he shouted, but it was
too late.

He watched in horror as she drenched the
burning bag and his blueprints and his contracts with water. All
his hard work was utterly ruined.

And for what?

One kiss from the lips of a gypsy.

Chapter Three

Free maneuvered her truck onto the driveway
that was more grass now than gravel. She shifted to park and cut
the engine, then sighed as she peered up at the old house that had
once been the picture of Southern beauty. A grand Victorian painted
lady. Now her coat of paint had faded, chipped and peeled, leaving
her wood siding to face the harsh challenge of Alabama weather.
Hand-turned spindles were missing or broken in the railing of the
wrap-around porch, and one side sagged as if the weight of time now
rested solely on that one end of the porch. Several panes of float
glass were broken, the sashes boarded up to keep out
trespassers.

Free emerged from the shade of the truck’s
cab into the hot July morning sun. She pushed the truck door shut
with one denim-clad hip and tugged on her baseball cap, pulling her
thick hair through the gap in the back. She glanced at the quiet,
deserted street, wondering where Lance was this morning. Her
assistant had promised to meet her here at eight sharp, and it was
now five past eight.