by Debra Webb
At least it was only temporary. The Huntsville merger had been finalized, and McFerrin Enterprises now owned Falkner Engineering Consultants. Once all the major projects were well underway, by early September thereabouts, he would go back to Atlanta.
He wondered if expanding wasn’t at times more trouble than it was worth. But without expansion there would be no growth or security. In this business, a company either moved forward or it lagged behind. There was no standing still. McFerrin Enterprises would keep moving forward as long as he was alive and kicking. And he would keep his eye on the bottom line every step of the way.
John’s warning flitted through his mind. What happens when you’re gone, Mac? No wife, no heirs. Are you building all this for nothing? You sure as hell can’t take it with you. Mac shook off the unsettling thoughts and got out, shoving the door shut with his elbow. He noticed the newspaper lying on his front lawn and decided to retrieve it. Maybe he would have time to glance at the financial section after he had reviewed the blueprints and contracts tucked under his arm. He stopped to snatch up the paper and expertly slid the rubber band off and around his wrist. He opened the paper to read the front-page headlines as he slowly crossed the yard to his front door.
Something squashed beneath his right shoe and Mac looked over the paper at the grass to determine the source.
“Damn,” he hissed from between clenched teeth. Dog doo oozed around the soles of his Gucci loafers. Too bad he hadn’t visited a site today—he’d have had on his work boots. Reciting every vile curse in his vocabulary, Mac scrubbed the sole and sides of his shoes against the grass until he had removed most of the excrement. This is exactly why he didn’t own a dog. Dogs ate, dogs barked, and dogs really messed up lawns.
Folding the newspaper and tucking it under his arm with his blueprints and contracts, Mac made a quick survey of the neighboring yards for a possible four-legged culprit. His gaze locked on an overgrown Labrador sprawled next to a lawn chair in Free Renzetti’s yard. “I should have known.”
No doubt Huntsville had a leash law and by God he intended to see that Free Renzetti kept that animal properly restrained. If he wanted a dog fertilizing his grass, he’d get one of his own. The Lab lifted his head and thumped his tail as Mac stalked past, but didn’t bother to get up and give him a sniff. The beast probably ate his weight in kibbles. Why would anyone own something so totally useless?
Before Mac made it to the porch, a loud thud drew his attention to the truck backed up to his flighty neighbor’s garage. He caught a glimpse of the top of Free’s wild mass of brown locks as she entered the wide open doors of the large structure. Mac altered his course and headed for the garage. He noticed as he passed the annoying magnolia that not one leaf littered the ground. At least she was holding up her end of that agreement.
He walked around the old truck, and the newly refinished wainscoting stacked in the bed caught his eye. What would she be doing with that? Remodeling?
Mac stepped through the open doorway and assessed what appeared to be a plain old garage from the outside. The inside was anything but. Wood staining products and a variety of cans and bottles lined several shelves along one wall. Mantels, columns, moldings of all types, window sashes, and other odds and ends filled the place. The air reeked of the pungent odors of solvents and varnishes, and a distinct mustiness mingled with the chemical smells. The garage was a veritable hodgepodge of old stuff—junk, in Mac’s opinion.
He scrutinized the place once more. This setup was much too elaborate and there was too much inventory for mere do-it-yourself home repairs. This had to a business of sorts. He wondered if his unconventional neighbor was in violation of zoning. Probably, he decided with annoyance. But why should he care?
He wasn’t going to live here long enough to complain about what people in this neighborhood did in the privacy of their garages.
A shuffling sound drew his attention to the left and his curiosity climbed another notch or two. A wall of sorts, fashioned with propped-up antique doors, formed a barrier between him and the sound. Maybe he’d just see what Ms. Renzetti was up to, Mac decided as he proceeded quietly around the obstruction to find the source of the noise. He found Free hefting several long strips of wainscoting onto her shoulder. Mac drew his eyebrows together in question. Why was she doing that? Loading lumber was a man’s job.
“Need a hand?” he asked, the words tumbling out automatically at the sound of her frustration when her load almost slipped. Mac’s protective instincts surged.
Startled, Free whirled around, the wainscoting slammed into the side of Mac’s head. He stumbled sideways from the blow. Instinctively, he tightened his hold on the blue-prints and papers under his left arm as brilliant white points of light swirled in his field of vision. She’d hit him. His right hand shot up to inspect the damage and massage his throbbing temple. He shook his head to clear it and then stared at his wide-eyed assailant. Mac blinked to eliminate the momentary double image.
“Oh my God!” she shrieked as if she’d only just realized what she had done. The wainscoting fell from her arms.
Still dazed, Mac didn’t move quickly enough to prevent his right foot from catching the brunt of the load. With an ear-scorching curse, he pulled his foot from beneath the pile of lumber. Free covered her mouth with gloved hands, her blue eyes round with horror.
“What the hell are you doing? Trying to kill me?” His foot ached inside the soft leather that had afforded no protection at all.
“Oh my God,” she repeated and then stepped gingerly over the wainscoting, coming closer. Mac retreated a half-step in fear of what might happen next. “I can’t believe I did that,” she cried as she stripped off her cotton work gloves.
He rubbed his temple hard and scrunched his throbbing toes. “You should come with a warning label, lady.”
She frowned. “My name is Free, not lady,” she said and pulled his hand away from his face to survey the damage. She studied him intently, concern etched in her distractingly attractive features, wincing when he flinched. “Are you all right?” she asked as she slid the pad of her thumb over the ridge of his cheekbone. The action sent a shaft of desire piercing through him.
“I’m fine,” he said tersely. Mac tried his level best not to notice how unbelievably sexy she looked in baggy overalls with nothing visible underneath but a cut-off T-shirt. A wide expanse of midriff was exposed on each side where the overalls dipped down past her waist. The moisture evaporated from his mouth and throat when his gaze traveled back up to her face and he allowed himself to admire those rose-kissed lips, flushed cheeks, glittering blue eyes, and all that impossibly sensuous hair piled atop her head. She was gorgeous. Desire struck him again, hard and low.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, worry creasing her delicate forehead. She tilted her head in question, the movement drawing his attention to the pretty tendrils of hair clinging to her neck.
Mac wrapped his fingers around her small wrist and pulled her hand from his face, slower than he should have, but far faster than he wanted to. “It’s nothing,” he croaked. “I’ll live.” Her skin felt incredibly soft beneath his fingers.
“You startled me and I just…” her voice trailed off with a slight quiver as his thumb automatically traced the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist. She sucked in a sharp breath, blinked rapidly, and tugged her hand from his.
Mac ignored the need welling inside him. Get this over with and get the hell out of here, he told himself. Being alone with this woman bordered on masochism. “Your dog left a deposit on my lawn, which is now stuck to my shoe,” he informed her.
She blinked again. “Oh,” she muttered, then licked those lovely lips. His groin tightened. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Oscar is usually very careful about…about where he goes.” She smiled tentatively. “I’ll clean it up.”
Her smile did strange things to his ability to breathe. He retreated a step. He had to get out of there. “Good. I’ll just” he moti
oned the way he had come “see myself out.” Mac spun around to make a hasty retreat and smacked headfirst into a dusty antique door. Both hands flew to the new source of pain radiating from his body, as the blueprints and other papers fluttered unimpeded to the floor.
Free gasped. “Oh, my gosh! It’s so cluttered in here! Are you all right?”
His humiliation complete, Mac faced her. His nose wasn’t broken or even bleeding for that matter, but it hurt like hell and he felt like a damned fool. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’m fine.” He bent to retrieve his papers.
“Let me help you!”
She stooped, he reached and heads cracked. Yelps and curses followed. Mac snatched up his blueprints and stood. Free straightened, clutching several papers in one hand and massaging her forehead with the other. He plucked the papers from her and eyed her warily.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, her face flaming as scarlet as his own must surely be.
“Don’t move,” he commanded when she would have taken another step in his direction. Mac glanced over his shoulder and then back to her. “Just stay right there until I’m out of here.”
“I said I was sorry,” Free repeated contritely. She bit her lower lip and shoved her hands into the deep pockets of her overalls, and stared at the floor.
When Mac had cleared the makeshift wall of antique doors, he jetted toward the exit. He had to get away from this woman while he still could. She was definitely dangerous.
In more ways than one.
~*~
Free pushed aside the lace panel and peeked out her kitchen window. His lights were still on, but it was almost ten o’clock. It wouldn’t be neighborly to bother Mac at this time of night. She glanced at the homemade apple pie on her counter. It had cooled enough to handle by now. She really should take it to him and get it over with. Especially after what she had done to him earlier that evening. Free cringed when she remembered the scene in the garage.
She wasn’t usually so clumsy, but being around him seemed to bring out the klutz in her. And worse. She had never bitten or kicked anyone in her entire life! She still found it hard to believe that she had actually done it. But she had. And wound up in the pokey because of it. Alex and Emily had laughed until their sides hurt a dozen times over in the past twenty-four hours.
It had to be the Scorpio influence. As a Libra, Free loathed conflict. Mac’s naturally aggressive personality and tendency toward conflict disturbed her inner peace.
But they were neighbors and somehow Free had to learn to deal with his forceful nature. A lack of balance and harmony would disrupt her serenity. She had to find common ground with the man. She had to keep Oscar off his lawn and she had to remember to rake up after the magnolia. Whatever it took to keep him calm and happy.
Free blew out a breath and tucked her wild hair behind her ears. It was now or never. She carefully picked up the pie, snagged the gift bag she had saved and started for the door. Oscar padded up behind her, his soulful eyes begging for permission to accompany his master.
“Stay, boy,” she commanded. The big dog dropped his head and ambled back to his favorite spot under the kitchen table. Free twisted the knob and walked out the back door before the second thoughts brewing inside her head could stop her.
The air was still and smelled of magnolia blossoms and crepe myrtle blooms. Free glanced heavenward to admire the stars. The grass was damp with an early dew and tickled her bare feet. She adored the sultry Southern summer nights. The concerto of crickets crying for rain was like music to her ears. Free considered putting the pie aside and whirling around the yard a time or two. She loved to dance. People had always told her that rhythm was in her blood. She could feel the beat of any kind of music more deeply than most. And nights like this were made for dancing outdoors.
Another kind of dance suddenly leapt to mind, filling her head with visions of two bodies tangling in a rhythm as old as time. Desire sparked and she immediately dismissed that line of thinking. Connor McFerrin was her neighbor, and definitely off limits—no matter what Alex thought.
Besides, he wasn’t the kind of guy a woman like her should get involved with. He was controlling, intense, and much too good-looking. Mating for life had probably never entered his analytical mind. Connor McFerrin –Mac, she reminded herself—was a mover and a shaker. Free Renzetti lived a simple, uncluttered life. She was air, he was water. Opposites in every respect. But perhaps they could live next to each other in some semblance of harmony.
On his moonlit back stoop, Free paused to take three deep, calming breaths before she knocked. Long, awkward moments after the second knock, the door swung inward. Her gaze traveled up the length of him, from his long, well-formed feet, well-fitted jeans, and a bare chest to die for, two shoulders so wide they filled the doorway. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, the way she liked it. Free almost frowned, but caught herself just in time. When had she decided she liked his hair—down or pulled back in a ponytail?
“If you’ve come to try and finish me off, at least give me a chance to defend myself,” he said wryly, a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
Free’s frustration dissolved and she smiled. He seemed to be in a good mood tonight—considering the way she had accidentally whacked him. She offered the pie. “A peace offering,” she said hopefully.
He eyed the dessert skeptically. “It’s not laced with anything lethal, is it?” The smile won the tug-of-war, drawing his lips into a beautiful curve.
Free shook her head, breathless from the sheer beauty of his smile. “Just the usual. Sugar, butter, fresh apples, cinnamon.”
He rubbed a wide hand over his incredibly lean and marvelously rigid abdomen. “Apple pie is my favorite.” That blue gaze connected with hers and static crackled between them. “How’d you know?”
“Either I’m psychic or just a good guesser,” she teased.
“My money’s on psychic,” he said then stepped aside for her to enter. “Gypsies always have that sixth sense.”
“Who says I’m a gypsy?” His description hit a little too close to home. Her spirit had always been a wanderer…it was only her body that never got to go anywhere. She strolled across the threshold and into his kitchen as if coming to this house was the most natural thing in the world for her. She had visited her elderly neighbor many times in the past—but this wasn’t little old Mrs. Lassiter. Free watched Mac watch her as he closed the door. This was a man who exuded sexuality. A man who attracted her on some elemental level she didn’t quite understand yet.
He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets, cocked his head and made a slow circle around her, appraising every square inch. Free moistened her lips and then chewed her lower one as he continued his unhurried study.
When he finally stopped, he pursed those full lips and set one hand on a lean hip. “Let’s see,” he began, stroking his square jaw thoughtfully. “Bare feet, a long flowing skirt, a peasant’s blouse.” He flicked one silver bracelet on her wrist. Free shivered when his fingertips brushed her skin. “Bangles,” he added and lifted one dark eyebrow in punctuation. “Big earrings, and lots of long curly hair.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and nodded. “A gypsy, all right. You didn’t bring a spell in that bag, did you?”
She told herself to relax, smiled, enjoying this stress-free side of him. “Maybe. What good’s a gypsy without a few spells and potions?”
Content that her plan to set a more pleasant tone between them was a success, she padded across the huge kitchen to the long, wooden trestle table. She nudged some of the paperwork scattered across it aside, and deposited the pie and bag on the space she’d cleared. “What’s all this?” she asked, scanning the array of papers and drawings.
“Homework,” he said with a sigh. “It’s taken me all evening, but I’ve finally gotten the final touches on these blueprints and contracts.” He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged lightly. “Another hour, tops, and the planning part of this project will be over.”
“Do
you work like this every night?” Free looked up at her new neighbor and for the first time noticed the lines of fatigue marring his handsome face. He worked too hard, pushed himself too far, she knew as surely as she knew her own name.
Ignoring her question, Mac peeked inside the bag. “Any ice cream in there? I love vanilla ice cream on apple pie.”
Free batted his hand away and shouldered between him and the bag. “No ice cream,” she told him as she reached inside to retrieve a blueberry candle, its holder and a box of kitchen matches. Mac quietly observed her every move, the heat from his body burning through the thin layers of her clothing. She managed not to squirm beneath his intense gaze or to bump his bare chest with her elbow—though it was mighty tempting to do just that. The man had an awesome chest. She arranged the candle in its holder and then lit it. After dropping the matches back into the bag, she pulled out a small package of chamomile tea.
“It’ll help you relax,” she told him when he made a disparaging sound at the back of his throat. Frowning, he studied the box. “Lot’s of people drink it,” she offered when his frown deepened. “And the fruit-scented candle is relaxing as well.”
“You think I need to relax?” That intent study focused on her face now.
She shifted nervously and searched her brain for an excuse that wasn’t quite a lie or too telling. “Stress gets to all of us at one time or another. Look, after what happened yesterday and in the garage today, I thought you could use a little comfort food.” She sucked in a much needed gulp of air and congratulated herself on the quick thinking.
His scowl softened a bit as he rubbed his right temple. “You do pack a wallop.”
“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.