by Debra Webb
“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.
She sighed again, grabbed the duffel bag that doubled as a tool bag and trudged through the ankle-deep grass toward the house. A vehicle pulling into the drive got her attention but she knew before she looked over her shoulder that it wouldn’t be Lance. He drove a big, loud Harley.
A black and white police cruiser parked behind the truck and a spit-polished, all-smiles Phil Gerard stepped out. Despite Free’s firm resolve not to be mad at him, irritation made her scalp tingle and her stomach tighten. She manufactured a smile and forced her rigid muscles to relax.
“Morning, Free.” He approached her slowly, rotating his hat in his hands, remorse evident in the strained expression on his weathered face. “You doing all right today?”
“Good morning, Phil.” She shifted her tool bag to the other hand. “I’m doing just fine, but I do have a long day ahead of me.” She regretted the coolness in her tone the instant she spoke.
One corner of Phil’s mouth hitched up into a sad smile. “Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He stared at the ground for a long moment then shifted his gaze back to hers and said, “I’m sorry about the other day. I didn’t stop to consider how that little trip downtown might make you feel. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted you and Mr. McFerrin to see how foolish you were behaving.”
“It doesn’t matter, Phil,” she told him, trying her best to sound reassuring. “You had to do something and the situation had gotten completely out of control. It was no one’s fault but my own that I ended up in a holding cell. I knew better than to behave the way I did.”
“But still,” he persisted soberly, “it had to bring back a lot of bad memories for you and I’m real sorry I caused you to relive the old days.”
Free plunked the duffel bag onto the ground and massaged the back of her neck. Her muscles still felt stiff from hunkering over that mantel for so long yesterday. “Phil, you did your job. Sure it rattled me, but I got over it. Let’s just forget about it, okay?”
He shook his head and stared at the ground again. “I can’t. I promised Thomas I’d look after you and I’ve let you both down.”
Free covered the three steps that separated them, she pulled the hat from his hands and threw her arms around his neck. “You didn’t let anyone down, Phil. You’re the best cop I know and a good friend.”
He hugged her tight and heaved a relieved breath. “You know how I worry about you, girlie.” He drew back and looked into her eyes, his own suspiciously bright. “Thomas wanted you to be happy.”
Her smile was real this time. “I am happy. You shouldn’t fret about that.”
He pulled a worried face. “Are you really? You work too hard and I’ve yet to see you on the town with a beau.”
The memory of Mac’s kiss slid across her senses; his scent, his taste, the feel of his skin. Free laughed tightly as heat crept into her cheeks. “I don’t need a beau to be happy, Phil.”
He lifted one gray eyebrow and eyed her skeptically. “Oh? I noticed som
e mighty heated sparks flying between you and that new neighbor of yours.”
Free felt the color in her cheeks deepen. “Those were parks of anger.”
Phil waggled his bushy eyebrows knowingly. “Seemed like a little more than anger if you ask me.”
Free shoved his hat back at him and set her hands at her waist. “It was more than that. He was going to kill that tree!”
“Whatever you say.”
Free gave him an indignant look. “Phil, you’ve been a cop too long. You’re reading too much between the lines.”
He settled his hat back into place and grinned. “I didn’t have to read anything, young lady. You and that McFerrin fella were shouting it to the rooftops.”
Exasperation hissed through her clenched teeth and she glared at him. “I have to get to work, Phil.”
“All right, all right. I can take a hint.” He shook his index finger at her. “Just remember, Thomas wanted you to be happy.”
Free threw her hands up. “I am happy!”
Phil crossed his arms over his chest, which meant only one thing to Free. He was about to say his final words on the subject. She silently thanked God, then gave the older man her full attention.
“I didn’t live to be sixty without achieving a complete understanding of what makes people happy in this life, girlie. Sharing your life with someone who loves you, having children of your own, those things make you happy. That’s the way God intended it and that’s the way it is. You won’t ever make me believe you’re happy living alone in that big old house.”
She shook her head, though she knew it was a lost cause. “I’m not alone. I have housemates. Don’t forget Alex and Emily.”
“They don’t count. You need a man,” he informed her in his best I’m-the-law-and-you’d-better-listen voice.
The rumbling sound of a Harley touched Free’s ears. She smiled when Lance came into view. “Why would I need a man?” she said sweetly. “I already have one and there he comes right now.”