by Debra Webb
Phil shot a disgusted look at the hunk of black and chrome Lance straddled. “He sure as hell don’t count.”
Lance shut the noisemaker off and flipped the cigarette he’d finished. Tall and lean, he made a fairly imposing figure in faded jeans, tattered T-shirt and leather biker boots. The numerous tattoos lent a definitely intimidating quality to his image. He rubbed a hand over his cropped blond hair as he sauntered across the unkempt yard. Twenty-one, Free mused, and full of himself.
“What up, bro?” Lance slapped Phil on the back, removed his mirrored sunglasses and winked at Free.
She bit her lip to prevent the smile that struggled to surface. “You’re late,” she informed him flatly.
Lance hinted at a shrug, “What can I say? I had a long night.” He grinned sheepishly, then reached for her tool bag.
“I have to get going,” Phil put in quickly. He didn’t much like Lance and made no bones about it. He glanced back at her briefly before he took off. “I almost forgot. We’ve had some reports of vagrants hanging around these old houses. You watch out for yourself. Most of ‘em are harmless, but you never know.”
“We’ll be fine,” Free assured him.
Lance draped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t sweat it, Officer Gerard, I’ll take real good care of her,” he said suggestively. Free jabbed her helper in his ribs. His answering grunt satisfied her flare of irritation.
“Somehow, Lance, that’s not reassuring at all,” Phil said bluntly. “One more thing.” He focused back on Free. “If you run into any of those vagrants, don’t give them any money. Hell, you’ve given away a fortune in the last three years. Think about yourself for a change.”
Free saluted stiffly. “Yes, sir!” She giggled when Lance followed suit.
Phil shook his head and rolled his eyes. “God bless the simple-minded and foolish,” he said, casting a long-suffering look in Free’s direction. He opened his car door, then paused. “I guess I didn’t see your helmet, Lance.”
Lance stiffened. “I…ah…took it off while you weren’t looking.”
“Yeah, right.” Phil shook his head before settling behind the wheel of his car.
When he had driven away, Lance turned to Free. “Where did you want me to start, boss lady?”
Free batted his hand away when he tugged at the bill of her cap. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”
“Sorry, honey,” he offered.
Free drew herself up to her full five foot six inches and still she was nearly a foot shorter than this lanky kid. She folded her arms over her chest and arched one eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Just kidding,” he said quickly. “Where did you want me to start?” he repeated.
Free thought about that for a moment. She and Lance had already taken what little could be salvaged from the other two houses. She had completed her inventory of what this last place had to offer a few days ago, and it really wasn’t that much either. All they had to do was remove a few items and load up.
That part always made her sad. It reminded her of the old movies she had watched where some high-ranking officer would strip the rank off the sleeves of some unfortunate, wrongly accused soldier. She shuddered inwardly. Oh, well, it had to be done. Better to be by her than someone who didn’t care.
“Oh, shoot!” Free rubbed the ache beginning in her forehead. She had completely forgotten to drop off the last of Julius’s wainscoting. How had she forgotten those final pieces? Mac’s handsome mug flitted through her mind briefly. It was a miracle she remembered anything after what happened between them. But Julius had made sure Free realized her mistake. The man had worked until the wee hours of the morning to put the wainscoting up. When he’d run out of material before reaching the final corner, he had called her to let her know—at two a.m. He wouldn’t be pleased about having to wait for the remaining pieces this morning.
“Lance, I forgot to drop the last of the wainscoting at Mr. Faraday’s house. Could you run it over and I’ll go ahead and get started here?”
He shrugged. “Why not? Pay’s the same.”
“Great.” Free took the tool bag from him. “Hurry back. I won’t be able to do much without you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered as he ambled toward the truck.
She hurried into the house, dropped her bag on the floor in the long entry hall and crouched next to it to retrieve her inventory pad. The phone call from Julius hadn’t really disturbed her. She’d hardly slept at all last night. In fact, the call had actually been a relief. Free had spent the entire night regretting her visit to Mac’s house. How could she have been so utterly stupid? He had kissed her and she had let him. Let him? Ha! She had participated—enthusiastically!
Free closed her eyes and banished the memories to some dark corner of her mind. Mac McFerrin stood for everything that Free thought was wrong with this world. All he cared about was his next conquest and making more money. The man had no soul—no attachment to anything but his work. He’d all but had a stroke last night over a few blasted papers.
All that aside, there was simply something about him. Every time they were together, this feeling came over her and—
A hand touched her shoulder and Free shot to her feet, fear rushing through her veins. A scream died in her throat when a leathery palm clamped over her mouth. “Hush, missy, it’s just me,” a rusty but familiar voice said close to her ear.
Free slumped with relief. She twisted around and glared at the old man. “Sarge, you scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Sorry, Free.” Hs gaze dropped to his worn boots. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on ya.”
A frown creased her brow as she recalled Phil’s words. “You shouldn’t be in here, Sarge. They’re going to tear all these houses down on Monday.” She gave him a knowing look. “And Phil said there had been a report of…of vagrants.” No matter what anyone said, she would never be able to call Sarge that. Around fifty, Sarge had spent half a dozen of those years serving his country, and those years had shattered his life.
He ran a hand over his scraggly beard, then straightened his ragged, camo shirt. “I’ve been sleepin’ here a long time. I kinda like this old place.”
Free’s heart ached for the old soldier. According to what she’d been told, like many other soldiers who’d served in Afghanistan, the man hadn’t been the same since. Free knew he wasn’t all there, so to speak, but he was a good person and she hated to see him live the way he did. But he refused treatment from the VA hospitals, and he refused to go to a shelter. Said he’d been taking care of himself for as long as he could remember and he’d damned sure do it now.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
He regarded her suspiciously. “I’ve eaten.”
Free moistened her lips and tried another tactic. “Sarge, my truck’s been acting up a little. Maybe you could come by this evening and take a look at the engine?”
He ducked his head between his shoulders and shuffled his feet. “Sure, I could do that.”
Free pulled out the twenty dollar bill she had in her overalls pocket and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll just pay you now. That way I won’t forget,” she said softly.
He nodded without looking up and muttered, “Okay.”
“Over on Chenille Street there’s a house on a corner lot that’s in really good shape. It isn’t up for demolition for about six weeks.”
He looked at her then, his gaze awash in gratitude. “I know the one.”
“If you’d start a preliminary inventory for me, I’d really appreciate it.”
He nodded, light returning to his eyes. “Be glad to, Free.”
She smiled and patted his arm. “Good. And if Phil or anybody like that questions you, you tell them to call me. Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll just get started on that right now,” Sarge said and then shuffled toward the door. He paused before stepping outside. “Oh, I almost forgot.” His weathered face broke into an uncharacteristic but bright smile. “Gilliam’
s mutt had pups last month.”
“Again?” Free matched his smile. Olivia, Mr. Gilliam’s Lab, was Oscar’s mother. That would make the new puppies Oscar’s siblings. “I’ll have to get by to see them.”
Sarge nodded, then disappeared. Free’s smile drooped and she blinked back the sudden tears that burned behind her lids. It was difficult for him to accept her help, but somehow Free always managed to sound as if he had earned it and that made the difference. She exhaled wearily. Why did life have to be so unfair? The image of Mac resurfaced in her mind. Why did some people have it all while others had nothing?
She exhaled heavily, hoping to lift some of the weight from her chest. This wasn’t getting her work done. She decided to start in the kitchen. Putting Sarge out of her mind, she made her way down the hall and took the first door to the right. She shoved the door inward and let it swing shut behind her.
Free deposited her pad and pen on the nearest counter and surveyed the big, dust-laden room. Some of the knobs on the cupboard doors were in excellent condition. She could start there. Free turned to go back for a screwdriver, and pushed against the door—but something stopped it midway. She frowned and shoved harder. A harsh curse froze her in her tracks. She’d know that grunted expletive anywhere.
Mac.
She’d just hit Mac.
Again.
~*~
Mac staggered backwards, holding his nose. His forehead, which fortunately for him had taken the brunt of the blow, throbbed in time with the ache in his nose. He blinked away the stars and tried to focus on the image before him.
Free.
Who else?
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled. “Is that your Harley out there?” He couldn’t picture Free on that macho crotch rocket. He stared at the gypsy before him. Then again, maybe he could.
“I’m…” She started toward him, then stopped and jammed her hands into the pockets of her overalls. Color crept into her face and she quickly swiped the back of one hand across her cheek as if she could erase the darkening blush. She drew in a deep breath and settled her dazzling blue gaze on his. And Mac was definitely dazzled. His body reacted instantly to her presence and the response annoyed the hell out of him.
“I suppose you’re still upset about your papers.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Upset isn’t the word you’re looking for, Ms. Renzetti.” He had worked since three o’clock that morning at the office to duplicate the papers she’d ruined in a matter of seconds. He glowered at her. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing in this house?”
“I’m Liberty Salvage and Restoration.”
Mac frowned. Liberty Salvage and Restoration. He knew that name. The salvage contracts. Damn. She couldn’t be in charge of that company. Chaos was her constant companion; she was a disaster waiting to happen. This woman belonged on the demolition team. “You?”
She nodded. “Me.”
Forgetting his aching head and throbbing nose, Mac stormed down the hall and into the parlor. She followed so quietly he wouldn’t have known she was there except he could sense her. Every nerve ending in his body had gone on alert. He scrutinized the large room. “What do you plan to salvage?” He gave her an impatient look. “This is Friday and demolition begins bright and early Monday morning.”
Free moistened her lips. “A few window sashes, a mantel. The crown molding from this room. Some knobs and…” She drifted into silence when her gaze moved back to his.
Her eyes were huge and liquid. She looked very young in those big overalls and that silly baseball cap. With her hair pulled back, her delicate features were more apparent.
High, exotic cheekbones, long, thick lashes, and a perfect, straight nose. And that mouth. A wide, generous mouth with rose-colored lips. That vivid recollection of how her mouth had felt beneath his sent Mac’s heart racing. Damn. He was already semi-aroused from just looking at her. No other woman had ever aroused him by simply gazing innocently into his eyes. That damned protective feeling welled in him again, suffocating him with its intensity. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. He would not feel this. He would not want this woman.
“I’ll be finished on time. I have an assistant,” she said, challenge rising in her tone. “The Harley belongs to him.”
Mac opened his eyes and resolutely crushed the emotions whirling inside him. This was business—his business. No one came between him and business. No one. “Where’s your assistant now? Why isn’t he helping you get this job done?”
Her chin had a defiant set. “He’s running an errand. He’ll be back any minute. You don’t need to be concerned, Mr. McFerrin. We will be finished before Monday.”
“Good.” Mac pivoted and headed for the door. He absolutely would not hang around and lust after this woman. Nor would he take a chance on getting himself bashed in the head again. Since she lived next door to him and apparently also had the salvage contracts on several of his projects, he might have to see her now and again, but he didn’t have to interact with her. Hell, he hadn’t intended to stop here at all today. But he’d seen that damned Harley and decided to investigate. He had a meeting in—he glanced at his watch—twenty minutes. He’d be late, but they would wait—he was the boss.
“You don’t see any of this, do you?”
The question jerked him to a stop halfway across the room. He whipped around and glared at the annoying female. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This.” She extended her arms outward and turned around slowly in the middle of the big, empty room.
“I’m already late for a meeting, Ms. Renzetti.” He tapped his watch. “What exactly is your question?” He tugged at his tie and wondered why he bothered to ask. If he worked at it, he could convince himself that what she thought meant nothing to him.
“What do you see when you look at these old homes?”
Reaching past his defenses, that searing blue gaze touched him deep inside, tugging at feelings too long neglected. Feelings that he had never allowed to grow. He tensed, steeling himself against the intrusion.
“I don’t understand the question,” he said without conviction. He understood too well, but he didn’t want to answer. She was not going to get to him this time.
She shifted that searching gaze from his and slowly surveyed the room, both awe and respect clear on her face. “This home is our history. It tells us where we’ve been.” She looked directly at him then. “And connects us to the past, to each other, and our future. It shows us who we are.” She stepped closer, a smile playing about her lips. “People lived, loved, and died in this house.”
Mac shoved back the sides of his jacket and planted his hands at his waist. “The point to this lovely story is?”
“Close your eyes, Mac,” she commanded.
He harrumphed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have time for games, lady.”
Free advanced another step closer. “I told you not to call me lady.” She paused. “Now close your eyes.” She tempered her command with a pulse-tripping smile.
He muttered a curse under his breath, but he closed his eyes just the same. He had to be crazy to go along with this woman. She would probably use this moment of weakness to whack him with something. The thought almost made him flinch.
“Without opening your eyes, tell me what you saw in this room,” she instructed.
Free had moved closer—he could feel the heat from her tempting, feminine body. God, how he wanted to touch this woman. He ached to kiss her again. He silently cursed himself for the fool he was.
“Tell me,” she persisted softly.
Mac exhaled in frustration. “Dust, dirt, cobwebs, missing floorboards and broken glass.”
Free sighed. “Keep your eyes closed and look again,” she commanded. “Concentrate. Don’t you see the tiny blue flowers in the wallpaper? The indigo Duncan Phyfe sofa that may have once stood in the middle of the room? The hand-carved crown molding? What about the children sitting o
n the Persian rug reading stories? Can’t you hear them laughing?”
Mac snapped his eyes open. “Yeah, I hear them laughing…at me, for playing along with this game.”
Free jerked off her cap and tucked it into one deep pocket. That mane of glorious hair fell around her slender shoulders. “You’re hopeless,” she said. “You don’t connect with the past at all. Don’t you feel anything?” She glared at him, her eyes glowing a brilliant blue with anger now.
“All right, then, if you’re so in tune with” Mac flung his arms outward in exasperation “whatever, you close your eyes and tell me what you see.”
Free clasped her hands behind her back and lifted that defiant chin. “All right.” She closed her eyes, those unbelievably long lashes dark against her porcelain cheeks. Damn, he’d made a big mistake. Mac didn’t care what she saw, he only cared about what he could see. One wide strap had fallen over her shoulder, revealing more creamy skin. This time instead of a T-shirt, she wore a neon pink Lycra tube like top beneath her baggy overalls. The taut material hugged her breast, revealing delicious contours. Mac’s throat constricted and his breath came in half measures, too shallow and too fast.
“I see warmth. I see…home.”
She smiled, the image soft and sweet, and more tempting than anything he’d ever laid eyes on. Fire and fragility, that’s what she was. His lower anatomy tightened and grew heavier.
“I see a place where the walls have absorbed several lifetimes of love and laughter.” Her breasts rose and fell with each breath she took. “I see a crackling fire in the fireplace and a man and a woman making long, slow love on a wool rug in the leaping shadows of the flames. I see people who’ve spent their lives in this home, conceiving and bearing children, sharing hopes and dreams. Holding dear their past and cradling the future in their arms.”
Mac couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes off her beautiful face. The sensation of arousal her words conjured inside him ripped the breath right out of his lungs. He had never truly wanted a woman this much in entire life, but in the farthest reaches of his soul he wanted Free. He wanted to touch her the way she touched him. To lose himself inside her and forget everything else, the commitments, the stress and pressure, for just a little while.