by Debra Webb
Not taking his eyes off the man who’d spoken and despite their dishevelment, Mac sprang to his feet with incredible speed and agility.
Free quickly righted her clothes and struggled to her feet behind Mac. His earlier question came to mind. Are you sure it’s okay to be here? She’d been here hundreds of times before.
“Mr. Gilliam?” Free peeked around Mac to see the man holding a bead on Mac’s chest.
“Do you know this man?” Mac muttered from the side of his mouth, giving her a look that spoke of extreme uneasiness. Of course, staring at the business end of a shotgun tended to do that to a man.
Free looked from hands-held-high-in-the-air Mac to poor-old-I-was-once-a-moonshiner Mr. Gilliam. She almost grinned when she considered that this must look very much like a scene from a bad slasher movie to Mac.
“Yes,” she muttered to Mac and then stepped around him.
“Mr. Gilliam, its’ me, Free Renzetti,” she said softly, urging him to recognize her.
“Do I know you?” The old man squinted at Free.
“Where are your glasses?”
“I don’t need them blasted spectacles!” he roared. “I can see just fine.”
“Please, Mr. Gilliam,” Free entreated. “I know you usually carry them in the bib of your overalls. Put them on for just a second, okay?”
He growled and muttered the whole time, but eventually he dug the glasses from his bib pocket and perched them at an odd angle on his nose. He glared at Free from behind the thick lenses, then recognition flared in his watery gray eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned!” Mr. Gilliam lowered his weapon and clamped a surprisingly strong arm around Free’s shoulders. “Where you been keeping yourself, Miss Free?”
She heard Mac’s relieved exhale. “I’ve been too busy for much fishing this year, but I thought I’d come out today and bring a friend of mine,” She turned toward Mac. “Mac McFerrin, meet Jarvis Gilliam.”
Mac extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he said in that deep baritone that Free liked so much.
Mr. Gilliam eyed Mac warily, but manners overrode his caution enough for him to accept the offered hand. “Healthy-lookin’ fella, Free, but he could do with a haircut.”
Free almost jumped out of her skin when Oscar stuck his cold nose into her hand. She smiled down at her dog. “Hey, boy, it’s about time you showed up.” When she stopped to rub his ears, Oscar presented her with a lavish doggie kiss. “You know,” she turned back to Mr. Gilliam as a brilliant idea struck her “there’s something else Mac could do with as well.”
~*~
Mac glared at the yellow puddle he had just stepped in. He recited every swear word he knew as he stormed across the kitchen his right foot held at an awkward angle so he could walk on his heel. He snatched a wad of paper towels from the roll. A tiny whimpering groan told him that the menace who’d left the puddle had waddled under the kitchen table. As soon as he had cleared the mess, Mac got down on all fours to retrieve Oliver from beneath the table.
Oliver. What kind of name was that for a dog? But Free had insisted.
Wide, frightened black eyes peered at Mac. He sighed with disgust as he reached for the puppy. He couldn’t believe Free had done this to him. Apparently she had been aware that Mr. Gilliam had puppies to give away and decided it was time for Mac to have a pet.
The nerve of the woman.
And to think that he had let her do it.
He’d been so dumbstruck he couldn’t even rally a protest. So, he had ridden home in that dilapidated old truck of hers with the little beast shivering in his lap. Of course, Free had insisted on stopping by a pet store for dog chow, food bowls, and other pet paraphernalia.
He had to be insane to have let the woman railroad him into accepting the pup. Well, Mac amended, he hadn’t actually accepted it. He had merely stood there like a mute idiot while the little gypsy had her way. He didn’t have time for a pet. Hell, he didn’t even know if pets were allowed in his Atlanta townhouse.
Mac pulled the grunting, groaning baby black Lab from under the table and tried to decide what the hell to do with him. The roly-poly little beast seemed more bear than Lab.
He glared at the animal and said in his sternest voice, “All right, it’s bedtime now so don’t give me any grief.” Determined to prevent any more “accidents”, Mac carried Oliver to the box Free had given him. He settled the puppy onto the old towel she had provided for a dog bed. “It’s late and I need to sleep,” he said in a warning voice. “I’ve had two dozen calls since I walked through that door this afternoon.”
He kicked himself mentally for missing work today. If he had been at work as he should have been, Oliver would never have happened. Disgusted and exhausted, he flipped the kitchen light off and headed for the stairs.
Thirty minutes later Mac knew that he was never going to get any sleep tonight. The puppy scratched and whined, whined and scratched. He had tried covering his head with his pillow. He had even gotten up and closed the door, but nothing helped. He could still hear the critter howling.
How could one small animal make that much noise?
Cursing, he kicked off the sheet and got out of bed. He straightened his twisted boxers. No point in putting off the inevitable. He would never get to sleep if he didn’t do something.
He stamped down the stairs and strode into the kitchen. He flipped on the light and glared into the box. “What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t you know when to sleep?” Big sad eyes gazed up at him. Mac blew out a breath and did the only thing he could think of—he picked up the box and carried it to his room.
He set the box next to the bed and fell back into the tangled sheets. Sleep…he had to sleep.
Another thirty minutes passed and he knew this was going to be a night he wouldn’t soon forget. The lonely puppy continued to scratch and whimper. Nothing Mac said or did made a difference.
Thoroughly ticked off now, he snatched the phone from the bedside table and punched in Free’s number. After three rings, her sleepy voice came across the line. For two beats he couldn’t speak. The picture of how she probably looked at the moment, tousled and flushed with sleep, seared into his brain. The memory of seeing her in that too-vivid mental picture as his wife, holding his child, more than confused him—it scared the hell out of him. It still stunned him that his subconscious would give the role of future mate to a gypsy who had done nothing but turn his life up-side-down from the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
“Hello,” she repeated.
“Free, this is Mac,” he growled. A lack of sleep and annoyance at his own body’s reaction to the sound of her voice irritated him beyond reason.
“Mac? Is something wrong?”
“This damned dog won’t stop scratching and whining,” he bellowed. The puppy yelped louder at the sound of Mac’s frustration. Impatience pounded in his temples. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” He flung the covers back and sat up on the edge of the bed. “You can come and get him, right now!”
“Put him in the bed with you. He’ll be fine.”
“What?” Mac roared.
Free stifled a yawn. “He wants to be next to a warm body. Put him in the bed with you and he’ll settle down.”
“Is that your best advice?”
“Trust me, it’ll work. Good night, Mac.”
She hung up.
Mac glared at the handset before slamming it into the cradle. He fell back against his pillows and stared at the dark ceiling.
Oliver scratched and howled.
Mac rolled to the other side of the bed and reached into the box. “All right,” he groused. “You win this time, but don’t expect this special treatment again.” What was he thinking? There wouldn’t be a next time. He would make Free take the puppy back to old Mr. Gilliam first thing in the morning.
Mac scooted back to his side of the bed and closed his eyes. He would sleep. He threw one arm over his head. Somehow, he would sleep.
He flinched when a cold nose pressed against his ribs, but
Mac refused to open his eyes. He would sleep if it killed him. Oliver waddled on shaky legs for a while, but eventually burrowed against Mac’s side and went to sleep.
Mac’s last conscious thought was of regaining control over his life and getting Free Renzetti out of it.
Chapter Seven
The morning status conference droned on and on, well past morning and into lunch. Mac alternately zoned out and dozed off. He hadn’t gotten more than two hours of sleep last night, and even that had been accomplished in snatches more accurately measured in minutes and seconds than hours.
Oliver, the little beast, had cuddled and snuggled, groaned and grunted, rooted and burrowed until Mac was ready to howl himself. He almost always slept alone. He rarely took a woman home with him, preferring to go to her place. It was much easier to make an excuse not to stay the night than to try and explain why he didn’t want an overnight guest.
The memory of touching Free, tasting Free, suddenly exploded inside his head. His body reacted instantly.
The woman was everything he would never in a million years choose for a life mate. She lacked any semblance of the glamour and sophistication that usually caught his eye. She wasn’t career-minded or goal-oriented. She seemed happy just to be. And on some baser level that had absolutely nothing to do with reason, Mac found Free Renzetti immensely appealing. So damned appealing that he was at a loss to describe the full impact of the attraction.
He wanted her as he had never wanted anything or anyone else in his life. The need to have her bordered on obsession.
How could he want her so badly?
Mac scrubbed at the frown lines that seemed to have permanently etched into his forehead since arriving in Huntsville. Free Renzetti had done nothing but drive him crazy from the very first day they’d met. And even then, he had wanted her.
His groin tightened and his breathing slowed as images and sensations replayed in his mind. Free’s soft, warm lips against his. Her body molding to his in all the right place and—
“Mr. McFerrin, there’s a call for you on line one,” Paula, his secretary announced.
Mac jerked to attention. A groan almost escaped him before he swallowed it back. “I’m sorry, Paula, what did you say?” Apparently the conference was over. The knot of employees that had been seated around the conference table only moments ago were filtering out the door.
“A call, line one,” Paula repeated.
Mac nodded and picked up the receiver. “McFerrin,” he said automatically.
“Mac, this is Roy Nelson.”
Nelson, Roy, site supervisor. Mac sorted the information and visualized a face to go with the name. “Yes, Roy, what can I do for you this morning?”
“I just stopped by the Chenille Street house for a final look-see before demolition on Monday.” He paused. Mac didn’t like the way his gut clenched during the short silence before Roy continued.
“The house hasn’t been touched. If the salvage company plans to take anything, I’m surprised they haven’t started already. Should I give the owner a call to make sure there’s been no misunderstanding?”
Concern followed immediately by irritation burned through Mac. If Free thought falling behind on her schedule would delay his, she was wrong. Anger flared when he considered that she, too, should have been on the job instead of spending the day frolicking in the woods yesterday.
Same goes for you, McFerrin, an inner voice chastised.
“No, Roy. Thanks but I’ll handle it personally.”
Mac slammed the phone down and rounded his desk. He grabbed his jacket and strode out of his office. “Paula, call Free Renzetti and have her meet me at the Chenille Street site,” he ordered on his way across the outer office.
“Shall I ask if she’s available before you leave, Mr. McFerrin?” Paula asked, already dialing the number she’d located in the Rolodex.
Mac stopped and turned back to her before walking out the door. “No,” he said brusquely. “I’m not asking.”
Mac ignored Paula’s startled gaze and stalked away. Free might send his hormones into orbit, but this was business.
And absolutely no one came between Connor McFerrin and business.
~*~
Free spread the quilt before the old fireplace. She sighed as her gaze lingered on the cold hearth. It had been a very long time since a fire had burned there. Such a shame, such a waste. Free shook her head. If Alex’s idea didn’t work and they couldn’t convince Mac’s investors to reconsider, this lovely old place would be a goner in a mere four days.
She glanced around the large parlor, admiring the detailed molding and wainscoting. She was taking a risk by not salvaging the numerous things the house had to offer, but it was a risk Free felt compelled to take.
Her thoughts turned to Mac as she stationed the picnic basket on one corner of the old wedding ring quilt. He had twice accused her of being psychic, and yesterday was one time she had wished it were true. For one fleeting instant when Mac had twined his fingers in her hair, Free had felt a connection with him. An almost tangible link that somehow had something to do with how he pictured his future.
Free shuddered with the longing that blossomed inside her each time she allowed the memory of Mac’s kisses to replay inside her head. Never before had she been hit with such a case of lust.
Why him? Why now?
She sighed again, which she seemed to be doing a lot of lately, and smoothed a hand over her yellow cotton dress. She had planned to show up at Mac’s office at noon, picnic basket in hand, but his secretary had called and said that Free should meet him here.
She surveyed the deteriorating parlor again and wondered why. The bright July sun filtered in through the dirty panes of antique glass, and dust motes shimmered in the golden shafts of light. She fought back her uncertainty. Mac hadn’t known she intended to go by his office today, so it couldn’t be lunch on his mind. The only other possibility made her even more uneasy than Alex’s skirting-the-edge-of-legality plan.
What if Mac wanted to take up where they’d been forced to leave off yesterday—before Mr. Gilliam’s interruption?
What if he didn’t? What if Mac suspected she was up to something?
Free shivered. Which would be the lesser of two evils? Would she be able to look him in the eye and lie about what she wanted or how she felt? She shoved her hair behind her ears and passed a hand over her face. Mac had come to mean entirely too much to her. She closed her eyes and scolded herself mentally for allowing it to happen. But he needed so much. More than even he knew.
Free shook her head at the irony. By his own admission, the man had always gotten whatever he wanted, but Free could see past all that. Mac had never been offered the simple pleasures of life, or even his father’s love in the true sense of the word. Sure, his father had provided well for him, but Mac had never felt loved, that was clear. He didn’t know how to let anyone or anything close.
He wanted, needed, and took at will. But he never, ever gave of himself on an intimate level beyond the physical. Mac McFerrin kept himself separate, apart. Free would bet everything she owned that the man had never been in love—and she’d win. She knew it as well as she knew the sun would rise in the east come morning.
Free stood, brushed the dust from her hands against her thighs, then padded across the wood floor and through the swinging door that led to the dining room. The ability to love—to give—came from the heart. It had to be learned by personal experience. A person learned by example or discovered by experience, but either way, it was an individual accomplishment. You couldn’t lead a person to it. Everyone had to find his or her own way somehow.
Free had learned from Thomas Styles, who had been a father to her, though briefly, in every sense of the word. He had shown her how precious life really was, and from him she had discovered the absolute wonder of each day. Every day should be special, whether good things or not-so-good things happened.
She peered through the dining room window at the overgrown drive
way. She smiled when her eyes lit on Mac’s Explorer. He was here. Why that should give her such pleasure still baffled her. She turned and flew across the room. She shoved at the swinging door only to be brought up short when it bounced back hard against her palms.
A colorful phrase, not meant for delicate ears, hissed through obviously clenched teeth on the other side of the door. Free bit down on her lower lip and eased the door forward more slowly. She edged around it and into the parlor to find Mac guarding his face with his hands.
Free started to apologize but Mac’s glare cut her off. She snapped her mouth shut and dampened her dry lips with a quick swipe of the tip of her tongue. His gaze followed the movement, but quickly shot back to her eyes. It took every ounce of bravado she could muster to stand up to that deadly glare. The man was truly furious.
His hands dropped to his sides and fisted there. He drew in a long, deep breath, his nostrils flaring with the effort. “I don’t know what it is you think you’re doing, Free, but I warn you, I don’t tolerate game playing when it comes to business.” His voice was low and tight, laced with the anger blazing in those blue eyes.
“This house falls on Monday. This”—he leaned toward her, giving more import to his words—“is Thursday. I don’t see any signs of you and your assistant having salvaged anything from this house.” He scanned the room in one long motion. “Unless Liberty Salvage and Restoration is much more solvent than it seems, I don’t understand why you would buy the salvage rights to a house and then neglect the job.”
Free sucked in a deep breath, hoping it would bolster her waning courage. Mac couldn’t possibly know or understand what she was up to, but he instinctively knew something wasn’t as it should be. Work was what he did, and he did it well. He was smart and Free knew it. What cold she say to him that wouldn’t be a flat-out lie? One that he wouldn’t see through at that?
She met his expectant gaze and dodged the question with a half-truth. “Sometimes I just don’t see the point.” She laced her fingers behind her back and forced a smile. “How’s Oliver?”
