Free Falling (4 page)

“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 motioned 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.”