Free Falling (14 page)

He snapped his eyes open and glared at Free.
“I don’t like this game,” he growled.

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Mac.” Free passed a
hand over his face, the feel of his skin making her fingertips
tingle. “Close your eyes.”

With a mighty sigh, he complied.

“Now, picture yourself with the family.” She
watched his expression slowly relax. “Good,” she encouraged. “Now,
tell me what you see.”

His lips slid into a smile. “Hair,” he
murmured, then opened his eyes, reached out and wrapped a long
strand of Free’s around his fingers. “Your hair is amazing.”

Free bit down on her lower lip to stop its
trembling. “I’m glad you like it, but” she moistened her lips again
and shivered when his fingers stroked her hair “you’re changing the
subject.”

His lips parted but he didn’t speak. Instead,
he leaned forward and tasted her mouth, then murmured, “Am I?” His
mouth took hers completely as his fingers threaded more deeply into
her hair.

He kissed her slowly, thoroughly. And Free
wanted nothing more than for this one kiss to go on forever. Her
heart butted wildly against her ribs as if trying to escape its
confines. Her mind screamed out to her for her to put a stop to the
kiss, but her body refused to respond.

Cradling her head with both hands, Mac pulled
her up and against him. From knees to chests their bodies molded
together, soft valleys and mounds to hard ridges and lean planes.
Her arms twined around his neck and a deep sigh of satisfaction
echoed inside her. He responded with his own groan of need. His
hand slid down her back to support her at the same time he began to
lean her down onto the blanket. The picnic basket halted their
downward descent. With one wide sweep of his left arm, Mac cleared
the way.

Desire sang through her veins. Liquid fire
surged downward to pool at her center. Reacting on pure instinct,
Free arched against the muscled thigh resting between hers. Mac
lost control then. His kiss grew frenzied, his tongue thrust deeply
into her mouth. Harder and harder he kissed her, while rhythmically
grinding his hips into hers.

Mac squeezed her breast and then flicked her
nipple with his thumb. Free cried out when his hot, hungry mouth
started in that direction, leaving a trail of kiss-dampened
skin.

“No,” Free moaned on a ragged breath. She
drew his face up so she could look into his eyes. “If you do that
I’ll loose my mind.” Her nipples strained for his attention,
rasping against the cotton of her blouse. She searched his eyes,
trying to see beyond the haze of passion to the man beneath. “I
still don’t have any protection,” she managed between gasping
breaths. “We have to stop. It would be a mistake.”

The fire blazed in his eyes and his firm grip
on her body tightened. Mac shook his head, his breath as ragged as
hers. “No way,” he growled. “I want you too much.”

Anticipation thrilled through her at the
sound of raw need on his voice. Mac bent his head and Free’s greedy
mouth rushed to meet his. His tongue thrust inside. He kneed her
thighs further apart and pressed his hard erection against her.
Even the clothing they still wore couldn’t disguise the heat and
need emanating from both their bodies.

His mouth started that downward trek once
more. This time she squeezed her eyes shut and threw her head back,
giving him complete access. She arched her shoulders and back, her
breasts straining towards his touch. At last his steamy tongue
slipped beneath the fabric of her blouse, sweeping over the rise of
her breast. Free speared her fingers into his hair and guided him
lower.

When his mouth latched onto her nipple, she
moaned her approval. Mac’s hands became frantic, his mouth
demanding. And then, suddenly, he stilled.

Panting for oxygen to feed her burning lungs,
Free whimpered a week protest when his mouth left her breast. She
forced her eyes open to find Mac staring over his right shoulder.
Her gaze moved beyond his dark, tousled hair and upward to find
what had captured his attention at such a pivotal moment.

Free’s heart thudded to a near standstill
when her gaze traced the long, black barrel of the shotgun nuzzled
against her would-be lover’s back. A shriek that came out sounding
like a wounded, high-pitched hiccup escaped her lips.

“Git up, boy,” a rusty voice bellowed.

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.