Free Falling by Debra Webb Read Free Book Online

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