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The
furniture, the rugs on the floor and the bric-a-brac adorning the
cabinet tops and wall. “Didn’t they take anything at all?” she
asked, her voice barely a whisper. She had known the furniture had
stayed. But every last thing?
    “What?”
    Free shook her head. She set the cup down at
the counter and all but ran from the room. Hardly believing her
eyes, her gaze traveled over the long hall. She stuck her head
briefly into the dining room, then moved on to the parlor.
Everything was just as it had been the day Mrs. Lassiter died. She
paused at the door to the parlor and stared at the fireplace on the
other side of the large room. Everything except the lovely old
portrait above the mantel. She padded across the thick carpet that
graced the shiny floor and stared up at the unfaded square of
wallpaper where the painting had been. Had they taken only the
painting?
     
    ~*~
     
    Mac stood in the doorway and watched Free
Renzetti wander around the cluttered parlor. He had never seen so
many knickknacks. The house was chock full of trinkets. Obviously
the former owner had been sentimentally attached to everything she
had every purchased in her entire life.
    “I can’t believe this.” Free shook her head
and wandered across the room. “Didn’t they want any of her stuff?
Didn’t they care that these things were near and dear to her
heart?”
    Mac drew in a deep breath and walked slowly
to where Free had stopped by an occasional table near the front
window. She seemed more than a little upset and he didn’t really
know what to say. “I only know that when John bought the place, all
this” he swept his arms outward in an expansive manner “was
included.”
    Free lifted one delicate shoulder in a
semblance of a shrug. “At least they took her picture.” She gazed
again at the bare wall above the mantel. “She was eighteen in the
portrait. And very beautiful.” Free smiled as if recalling some
pleasant memory. “Loretta Lassiter in Paris.” She turned to Mac,
her eyes wide with excitement. “She grew up in Europe, you know.
Her father was a political attaché or something like that. She used
to tell me stories about the parties and the traveling.”
    “You’ve never been to Europe?” he asked,
knowing the answer already. Her childlike awe gave her away.
    Free shook her head slowly. She picked up a
snow globe and turned it upside down, then watched the glitter fall
around the Parisian scene depicted beneath the glass and water.
“Someday I’m going to Paris, though Mrs. Lassiter told me so many
stories about the place I feel as if I’ve been there already.”
    “It’s not that big a deal.”
    Her eyes were shimmering blue pools, wide
with amazement. “You’ve been there?”
    Mac felt suddenly all-knowing and powerful
because of the admiration and awe now directed at him, not to
mention excited as hell. “Several times,” he said nonchalantly.
    Free plopped the snow globe back on the
table. “Well, tell me! Tell me everything!”
    Mac opened his mouth to speak but the shrill
sound of the whistling kettle cut him off. “Just a minute,” she
blurted, then dashed toward the sound.
    Mac picked up the snow globe and walked
unhurriedly back into the kitchen. What was it about this flighty
woman that made him want to throw her across the nearest piece of
upholstered furniture and have his way with her? He sighed
mightily. She just turned him on—physically, anyway. On a mental
level, Mac knew that she was the total opposite of what he liked in
a woman. Maybe that was the attraction.
    Maybe he’d burned out his last brain cell, or
maybe he had let John’s well-meant warning about being alone the
rest of his life get to him. Whatever the case, getting involved
with Free Renzetti bordered on insanity. Just knowing her for this
short while had gotten him thrown in jail, and his body sported
more bruises than when he’d played high school football.
    No way was he getting mixed up with a
fruitcake like her, no