Free Just Like a Man by Elizabeth Bevarly Page A

quarters.
    From one room to the next, Michael received the same impression. There was nothing in the place that evoked a sense of who Hannah Frost really was. There were no photo-graphs of family members, no collections, no memorabilia. Nothing that might offer any insight into where she had come from, what she liked to do, or who she might be under the starched, pressed suits.
    It was one thing, Michael thought, to keep yourself hidden from the outside world. But it was something else entirely to hide yourself in your own home.
    He returned to her bedroom, the one room he would have expected to find something that offered at least a clue as to who she might really be. But her dresser contained only a mirror and a brush, a bouquet of fresh flowers, a small porcelain tray onto which she had placed a couple of stray earrings, and a bottle of perfume. A writing desk tucked into the corner of the room held only a calendar, a clock, a cup of pencils and pens, a scratch pad, and a small, orderly stack of as-yet-to-be-paid bills. All things functional. No things personal. Even the bottle of perfume didn't appear to have been used, because it was full. And although Hannah, he had noticed, smelled very, very nice, he was reasonably sure the scent didn't come from a perfume bottle.
    Before he realized what he meant to do, Michael moved to the dresser and lifted a hand to one of the drawer pulls. He stopped himself before opening the drawer, reminding himself that his job did not include snooping into Hannah's private things. But he couldn't quite force himself to drop his hand. His heart, he was amazed to discover, was thundering in his chest. Never, not even once, had he become edgy while on assignment. Even in matters of life and death, he had always been able to remain cool. So it wasn't the fear of getting caught that made his heart race the way it did. It was the simple prospect of learning something about Hannah that he had no right—or permission—to learn.
    In for a penny,
he told himself,
in for a pound.
And he tugged gently on the metal drawer pull.
    Before the drawer was even open, he was assailed by a soft, sweet scent, and he immediately identified it as the one he associated with Hannah. He discovered the reason for that soon enough, because the drawer he had opened, as luck would have it—or maybe it was just a sixth sense he had about these things… or, at least, about Hannah—was her lingerie drawer. And sitting atop the collection of garments was a silky, tasseled sachet in the shape of a tiny boudoir pillow, the color and, he presumed, fragrance of lavender.
    Finally, he was learning something more about Hannah, something deeply personal and very interesting: She liked beautiful underthings. Because beneath that sachet lay an assortment of filmy, delicate confectionery—bras and slips and panties fashioned of the merest lace and the softest silk, in the gentlest palette of colors Michael had ever seen, each decorated with tiny pearls or miniature bows or little satin roses. It was quite a contrast to the severe suits in which he'd seen her attired so far. And, somehow, knowing that this was the sort of thing she wore underneath them made Michael itch to learn more.
    Impulsively—because, honestly, he had no idea what possessed him to do it—he filched a pair of peach-colored panties from the silky melange and tucked them into the pocket of his coveralls. Then he replaced the lavender sachet exactly as he had found it and eased the drawer closed again.
    And then he had to lean against the dresser for a minute, holding on to its edge as if it were his only link to reality, because his heart was pounding so hard it was dizzying him and making him see spots.
    Good God, what was wrong with him? he wondered. He'd never gotten sick on an assignment before. And hell, he'd done things infinitely more dangerous than bugging the home of a school director. Hell, he'd even done things more dangerous than stealing a woman's