Free Freedom's Price by Suzanne Brockmann Page A

the very first in his condo association to have his own personal landscaper—without owning even a single handful of dirt to landscape.
    “When’s the baby due?”
    Marisala spoke up. “They’re not exactly sure. I’d guess it’s a matter of only a week or two.”
    Liam took a sip of his coffee, nodding again.
    She was watching him, a small smile playing about the corners of her mouth. She knew damn well that he wasn’t going to toss these people back onto the street a week or two before their baby was due to be born. “I thought…well, you have so many extra empty rooms here….”
    He gazed back at her over the top of his coffee mug. “And you’ve already shown the Perezes to theirs, I assume?”
    She laughed. But she had. He could see it in her eyes. “You’re right. I did. So, can they stay? Or are you going to make me beg?”
    Last night in his dreams he’d made her beg. Liam held her gaze much longer than he should have, giving himself a few short seconds to lose himself in the midnight swirl of her eyes. “No,” he said quietly. “I won’t make you beg.” He sat down at the table, across from Hector. “Mr. Perez, I’m afraid I don’t need a landscaper at this moment, but I
do
need a cook’s assistant. It seems
my
cook is going to have a baby within the next few weeks, and I’d like her to stay off her feet. So, tell me honestly, how’s
your
cooking?”

FIVE
    “Y OU DON’T HAVE to come with me,” Marisala said.
    Liam snorted. “Are you kidding? If I let you go by yourself, God only knows how many more people you’ll bring with you when you come home.”
    “Very funny.”
    “I’m not kidding,” he said, but he was smiling.
    Marisala tried to keep her heart from flipping. Tried and failed. Liam Bartlett’s smile had always made her heart do somersaults.
    If she hadn’t known about his writing troubles, about his problems sleeping, and about his near-crippling claustrophobia, she never would have guessed he was dealing with such pressure.
    He looked incredible.
    He was wearing shorts and an expensive-looking muted pink polo shirt. His legs were tan and strong, and covered with crisp, gleaming blond hair. The scar he had near his left knee was noticeable, but well faded. It could well have been the result of a sports injury or a car accident—not the handiwork of an M60 submachine gun. With his tousled golden hair and the sunglasses he’d already put on, he looked utterly American—well rested, well fed, wealthy, and carefree.
    She alone knew of the deep scars that surely still marked his broad, muscular back, souvenirs of the beatings he’d endured at the hands of officials in San Salustiano’s so-called democratic government.
    As they reached the bottom of the stairs Liam held the door open for her. He was wearing a hint of a familiar tangy cologne. He smelled clean and deliciously fresh.
    In turn, Marisala held open the door that led to the sidewalk. It was humid and still outside, the heat from the hazy sun reflecting and magnified by the city streets. “I meant to tell you—a call came in for you while you were in the shower. Your machine picked up, and I couldn’t help but overhear. It was a woman. Someone named Lauren?”
    She tried to sound casual. Nonchalant. And certainly not as if she were digging for information.
    “Hi, Lee,” the woman had said as she’d left her message in a breathless, husky, much-too-sexy voice. “It’s me, Lauren. We need to talk. Call me at home tonight. Or better yet, stop by my place at around nine? See you then.”
    “Thanks,” Liam said, telling Marisala nothing.
    Marisala had to know. “Is she your girlfriend?”
    Liam glanced at her, his eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. “She’s a friend,” he said. “A lady friend.”
    “Are you sleeping with her?”
    “There,” he said, stopping her right in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’ve just given me a perfect example of going too far. That was a question
not
to ask. Whether