Free When Somebody Loves You by Cindy Gerard

death row, she went to answer the door.

    Michael had reached a decision midweek. The lady didn’t know it yet, he thought as he waited for her to answer the door, but she needed him. He could see it in her eyes every time she let herself look at him, could see a raw, aching loneliness. A hunger. Not just a physical hunger, but the soul-deep, heart-knotting hunger a good woman feels for a good man. He wanted to be that man. He wanted to feed that hunger. But if he scared her off before she understood how good he was for her, she’d bolt again, and he’d have no one to blame but himself. And they’d both be losers.
    So his word for the day was “cool.” He’d been cool when his contact from Denver had called to tell him he still hadn’t had any luck tracking down a history on January Stewart. He’d been cool when he’d come home from a quick trip to the dry cleaners to find that George had eaten his favorite racquetball racket. And he was going to be cool tonight and keep his hands to himself if he had to kick himself in the shins to do it.
    But when January opened her door and gave him that long, slow blink that was sexier than any blatant come-on he’d ever fielded, cool flew out the window and he damn near went up in flames.
    “Hi,” she said, her husky voice revealing her nervousness.
    “Hi, yourself,” he managed to say, and, regaining a small measure of his presence of mind, added a hoarse, “You look sensational.”
    What she looked was absolutely edible! She’d whipped her hair into a soft, sassy froth of curls that showcased her delicate features, emphasizing her aristocratic cheekbones and her pert little nose. Her eyes seemed as black as the dress she was wearing, a dress that was designed, he was sure, to make a man fantasize about the feel of the soft, full breasts beneath it, and the endless, endless length of legs disappearing above the hem of the skirt.
    She smiled self-consciously and stepped back from the door. “Please, come in.”
    Slipping inside and closing the door behind him, Michael extended a package. “A peace offering from George,” he said. Chucking his edict to keep his hands to himself, he tugged her slowly but forcefully toward him. “And this,” he whispered, lowering his head, “is from me.”
    The eyes that looked questioningly into his were startled but not afraid. Promising himself he’d do nothing to reignite her fear, he touched his mouth to hers with a featherlight pressure. When she didn’t resist, when in fact she hesitantly slipped her arms around his waist, he felt something akin to an explosion rumble through his chest. The aftershocks spread at the speed of light to every extremity of his body. With a groan, he pulled her tighter against him and deepened the kiss.
    Her lips softened, then parted beneath his, with an arresting innocence. He felt a sensual urgency in the way she cautiously accepted the first touch of his tongue, the first deep stroke.
    Shaken by the intensity of his physical reactions and by the speed with which she’d aroused him, he lifted his head and set her a step away before he lost complete control.
    Clearing his throat, he gazed into her slightly dazed eyes and spoke with a lightness he was far from feeling.
    “George’s feelings will be hurt if you don’t open that.”
    For a moment she looked confused, then she remembered the package in her hand. “Oh . . . oh, Michael, really, this isn’t necessary.”
    He held out his hands, palms up. “I told him that, but he insisted. Go ahead. Open it.”
    With a wary but pleased little smile, she carefully unwrapped the package. A swift and strong flash of insight told him she wasn’t used to receiving presents. He was still analyzing that impression and deciding how he was going to rectify it when she pulled out the pale pink sweatshirt. She sliced him a puzzled look before studying the logo on the front of the shirt. A huge, comically daffy dog grinned back at her. The dog, bearing