Mcqueen's Heat
But as he’d lifted Petra into his arms only moments later, he’d known that the most deadly question hadn’t been answered at all.
“You’re going to find out who killed my mom, aren’t you, Stone?” In the shadows her eyes had been wide with anguish and fixed stubbornly on his. “You’ll put him in jail, right?”
He hadn’t answered her right away. He hadn’t known what to say, since the truth was too brutal. Gee, Tiger, your mom started it herself. She was smoking in bed, see, and the cigarette just rolled from her fingers when she fell asleep. Maybe one day the kid would find out, but he wasn’t going to be the one to—
Except the cigarette hadn’t rolled from her fingers. It had burned right down to her hand. The pain would have woken her immediately.
But by then she was already dead, McQueen. In fact, I’d lay odds she was dead before that damned cigarette was lit. The voice in his head had been coldly professional. His voice when he’d answered the child staring so trustingly up at him had been hoarse with sudden anger, but she’d seemed to know his anger wasn’t directed at her.
“Yeah, Tiger, we’re gonna find the person who killed your mom.” Striding toward the open door, he’d tightened his hold on her. “We’re gonna find him and put him away. That’s a promise.”
Only then had he felt the stiff little body in his arms suddenly go limp, as if upon his words she’d finally been able to hand over a burden too heavy for her to bear…
He’d gotten her out safely, as he’d vowed he would, Stone thought now. He’d told Boyleston what he’d seen before the fire had roared through the room, obliterating the telltale signals that made it arson, not an accident. With that information, the investigative team’s initial hasty evaluation would have to be reversed. He’d passed on the burden to the people who were paid to shoulder it.
So he could just walk away. He’d gotten good at walking away from things these past few years.
But this time he wasn’t going to be able to. Petra had asked for him. He’d made her a promise. And whether Tamara knew it or not, she was a part of it.
“She told you her name was Petra?” Tamara’s voice was barely audible. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said steadily, taking in the rigidity of her posture, the bleakness in those blue eyes now holding his gaze. “Does it make a difference?”
“Claudia’s father died when she was a baby so she never knew him, but she used to say she would name her own child after him when she became a mother,” she rasped. “Peter if she had a son. Petra if her child was a daughter.”
“Then that clinches—” he began, but she cut him off, her voice still low.
“Let me tell you a story, McQueen. It’s about two little girls who’d both lost family and who were both lonely. Except then they met each other, and it was like getting a part of their families back again.”
She smiled crookedly at him. “When they were ten years old, one of them snuck an embroidery needle out of her mom’s sewing box and they gathered up enough nerve to prick their palms with it. It was something they’d read about.” She shrugged. “They clasped their hands together and took a blood oath, promising to be sisters until death. Dumb, huh?”
She was a world away from the tough, helmeted figure who’d bulldozed him out of that room today, Stone thought, watching her. Who was the real Tamara King—the firefighter who put her life on the line everyday without thinking twice about it, or the woman standing only inches away from him, her eyes haunted, her whole body so tense that it seemed as if she was in danger of breaking apart right in front of his eyes?
Maybe she was both. She went on, her tone devoid of emotion.
“Even after we grew up, I knew that no matter what else happened in our lives we would always be able to count on each other. I was wrong. She betrayed me with the man I loved, and I never saw or heard from either of them again.”
Her voice was a fraying thread. “So tell me, McQueen—if she was dying, if she was out of her mind with worry for the child she was going to be leaving behind—why would she come back to me?”
She shook her head decisively. “She wouldn’t. Don’t you see? It wasn’t Claudia. Claudia didn’t come to Boston looking for my help. She didn’t die in that rooming house today, worried and frightened and hoping for my forgiveness.”
Her eyes, blue and glittering, were fixed on his. Stone took a step toward her, feeling all at once too big and too clumsy. “I wish I could tell you different, but I can’t.”
Awkwardly he reached out for her, but even as his hands clasped her shoulders she stiffened and struck them away.
“You have to tell me different!” The harsh whisper seemed torn from her throat. “No matter what happened between us, I don’t think I could bear it if I thought that was how it ended for her!”
“She died in her sleep, overcome by the smoke. She would have died hoping the bond between the two of you still held. She would have been right,” he added huskily.
This time when his hands went to her shoulders she did nothing. The brilliance overlaying her gaze wavered and became a shimmer, but he knew with sudden certainty that she wasn’t going to allow herself to cry.
“I think I knew it was her as soon as I saw the child, but I wouldn’t let myself believe it.” Her voice cracked. “Do you want to hear why, McQueen?”
I think I already know, honey, he thought, sudden self-loathing sweeping over him. What was it he’d so recklessly accused her of only half an hour ago—that she wanted to look into the destruction? That she thought she might see her own face staring back?
Tamara King had already stared into the heart of darkness. She’d already recognized it in herself. The knowledge was tearing her apart.
“Why couldn’t you let yourself believe it?” he asked tonelessly.
“Because I hadn’t forgiven her,” she whispered, her eyes wide with pain. “And if there hadn’t been a fire and she’d phoned today asking to see me, I would have turned her down. What kind of a monster does that make me?”
“It doesn’t make you a monster.” He tightened his grip on her. “It makes you a human being, dammit. And you wouldn’t have turned her down…not if you’d known you were her last hope.”
“It would be nice to think that.” She shrugged. “I’ll never know for sure, will I?”
Her eyes held his for a final moment. Then she squared her shoulders, stepping out of his embrace as she did.
And that’s the end of show and tell, boys and girls, Stone thought disconcertedly, feeling as if she’d placed a firm palm on his chest and physically pushed him away. Pack up your feelings and lock them away real tight, so no one gets a chance to see them again. She was already regretting that she’d revealed herself. She was already a little angry he hadn’t stopped her.
“Sorry. I had no right to dump all my emotional baggage on you like that,” she said flatly. “What we should get straight is how we’re going to answer any questions Petra has about her mom’s death. I’m with Lieutenant Boyleston on this one, McQueen. I can’t see how you came to the conclusion it was arson, and I don’t want Petra to start believing that. I think it’s best to tell her it was just a terrible accident, without bringing in your theories or mine.”
“Your theory being what?” Funny, Stone thought. He’d been taken aback when he’d seen the flash of dubiousness in Chandra’s glance as she’d promised to pass on his suspicions to the investigative team. But Tamara’s offhand dismissal of his assessment touched a fuse inside him. “She fell asleep with a cigarette in her hand?”
“It happens, tragically.” She shot him a glance. “Claudia did smoke, McQueen—only occasionally, and only when she was stressed, but judging from what was going on in her life lately I’d say stress had to be present. It all fits.”
“Yeah, it fits.” He bit off the words. “And that worries me even more. That means the torch watched her long enough to know her habits.”
She arched her brows. “Let’s face it, McQueen, it doesn’t really matter what you or I think. I’m just a jakey, like you used to be, and neither one of us is qualified to give an opinion. We’ll leave it up to the experts.” Her gaze clouded. “Whatever their final verdict, it won’t bring her back.”
“Nothing can do that,” he agreed tersely. “You don’t know who I am, do you? Who I was,” he corrected, watching her. At her blankly inquiring look he shook his head. “Of course you don’t. I must have been just before your time. I started out as a firefighter, honey, but I didn’t end up as one—and that’s why I’ll back my assessment of that fire against a dozen of your so-called experts.”
“You were an arson investigator?” There was enough disbelief in her tone that despite himself he winced.
Okay, so maybe he couldn’t blame her for taking him at face value. And at face value, he guessed he looked pretty much like what he’d become—a man who’d washed his hands of the world, a man the world had forgotten, too. When she’d come across him in that rooming house it must have seemed to her that he’d fit right in.
Because he had fit in. The revelation was unpalatable but true. He’d been sinking for seven years, Stone thought bleakly, and if today she’d seen him as a man who’d gone just about as far down as he could go, it was only because he had. He was surprised to find he still had enough pride left for her incredulity to wound.
But apparently he did.
“No, honey, I wasn’t just an arson investigator,” he growled, closing the gap between them. “I was a damn legend. I was the best there was. And I say you’re wrong—the fire that killed Claudia wasn’t a result of her smoking in bed.”
Too late he heard the sighing of the doors as they swung fully open behind him. The tense expression on Tamara’s face disappeared instantly, to be replaced by immediate concern, and as he turned and saw the stiff little figure standing there in a hospital gown, Stone’s heart sunk.
“You’re trying to make it look like that fire today was all Mom’s fault, aren’t you?” Petra’s gaze, green and accusing, was leveled at Tamara. “I don’t think you were her friend at all.”
The cold little voice shook. “I—I think you hated her!”
Chapter Four
“You were right, Lieut,” Tamara said under her breath, furiously pulling on the clean pair of sweatpants she’d laid out on her bed. “He is a jerk. Thanks to Stone McQueen that little girl thinks I’m the bad guy. What’s worse, as far as she’s concerned the sun rises and sets on him.”
From the bathroom down the hall came the sound of running water. She narrowed her eyes.
“So how did he end up crashing at my place for the night?” she said loudly. “I must have been out of my mind.”
The cat that had just strolled into the bedroom halted as it saw her, turned around again and walked out, insolently graceful despite the fact that it only had three legs. Securing her wet hair in a covered elastic, Tamara followed the animal down the hall to the kitchen.
“You don’t get to sleep on the guest bed tonight, fleabag. But the good news is you can ignore another human being besides me for a change.”
Except the way things were going the damn cat would probably end up fawning all over McQueen, she thought, depositing a couple of teabags in the flowered china pot that had been one of Aunt Kate’s favorite possessions. Briefly she wondered if the man drank tea or not, and then dismissed the question. If he didn’t like it, tough.
I think you hated her.
Dropping suddenly into the nearest chair, Tamara squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t even remember her own response, but whatever it had been the child’s glare hadn’t wavered. Only when McQueen had scooped her up in his arms had the pinched features lost their tight look.
“That’s crazy talk, Tiger,” he’d rasped, scowling at Petra. She hadn’t seemed fazed by his manner.
“It’s not.” She’d scowled back at him, but her arms had crept around his neck. “She’s trying to blame the fire on Mom, Stone.” She’d twisted around in his grip to face Tamara. “You know she quit smoking last year. She told you in her letters.”
Petra hadn’t even looked back as McQueen had carried her down the hall. The sound of his husky rumble mixing with the little girl’s chatter had wafted through the swinging doors, getting gradually fainter. Unhappily Tamara had wondered how she was going to heal the breach that had opened up between her and Claudia’s daughter.
“You never wrote me, Claudie,” she murmured now as she poured her tea. “I think that’s what hurt the most in the end—knowing that the two of you had completely erased me from your lives.”
Although from what Stone had gathered from Petra, Rick had been killed in a car accident before his daughter had been born, she reflected somberly. About to lift her mug to her lips, she paused.
“She’s got to be almost seven,” she whispered. “Oh, Claudie—you were pregnant with her then, weren’t you?”
Trembling, she set the mug down on the table. The wedding that hadn’t happened—the wedding where her groom had run off with her chief bridesmaid—had been just over seven years ago. A vision flashed into her mind of Claudia, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and leggings, tossing her bridesmaid’s dress onto the floor of her bedroom.
“I tried it on at the store, Tam. It fits, all right? Can we talk about something other than the darn wedding for once?”
The peevishness hadn’t been like her, but it had flared up again after that. At the time Tamara had put it down to Claudia’s worry over her mother’s health.
“And maybe if your mom hadn’t been going through chemo just then you might have confided in her. You’d always told me everything, but this was the one thing you couldn’t share, wasn’t it, Claudie?” Tamara wrapped her hands around the hot mug. “I wish you had. Everything might have been so different,” she said softly.
The thing was, she thought painfully, she’d gotten over Rick in a matter of months—although at the time she couldn’t admit to herself that losing the man she’d thought of as the love of her life hadn’t devastated her. She’d put her name in for the fire department and had written the preliminary exam, more from a desire to discard the routine of her old life than from any real urge to begin a new one, and to her shock she’d been accepted. She’d taken the medical at Quincy and passed the physical, with a little coaching from Uncle Jack, and finally had begun the intensive thirteen-week training process on Moon Island, across the harbor from Boston.
It had been gruelling. It had been exhausting. She’d never felt more alive, more fulfilled.
And a few weeks later when she’d tried to remember exactly what shade of green Rick’s eyes had been she’d found she couldn’t.
But losing Claudia had been a wound that hadn’t healed. McQueen had been right, she thought. Maybe the bond between them had been stretched, but it had never really broken.
She took a sip of her tea, her throat aching with unshed tears. “She reminds me of you, Claudie. But she’s her own person already, isn’t she?” she whispered. “I don’t know how qualified I am to take on your role in her life, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
Except they’d already gotten off to a rocky start, thanks to McQueen. She set her mug down on the table with a sharp click.
Lieutenant Boyleston had driven them home from the hospital, Tamara’s vehicle being still in the stationhouse parking lot, and upon Stone’s request—demand, more like, Tamara thought—Chandra had made a stop at a small mall on the way. Without a word, McQueen had gotten out of the car and headed for a army surplus store that had a quelling display of gas masks and bayonet-style knives in its window. Chandra had shrugged.
“Best not to ask, with Stone.” She’d given Tamara a lopsided smile. “If you’re having second thoughts, he can stay the night at my place. Hank knows I’ve always had a soft spot for McQueen.”
“Second thoughts?” Tamara had snorted. “Try third or fourth thoughts. But I’ve got to have this out with him, Lieut, the sooner the better. Petra wants to see him again, and Dr. Pranam seems to think we should let her, since for some reason she’s opened up to him. I want him to understand he can’t encourage her in this arson thing.” She’d shot Boyleston a searching glance. “He’s wrong, isn’t he?”
Chandra had sighed. “He was a legend, like he says. Eight years ago, he was the only one who wouldn’t accept the Dazzlers nightclub blaze was due to faulty electricals—he insisted it had been deliberately set, and he made it a personal mission to hunt down the person responsible for those twenty-two deaths. In the end he was proven right. Jimmy Malone’s still behind bars.”
She’d closed her eyes tiredly. When she’d opened them again, her gaze had been bleak. “But everytime I’ve run into him over the past few years it’s been obvious he’s been hitting the bottle pretty hard. His last case destroyed him.” She’d taken a deep breath. “He seems sober enough today, but do I think his information about what he saw in that room is reliable enough that anyone’s going to take him seriously? No.”
Tamara had been about to ask her about the case she’d referred to, but at that moment the man himself had returned, a paper sack under one arm and a closed look on his face, and she hadn’t had the opportunity.
Which was probably just as well, she thought, getting up from the table. Chandra might have a soft spot for Stone McQueen, but she didn’t. Any interest she had in him began and ended with his influence on Petra, despite what she’d thought she’d felt in that room today when he’d turned from the window and his eyes had met hers.
For God’s sake, King—a flophouse bum who pushed the self-destruct button a long time ago, she thought impatiently. If you’re trying to tell yourself you had the hots for a man like that, even for a second, then you’re in need of some serious therapy.
“How’d your cat lose his leg?”
The abrupt question, delivered in that smoke-and-gravel voice, came from the hall. She turned, and was immediately grateful that she had the solidity of the counter behind her.
An olive-drab T-shirt, obviously new, stretched across that massive chest. Tanned biceps strained the seams of the sleeves. The shirt was tight enough to mold itself to the washboard abs it covered, and past them it was tucked into a securely belted pair of chinos. But that wasn’t all.
The stubble that had shadowed his jawline earlier was gone, evidence that another of his on-the-fly purchases had been a razor. The dark brown hair, damp at the moment, still brushed the collar of the tee and a renegade strand looked ready to fall into those gray eyes, but now it only added a carelessly sexy edge to the rest of his spit-and-polish appearance.
Stone McQueen cleaned up good, Tamara thought weakly. Damn the man anyway.
The only incongruous note was the three-legged tortoiseshell tom draped languidly around his neck.
“I rescued him as a kitten from an apartment fire. One leg was too badly burned for the vet to save,” she croaked. She cleared her throat too loudly. “He hates me. Tea?”
“I don’t know why, but cats go crazy over me. Kids, too.” Complacently Stone detached a purring Pangor from his neck and deposited him onto the floor. “I’m not a friggin’ Limey. Got any coffee?”
She’d already lifted the teapot. With infinite care she set it on the counter again, just as a dull throbbing shot through the back of her jaw. She was gritting her teeth, Tamara realized.
So the man cleaned up good. So what? He still had all the charm and personality of a wolf with its paw in a trap. She turned to him.
“Yes, Stone, I have coffee. I even have a coffee-maker.” She smiled tightly at him. “That cats and kids thing. Why doesn’t it hold true for women, do you think?”
“You’ll never get a decent cup of coffee from a machine.” He opened the refrigerator door. “Got any eggs? You bring the coffee almost to a boil, with a couple of eggshells thrown in at the last minute for shine.”
He closed the refrigerator door and turned to her, the two eggs he was holding looking more like they’d been laid by hummingbirds than hens in the oversized cradle of his palm. “It works on the occasional woman, honey. You look beat. I’ll get a couple more of these out and make us an omelet while I’m at it.”
Tamara stared at him. Then she shrugged. “Fine, you go right ahead and make us something to eat, McQueen. Just let me get my mug of friggin’ Limey tea here out of your way before you get started.” She picked up her mug. “By the way, when Chandra introduced us I distinctly recall her telling you my name was Tamara, not honey.”
He’d been rummaging around in the drawer under the stove. He straightened, a frying pan in his hand and a frown on his face. “That bugs you?” There was a note of honest surprise in his voice, and she frowned back at him.
“Yeah, it bugs me, McQueen. For one thing it sounds sexist, and for another I get the impression you can’t be bothered to remember my name. How would you like it if I called you babe or sweetheart all the time?”
He set the pan on a burner and nodded. “I see what you mean.” He turned to the refrigerator. “Go with babe, honey. It sounds kind of tough-girl, and I like it when you talk tough.”
His back was to her. She unclenched her grip on the mug, set it safely on the table, and took a deep, furious breath. Just as she opened her mouth to speak he glanced guilelessly over his shoulder at her.
She hesitated, disconcerted. A corner of his mouth lifted, and he turned back to the refrigerator.
She watched as he juggled a brick of cheddar, a slightly wilted bunch of scallions she hadn’t remembered she’d had and a bottle of hot sauce that had been hidden behind a box of baking soda for as long as she could remember. He slammed the refrigerator door closed with his foot.
She gave him a quelling look. “That was a joke, right?”
He deposited the food on the counter, grabbing an egg just as it was about to roll off, and turned to face her.
To her surprise there was uncertainty on the hard features. “Sure it was a joke. It’s been a grim day, you’re saddled with a stranger in your house and it suddenly occurred to me I’d never heard you laugh.” He paused. “Honey,” he added under his breath.
She gave him a incredulous look. The next moment she felt her lips curving into a reluctant smile, and the tension that had been building inside her all evening dissipated into a small bubble of laughter. She shook her head at him.
“You’re pushing it, McQueen. That better be the best damn omelet I’ve ever eaten, or you’re outta here.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Babe.”
She hadn’t expected to end up bantering with the man, she thought, watching as he deftly cracked the eggs into a bowl, setting aside a couple of shells. And she wasn’t foolish enough to think this temporary truce between them would last, especially since she still needed to talk to him about Petra. But it had been a grim day, and her job had taught her to seize the lighter moments when they came along or risk losing her sanity.
Stone McQueen was still a jerk, she thought. But maybe not a total jerk.
“Best damn omelet, best damn coffee. Count on it.” He was grating cheese now and he went on, his back to her. “The thing is, my social encounters these past few years have been pretty limited. The women working the bars I frequented didn’t want the lowlifes they served to know their names, so honey and sweetheart got to be a habit.” He shrugged. “They called me big guy. At the end of the evening the bouncers called me pal. Hell, I had a whole circle of friends who didn’t exchange names with me.”
She’d just been given an apology, Tamara realized—an apology or an explanation. Whichever, she had the feeling it hadn’t been easy for the usually closed-off man in front of her to reveal even that fleeting glimpse of himself.
“I wondered today when I saw you in that rooming house,” she said steadily. “You’ve got a drinking problem, haven’t you, McQueen?”
He was chopping scallions. He stopped, and she saw his grip tighten on the knife in his hand.