Mcqueen's Heat

“Not anymore.” His words were clipped. He brought the knife down once more on the scallions, and then halted again, setting the utensil on the chopping board and turning to her.

“That was the wrong answer.” Beside him, the pan on the stove began to sizzle, and he moved it from the burner without taking his gaze from her. “If I haven’t learned anything else over the last eight months, I’ve learned that. Yeah, the drinking became a problem. I used it as a crutch, and one day I found I couldn’t function without the crutch. Then I realized I was in danger of not being able to function at all. I took the longest walk of my life that night—right past my usual watering hole to the basement of St. Mary’s Church a couple of blocks away, where there was an AA meeting going on. I’ve been clean and sober since that first meeting, but kidding myself I’ve got the problem licked for good would be the worst mistake I could make. I take it day by day. I still go to the meetings every couple of weeks. And sometimes I try to remember how to pray.”

He held her gaze a moment longer and then turned back to the counter, picking up the knife again. “And I drink one hell of a lot of coffee, honey, so I make sure it’s not crap out of a machine,” he growled.

Beneath his abrasiveness she thought she’d heard a hint of relief, Tamara thought slowly. Maybe he needed someone to talk to about this. Maybe since she’d opened up to him earlier this evening, he wanted to talk to her.

“Chandra said your last arson case was the reason why you gave it all up and walked away from the job, McQueen,” she said softly. “That’s when you started needing a crutch, wasn’t it?”

“For crying out loud.” He poured the beaten eggs into the pan, scattered the grated cheese over the mixture and turned to her, all in one economical movement. “This isn’t a talk show, honey. I told you about the drinking because I can’t afford not to be upfront about it, okay? And the next time you talk to Boyleston, tell her the whole of freakin’ Boston doesn’t need to hear the story of my life. Forget it—I’ll tell her myself.”

Taken aback by his abrupt about-face, Tamara glared at him, any warmth she’d been beginning to feel toward the man evaporating instantly. “Take a pill, McQueen,” she snapped. “For God’s sake, I was trying to be a friend.”

“A friend?” His laugh was short. “And what comes next—you and I watch chick-flicks and talk about boys before we fall asleep? Dammit, I don’t want you as a friend, honey.” He sounded as outraged as she felt, and her temper finally gave way completely.

“That’s fine by me.” Without even being conscious of getting to her feet, she was standing in front of him, her furious face only inches from his. “You’d make a lousy friend. Hell, you make a lousy acquaintance! And the damn omelet’s burned, so you’re not even a competent cook. Tell me, babe—what’s left?”

“Aw, crap, the omelet.” Reaching behind him he slid the pan from the burner without looking and turned off the stove. He shrugged, his gaze holding hers. “You know what’s left, honey,” he muttered impatiently. “Try not to make me screw up on this, too, will you?”

“As if you need my help for that,” Tamara said under her breath, as his mouth came down on hers and her arms went around his neck.

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