Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Mcqueen′s Heat

Mcqueen's Heat
Harper Allen


FIVE-ALARM BLAZEHaving been to hell and back, investigator Stone McQueen knew he had nothing to lose when he raced into a burning building to save a small child. But he was dead wrong. For the fire was set by the same arsonist who had destroyed his career seven years ago. And in a bizarre twist, he found himself reunited at the scene with the only woman who had ever mattered to him–Tamara King. A woman he now had to protect from the elusive fire starter.As Tamara and Stone joined forces, their passion ignited into an all-consuming blaze. And soon Stone couldn't figure out what was more dangerous–the arsonist whose crimes were turning increasingly personal or the secret he'd kept from Tamara that could destroy this second chance….









It was like running into a fire without any protection…


McQueen’s hands spread wide on either side of Tamara’s face, and in the instant before she closed her eyes she saw those dark lashes come down like inky spikes over his. His mouth more than covering hers, his tongue licked the wetness of her inner lips and then went deeper.

She wanted to see him in shadowy half-light, that big body over hers, those corded arms braced on either side of her, that wet hair falling into his eyes.

He’d said a woman had struck the match. He’d said that he’d been burning so long he’d grown to like it. But whoever that woman had been she’d walked away years ago, leaving him smoldering.

And that was dangerous. A damped-down flame needed only the slightest breath of air to bring it into a full-blown blaze.

Lightly she blew against his ear.


Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Yeah, it’s cold outside, but we have just the remedy to heat you up—another fantastic lineup of breathtaking romantic suspense!

Getting things started with even more excitement than usual is Debra Webb with a super spin-off of her popular COLBY AGENCY series. THE SPECIALISTS is a trilogy of ultradaring operatives the likes of which are rarely—if ever—seen. And man, are they sexy! Look for Undercover Wife this month and two more thrillers to follow in February and March. Hang on to your seats.

A triple pack of TOP SECRET BABIES also kicks off the New Year. First out: The Secret She Keeps by Cassie Miles. Can you imagine how you’d feel if you learned the father of your child was back…as were all the old emotions? This one, by a veteran Harlequin Intrigue author, is surely a keeper. Promotional titles by Mallory Kane and Ann Voss Peterson respectively follow in the months to come.

And since Cupid is once again a blip on the radar screen, we thought we’d highlight some special Valentine picks for the holiday. Harper Allen singes the sheets so to speak with McQueen’s Heat and Adrianne Lee is Sentenced To Wed this month. Next month, Amanda Stevens fans the flames with Confessions of the Heart. WARNING: You may need sunblock to read these scorchers.

Enjoy!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue




McQueen’s Heat

Harper Allen





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Harper Allen lives in the country in the middle of a hundred acres of maple trees with her husband, Wayne, six cats, four dogs—and a very nervous cockatiel at the bottom of the food chain. For excitement she and Wayne drive to the nearest village and buy jumbo bags of pet food. She believes in love at first sight because it happened to her.










CAST OF CHARACTERS


Tamara King—As a firefighter, she thought she knew what danger was—until she walked into a burning building and met the smoke-gray gaze of Stone McQueen.

Stone McQueen—The ex-arson investigator is a man who’s reached rock bottom. And he doesn’t want Tamara King to save him.

Petra Anderson—The little girl adores McQueen, despite his hard-edged manner.

Robert Pascoe—He’s a man who never existed. But McQueen thinks he’s returned to finish what he started seven years ago.

Claudia Anderson—Once Tamara’s best friend, Claudia betrayed her by running off with her fiancé on her wedding day. Now it’s too late to make amends.

Jack Foley—The gruff ex-firefighter and his late wife adopted Tamara when her family was killed in a fire, and he’d do anything to keep his adored Tammy safe.

Bill Trainor—The arson investigator once had a thing for Claudia. Now he and his partner are looking into her death—and trying to pin it on McQueen.


To the real heroes




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue




Chapter One


The beast had devoured her world. At five years old she’d looked into its face and had barely escaped from its jaws. Now she was twenty-six—okay, twenty-seven in a couple of weeks, Tamara King thought grimly. She was still battling the beast.

She was a firefighter. She hated fire.

“Anybody in there?” She saw Joey Silva spare her a glance from a few yards down the corridor, but already she was kicking the door open. She entered, moving quickly through the tiny rooms before racing back into the corridor.

“These freakin’ rooming houses.” Under his helmet, her partner’s expression was disgruntled. “Freakin’ fire-traps. Come on, I found another freakin’ hallway.”

“Gosh darn it all anyway.” Tamara looked at the stairway behind them. “You know, Joey, you’re going to have to get a couple new cuss words one of these days.”

He followed her glance. “We can’t wait for the hose. Let’s go rouse the rest of the rubbies and the junkies.”

She fell into step behind him, not taken in by his seeming callousness. It and his profanity were part of the protective shell that all of them had to grow, in their own individual ways.

The yellow bands on Joey’s coat were bobbing smears of color in the smoke, and she reached with her leather-gloved hand for the air-pack at her chest. Following him into the secondary corridor Tamara realized that although a few tendrils of smoke were eddying in from the hallway they’d just left, this one was clear.

Bad sign, she thought, instantly alert. It’s trying to trick us.

“The bitch is around here somewhere.”

Joey’s gaze had narrowed in identical suspicion, and despite the situation she hid a smile as she scanned the hallway. She called it the beast. For reasons known only to himself, he saw fire as a heartless female who—

Her thoughts screeched to a halt. Running along the top of the walls in front of them was a tracery of glowing red.

“Hell, Joey—it’s in the ceiling,” she whispered hoarsely.

“And the freakin’ ceiling could go any minute.” He wiped his mouth. “Come on, Red, the faster we check this hall the faster we can get out of here.”

He’d bestowed the roughly affectionate nickname on her the first day she’d walked into the stationhouse six years ago, her auburn hair scraped back into a braid that kept unraveling. His use of it now didn’t mask his apprehension. Her gaze sharpened.

“Where’s your air-pack?”

He shrugged, avoiding her frown. “Guess I’ll just have to eat the smoke. You take this room, I’ll check out the one at the end of the hall.”

With a father and grandfather who’d both been Boston firefighters, Joey knew better. But too often he arrived at a fire without his air-pack and ended up having to eat the smoke, as the old-timers called it. Tamara thudded her gloved palm on the door before pushing it open with more force than she needed.

Even as her gaze took in the man standing at the window with his back to her, she knew he was going to be trouble.

He was big—six foot two or three at least, to her five-six. As she entered he spoke without bothering to turn around.

“Don’t worry about me, buddy, I can take care of myself.” His tone was flat. “Up until yesterday the room down the hall was unoccupied but you might want to check it out anyway. The fire’s in the ceiling, so there’s not much time.”

She tamped down the spark of anger that flared in her at his offhand attitude. Except for his height and the breadth of his shoulders, it was obvious he was no different from the rest of the lost souls she’d glimpsed as she’d run into the building. His hair, dark brown and too long, brushed the collar of his sweatshirt and his khaki pants had seen better days. The leather of his military-style shoes was cracked.

He wasn’t a junkie. His build was too solid for a drug-user, so the addiction that had brought him to a room in this rundown building had to have been alcohol. Still, he’d travelled so far down the road to self-destruction he couldn’t even recognize how much danger he was in.

But he’d known the fire was in the ceiling, and he’d known what that meant. She didn’t have time to wonder how or when he’d gained that kind of knowledge.

“My partner’s checking it out.” From another part of the building came a muffled crash as something fell. “You’re my responsibility, mister. Let’s move.”

He’d obviously assumed she was a man, because at her first words he’d turned to face her, his eyes widening as they met hers. Now he gave her a hard smile. She blinked, feeling as if a tiny shock had just gone through her.

“You passed the department physical so you’re probably pretty strong, honey, but I’ve got almost a foot on you and I’m a whole lot heavier. I don’t see you getting me through that door if I don’t want to go.” His shrug was dismissive. “Find your partner and the two of you get out while you can.”

His eyes were the color of smoke—so pale in the tan of his face that it seemed as though they were looking through her. The tan she could understand, even in an unseasonably wet Boston May. Men like him picked up odd jobs, usually outdoor work, to pay for their habit.

His age was impossible to pinpoint. From the hard planes and blunt angles of his face he looked to be in his mid-thirties, but though his smile had held little humor and no warmth, for the briefest of instants it had transformed his whole expression. Not so long ago the man in front of her had been a very different person, Tamara thought with sudden certainty. If even now there was a destructively dangerous aura about him, what impact had that smile had on women before his life had spiralled out of control?

Who cares, King? Abruptly she shoved her speculations aside. The man’s past didn’t concern her. How and why he’d arrived at this dead end wasn’t her business. Her job was to get him out of here, whether he wanted to go or not.

But that wasn’t going to be easy. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were pushed up to his elbows, and the corded muscles of his forearms and the strength of those hands looked formidable. Squaring her shoulders, she clamped a gloved hand on his arm.

“That’s not the way it works,” she said, some of the anger she’d tried to suppress seeping through into her voice. “I’m a firefighter. If you understood anything at all about what that means you’d know I can’t walk away and leave you here.”

“Yeah, you can. You’re going to.” Under her hand his arm felt like a slab of rock maple. His tone was even harder. “Let me put in words you’ll understand, honey. I don’t want you risking your life for someone like me.”

“Then both of us just ran out of luck, honey,” Tamara grated, her grip on him tightening. “Because risking my life is part of the job, and I’m not about to make an exception in your case.”

For the space of a heartbeat their gazes locked, hers coldly stubborn, his opaquely unreadable. Then he exhaled sharply, his posture rigid.

“My conscience seems to have taken everything else I’ve thrown at it over the years, but even I’ve got my limits,” he said, his tone tight. “You win. Let’s find your partner and get the hell out of here.”

The whole encounter had taken only seconds, but somehow she felt as if she’d just gone ten rounds with Holyfield and had only squeaked by on a technicality, she thought as she stepped out into the hall, acutely aware of the man behind her. What the hell was his problem?

Or maybe she should be asking herself what her problem was, Tamara conceded. His wasn’t that hard to figure out. In a city like Boston men like him came to the same decision every day: that they’d reached the end of the line, and it wasn’t worth the pain and effort of going on. So why had she been so sure that if she hadn’t gotten him out she would never be able to forgive herself, never be able to forget a distant gray gaze that for only a moment had held hers?

Because this is my watch, she told herself sharply. If the man decides to jump off a bridge next week, fine. But he doesn’t get to do it on my watch, for crying out loud.

“Where’s your partner?”

Coming out of the room and carefully closing the door behind him—he knows that about fire, too, Tamara thought in faint surprise—the big man frowned at her. She felt her eyes tearing up, and realized that the smoke had thickened noticeably. Through the haze she could see Joey appear in the open doorway at the end of the hall.

“He’s coming,” she said curtly. “It looks like you were right. There couldn’t have been anyone in—”

Beside her he tensed, his glance swinging quickly upwards. Following his gaze, her own widened in instant dread.

“Move!” Even as she opened her own mouth to scream out a warning to Joey the stranger’s sharply shouted command overrode her. “Goddammit, man, move! The damned ceiling’s giving way!”

Joey jerked his attention to the pulsating red above him, and through the intervening smoke she saw sudden fear on his face. He looked down again, his expression strained. “There’s some—”

He never got to finish the rest of his sentence. Since she’d stepped into the hall, Tamara had been increasingly aware of a dull rumbling sound coming from above. She’d known it was the beast, feeding off the rapidly depleting air supply of the building’s attic in order to gain enough strength to break through into another rich vein of oxygen.

As if a door had suddenly opened into a forgotten anteroom of hell, suddenly she saw the decades-old lathe framework standing out in stark black relief against the billowing crimson just above it, like a lattice holding back some nightmarish burden of roses in a poisoned garden. She heard Joey’s boots striking the carpet of the floor as he ran toward them with desperate speed. She saw the lathe seemingly vanish into nothingness and knew with terrible certainty he wasn’t going to make it.

“Get back!”

The hoarse shout in her ear was obliterated by the roar of the fire as it poured triumphantly downward. A powerful arm slammed across her upper body, and she felt herself being jerked almost off her feet even as her horrified gaze saw Joey’s anguished face disappear behind the wall of flame that came down between them.

She fumbled with the air-pack at her chest but her hand was struck away, her wrist grabbed in a steel grip.

“No time for that. Run!”

“He’s my partner!”

Furiously she turned to confront him, but already he’d pulled her into motion, his hold on her wrist unbreakable. She darted a look over her shoulder and saw the air waver, as if some unimaginably strong force was tearing at the atmosphere.

That was exactly what was happening, Tamara thought in sharp terror. Wrenching her gaze forward, she put on a burst of speed, saw the man at her side gather himself and leap the last few yards to the main corridor, felt her shoulder joint scream in protest as she was yanked along with him.

And then they were flying through the air, the drag created by her heavy turnout coat more than counter-balanced by the strength of the arms now wrapped tightly around her. There was a deafening whoosh behind them, and her helmet was knocked from her head as her face was pressed into a sweatshirt-clad chest. A moment later the ground crashed up to meet them.

The beast had needed oxygen. At the instant it had broken through and found it, it had opened its jaws and sucked in the whole hallway-full of air, replacing it with a heat searing enough to burn anything it came in contact with.

Guess I’ll just have to eat the smoke. Joey had been caught in that maelstrom, Tamara thought sickly—as she would have been, if not for the reaction of the man holding her. She felt the blast of boiling air pass over them and ebb back again like a spent wave. Only then did she raise her head.

His face was so close to hers that his lashes, dark and thick, brushed against her cheekbones as he blinked. Raggedly he exhaled.

“You all right?” His words came out in a gasp, and she nodded, unable for the moment to speak. His jaw tightened.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” Unsteadily he stood, hauling her up with him as her boots scrambled for purchase on the carpeting. “The rest of the roof’s going to fall in on us any minute now.”

He was right, she thought, glancing up at the spreading inferno above them and at the wall of flame devouring the hall. But he was wrong, too. She shook her head.

“My partner’s in there. I have to get him out.”

“Your partner’s probably dead.” His tone was as brutal as his statement. “I didn’t want you to throw your life away on me, and I won’t stand by and watch you do it for him. He was a firefighter. He knew the risks involved.”

“And if it was me instead of him trapped there, Joey would take the risk,” she rasped unsteadily. “I’m a firefighter, too. We don’t let each other down, dammit!”

As she raced back toward the flames she heard his footsteps pounding behind her. She felt him grab at her once more and she spun around, fury and fear spilling through her, but as she turned she saw something out of the corner of her eye.

She whirled back to face the fire in disbelief. Then she broke free, and this time he didn’t attempt to stop her but instead ran with her to the figure emerging from the flames just as it took one last staggering step and crashed face forward onto the floor.

“Joey!”

Falling to her knees, Tamara turned him over. In the instant before she shut her mind to what she was looking at, she felt stark horror sweep through her. The bitch had gotten him, she thought frantically. His face was badly burned, and as she clapped her air-mask over his mouth she saw his eyes open dazedly to meet hers. He pushed the mask away and she saw with shock that he was trying to speak.

“Don’t talk, Joey. Don’t try to talk, for heaven’s sake,” she gabbled, fighting to get the mask back on him. “The hose crew’s on their way.”

His hand in its still-smoking glove swatted the mask away with a strength she hadn’t anticipated, and his eyes glared up at her. His seared lips stretched open.

“For God’s sake, Joey, don’t—”

“What the hell is it, buddy?” The big man shot her a look. “He’s trying to tell us something. What is it, pal?”

Joey’s eyes bulged with strain. He drew in a shallow, rattling breath and raised his head a few inches from the floor, clutching urgently at Tamara’s coat. “Child,” he wheezed. “Mother…dead. The child ran. Too much smoke to see her…flashlight broke.” He fell back, his desperate gaze holding hers a moment longer before his eyes lost focus.

What she’d told him hadn’t been a comforting lie, Tamara thought, tearing the air-pack from around her neck and affixing the mask over his face. From the main corridor she could hear shouts and the splintering sound of axes sinking into wood. But if there was a child trapped behind that wall of fire she couldn’t stand around waiting for help to arrive. As she got to her feet, she glanced over her shoulder.

“You stay here with him. I’m going—”

She blinked. The stranger wasn’t there anymore. Her head jerked up and her disbelieving gaze flew to the encroaching fire just in time to see a broad-shouldered, sweatshirt-clad figure run into the devouring flames.

“King, thank God! Where’s—”

Crew chief Chandra Boyleston turned to bark out an urgent command. “Man down here! There’s a man down here, dammit!” She switched her attention back to Tamara. “Silva wasn’t wearing his air-pack?”

“There’s a civilian in there, plus at least one 10-45 already.” Her own voice edged as she used the code that veiled the harshness of the word body, Tamara ignored her superior’s question. “Joey said he also saw a child, but the kid ran away from him. He was coming to get my flashlight when he…when it…”

She flicked a glance at the wall of fire dividing the hall. Bending down, she picked up her helmet from where it had fallen and crammed it onto her head.

“The civilian went in for the child. I’ve got to go after him.”

Without waiting for Boyleston’s reply she took off down the hallway, covering the lower half of her face with her glove as she got nearer to the roiling mass of crimson and orange. Beside her a wall burst into flame, but instead of increasing her fear, she felt an eerie calm settle over her.

“You want me. You want me, the man and the child,” she ground out. “You might get one of us. You might even get me and the man. But if there’s a child in there, either he or I will make sure you don’t take a life that hasn’t even had a chance to begin yet.”

Just ahead of her was solid fire. She took a last desperate breath, put on a final burst of speed and nearly stumbled in shock.

He came toward her from out of the flames. The sweatshirt had caught on fire and his face was a grease-smeared mask, but his stride didn’t falter. In his arms he carried a bundle tightly wrapped in sheeting, and from the steam that rose from it she guessed that the sheet, along with its precious cargo, had been doused with water only seconds before.

Red-rimmed gray eyes met hers as she ran to him, holding out her arms for the child. A corner of his mouth lifted, and right then and there the full force of his basic and overpowering maleness struck her like a blow.

Something sliced through her, as bright and as piercing as pain. Unable to tear her gaze from his Tamara simply stood, drinking in the sight of him.

Her first impression had been right, she thought shakily. He was a man who’d been to hell and back sometime in his past. He’d returned unhesitatingly to the inferno to save the life of a child or die trying.

“Smart little girl,” he rasped. “She was in the bathtub. She was holding this in her hand—wouldn’t leave until I promised to keep it safe. Then she fainted.”

Dragging the smoldering shirt over his head and dropping it to the floor, he peeled a piece of paper from his sweat-drenched chest and held it out to her.

“Bet you didn’t figure you’d end up right next to my heart when we met a few minutes ago, did you, honey?” he asked, his voice cracking with hoarseness. “Where the hell’s the hose crew, anyway?”

Taking one more step forward, he crumpled heavily to the ground, the photograph of a much younger Tamara King fluttering from his fingers.




Chapter Two


“Joey’s going to pull through.”

Tamara reached for a tissue from a box on the nursing station counter. Blowing her nose furiously, she turned away and dabbed surreptitiously at her eyes. “That—that’s great, Lieut. I—I was afraid he—” She cleared her throat. “When do we get to see him?”

“Not today. Not tomorrow, either, from what his doctor tells me.” The other woman’s features softened. “Hey…you don’t have to keep up the tough act with me, King. You and Joey are more than just partners, aren’t you?”

“What?” Tamara’s head jerked up. “Where’d you get that idea, Lieutenant?”

“It’s just us girls here right now, so make it Chandra,” Boyleston said dryly. She placed a hand on Tamara’s back, steering her away from the nursing station toward a group of potted plants by the waiting area. “That photo of you. It had to have fallen out of his helmet.”

“Out of Joey’s helmet?” Tamara stared at her. “You’re joking, right?”

“What’s tucked into the liner of yours?” Chandra wasn’t smiling. “You showed me once, so I know—a St. Florian medal pinned to the sweatband, a photo of your family taken before they died and a laminated four-leaf clover.”

“Half the jakeys in the country must have a St. Florian medal somewhere on their person.” Tamara’s tone took on an edge. “He’s the patron saint of our profession.”

“Yeah, the patron saint of jakeys, like you say.” The strong features relaxed momentarily at the slang term firefighters used to describe themselves. “And the shamrock’s for luck. But the photo keeps the people you love close when you’re on the job—most of the crew tuck a picture of a husband or a wife or a girlfriend in their helmet. Who knows why the child picked it up, but it must have fallen from Joey’s gear.” She frowned. “Unless there’s some connection between you and that little girl you haven’t told me about.”

“How would I know who she is?” Tamara shrugged before she remembered her sprained shoulder. It had been examined when she’d arrived here at Mass General three hours ago, but she’d refused any medication. “Until she gives us her name we don’t even know who her mother was, and like you told me earlier, she hasn’t said one word yet.”

“That’s not surprising.” Chandra’s expression was closed. “The doctor pegged her at about seven or eight, poor tyke—it has to be pretty rough on a little girl like that, seeing her mom dead and nearly dying herself. You sure you never saw her before, King?”

Tamara’s lips tightened impatiently. “She looks like a girl I went to school with a long time ago, for God’s sake. Except this kid’s got green eyes, and Claudia Anderson had blue.”

“That could be it. Maybe the child’s mother was this girlhood friend of yours, fallen on hard times and hoping to get in touch with you to see if you could help.”

“Your theory’s all wrong, Lieut.” Tamara pushed her hair back from her forehead. “Claudia was my best friend all through school and even after, but I haven’t seen her for years. The last I heard she’d gotten married.” She went on reluctantly. “Besides, I’d be the last person she’d want to see. The man she married was my fiancé. He literally left me standing at the altar and ran off with her.”

Boyleston’s eyes widened. “That must have been a blow,” she said softly. “Sorry I stirred up old memories, Tamara.”

Tamara saw the sympathy in the other woman’s eyes. “Hey, Lieut—I’m over it, okay? It happened a long time ago, and though I’ll admit it was pretty devastating to be jilted in front of a whole churchful of people, I went on to make a new life for myself. I even went through with the reception, sans groom, of course.”

Chandra grinned in startled amusement. “Jeez, girl, talk about ballsy. You threw the party without the wedding?”

“Threw the party, danced up a storm, drank too much and awoke the next morning with the first and only hangover I’ve ever had in my life.” Tamara nodded. “The whole evening was a blur, but I remember some of Rick’s friends were there. I didn’t want him hearing I’d had to be escorted from the altar sobbing broken-heartedly or anything like that.” A corner of her mouth lifted ruefully. “I saved the messy breakdown for the next day, when no one could see me.”

Not true, King, a small voice in her head said with annoying precision. You fell apart that night, and in front of a total stranger. A stranger you’d just—

She shut the voice off with an effort. “Anyway, that’s why I know Claudia wouldn’t come looking for me.”

“Which leaves us with Joey. He obviously realized you only saw him as a friend, so he kept his feelings under wraps.” As an orderly wheeled an empty gurney past them, Chandra went on. “I’d still like to know who the civilian was. In all the excitement I never even got a good look at him. The crew told me if he hadn’t passed out again while they were trying to get him into the ambulance, he probably would have taken off on us. He didn’t give you his name?”

Tamara frowned as she heard the clatter of something metal in one of the nearby rooms. A male nurse at the station looked up in annoyance and then headed down the corridor.

“No, but it wasn’t hard to figure out his story, Lieutenant. Like the child’s mother, he was down and out enough to be staying in that dump. I—I got the feeling life didn’t mean much to him anymore,” she added.

“His life, maybe.” The brown eyes watching her sharpened. “But he went to the wall to bring that little girl—”

“It’s against the rules to just walk out!” The curt remonstration came from one of the rooms. “Dr. Jasper left specific instructions—”

“Tell him I discharged myself. And since I’d prefer not to waltz down Charles Street bare-assed, how about handing over my pants before I leave?”

The smoky growl was almost drowned out by another crash, and Tamara heard the no-nonsense tones of the male nurse who’d just left the station.

“You’re in no shape, mister. They pumped you full of drugs when you arrived, so why don’t you—”

His placating words ended abruptly. The next moment a tall figure strode into the corridor, shirtless and still zipping up the fly of the soot-smeared khaki pants he was wearing. Beside Tamara, Chandra stiffened.

“Don’t tell me. Our Mr. X?”

“I was going to find out what floor he’d been taken to and see how he was,” Tamara answered, her attention focused on the tableau being enacted only yards away from them. “I guess that’s not necessary now.”

The male nurse had been joined by an orderly, and even as she watched he stepped in front of their patient. In the doorway of the room they’d left a ward nurse appeared.

“At least let us call someone to take you home—a family member or a friend.” Taking advantage of the momentary standoff in the corridor, the female nurse advanced to the big man’s side, her posture rigidly disapproving. “If we could release you into someone’s care—”

“I don’t have any family. I don’t have a home anymore, for that matter.” The husky voice held a note of impatience. “So why don’t you call off the guarddogs here, sweetie, and I’ll just be on my way?”

“You’ve got friends, McQueen.” Boyleston’s tone was arid. “God knows why, with a personality like yours, but you’ve got a few. Or at least you used to, before you dumped us all and dropped out of sight.” Her voice lost a little of its edge. “How’ve you been, Stone?” she asked quietly.

Tamara looked at her in astonishment and then back at the man again. With a second small start she realized that those dark gray eyes were fixed on her, not her companion.

It all made sense now, she thought—the heroism he’d shown, the way he’d known too much about fire. He’d been a firefighter. He’d gone up against the beast. She met his eyes. He blinked, and looked at the woman beside her.

“I see you made rank, Chandra,” he replied flatly. “How about using your pull to remind Florence Nightingale here that it’s still a free country? Buddy, you’ve got exactly three seconds to get that hypo away from me,” he added to the male nurse.

“I’ll take responsibility for him,” Boyleston sighed. One slim brown hand went to her forehead to massage her temples. “Still a charmer, McQueen. But after what you did today I guess I owe you.” She glanced sideways at Tamara. “Stone McQueen. Tamara King. I hear you guys didn’t introduce yourselves earlier.”

“So what happened to your partner?” As the lieutenant followed the still-glowering nurse to the station and began putting her signature on what seemed to be endless forms, Stone McQueen gave his attention to buckling his belt. His question was perfunctory. Tamara was taken aback by his attitude, but she kept her voice even.

“Joey’s going to make it,” she began, but he cut her off, his head still bent to his task.

“He nearly got you killed, honey. What was he playing at, arriving at a fire without a respirator?”

“He made a mistake. He’s going to be paying for it for a long time, according to the doctors.” She took a deep breath. “I nearly made a mistake, too. Thanks for getting me out of that hallway in time.”

He raised his head abruptly. “A mistake? Is that how you explain it to yourself?” He shrugged, the muscles shifting under that broad expanse of tanned chest. “Okay, honey. Then thanks for not letting me make the same mistake when you barged into my room and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I guess we’re even.”

He frowned, looking down at the gauze dressing that covered most of his left forearm. “God, I hate hospitals,” he said under his breath. “I hate every damn thing about them.” His jaw rigid, he ripped the bandage off with a muttered oath.

“But you didn’t want to get out of that room, McQueen,” Tamara said sharply. “Your being there wasn’t a mistake, and both of us know it. I don’t see the connection between that and me almost getting caught in that hallway.”

“You don’t?” Carelessly he tossed the crumpled square over his shoulder into the wastebasket by the pay phone behind him. “Joey was just the excuse. You wanted to look into its face, honey. You wanted to know who it was.” He spared her a smile. “You thought you might see yourself looking back,” he said softly.

“You’re going to have to run that one by me again.” She heard the tightness in her own voice. “Whose face? What am I supposed to have seen myself looking back from?”

As he stood just inches away from her, Tamara suddenly realized that the destructive aura she’d only sensed before was all around her.

If she let herself, she thought, she could reach out and touch that solidly muscled torso, trace the coarse scattering of hair leading from those tanned pectorals, veeing down to his exposed navel, vanishing under the worn leather of the belt at his hips. The garish hospital lighting revealed every flaw in his skin—the grainy weariness, the small scar by his full bottom lip, the angry-looking scrape high up on one hard cheekbone. It was obvious he’d never been a pretty man. It was obvious he’d never needed to be. He practically smelled like sex.

“The fire, honey. You think if you look close enough, you might see your face staring back at you from the fire.” He was near enough to her that the warmth of his breath touched her lips. “You’re afraid you brought the beast to life. You think maybe there’s only one way to stop it for good.”

How did he know? The shocked thought tore through her mind. How did he know what she called it, how did he know how she felt when it was raging all around her?

“You’re out of your mind,” she said, trying to match the evenness of his tone, and almost succeeding. “I hate fire, McQueen. It’s the enemy. It’s the thing I go up against. I don’t start fires, for God’s sake—I spend most of my life running around putting them out.”

“You can’t put them all out.” A corner of his mouth lifted humorlessly. “You’d better learn that fact before it’s too late.”

“You sound like you’re talking from experience.” Her voice was ice. “You were a jakey once, too, weren’t you?”

He didn’t answer, but she took the slight flicker in his gaze for affirmation and went on, her tone edged. “Maybe you’re the one with an unresolved conflict about fire, McQueen. Except you just gave up the fight—gave it up so totally that today you were only minutes away from surrendering completely.”

She brought her face to within inches of his. “You’re the one who’s burning up,” she ground out. “What I’d like to know is who or what struck the match with you. Was it a woman? Is that how you were destroyed, Stone?”

With a slight sense of shock she saw her random arrow had found a mark. At her last words he froze.

“You got it a little wrong, honey,” he said woodenly.

Without making a move he seemed somehow to be looming over her. But his size wasn’t the most overwhelming thing about him, Tamara thought. What would strike even the most casual observer was the impression of power held just barely in check that appeared to be an integral part of him. Coupled with the aura of self-destructiveness she’d already noticed, the combination of the two seemed perilously volatile.

“The job destroyed me.” That velvet voice wrapped itself around her like an invisible snare. “But yeah, a woman struck the match, and I’ve been burning ever since. Maybe I could have done something about it once…but after all these years I think I like it.”

His smile was crooked. “You might find yourself liking it, too. Why don’t you try it and see?”

“You’re officially discharged, McQueen.” Lieutenant Boyleston was standing beside them, her expression quizzical. “Now all we have to do is find you somewhere to sleep tonight. Here, put this on before you get a candystriper all hot and bothered.”

She was holding out an orderly’s jacket to him, but as she spoke her eyes narrowed on Tamara’s set features. “I’d offer you a bed at my place, but for some reason Hank’s not real crazy about you.”

Without glancing at it, Stone took the jacket. His eyes were still locked on Tamara’s, and for one illogical moment she thought she saw the hard light in that smoky gaze replaced by a flash of regret. He looked away.

“Your husband?” Impatiently he wrestled into the jacket. “I don’t remember meeting him. Hell, Chandra, I can’t wear this thing.” Glaring at the white sleeves ending inches above his own wrists, he tried half-heartedly to pull the front edges across his chest.

“It was in a bar downtown last year. You were a little the worse for wear,” Chandra said tiredly. “The jacket’s a loaner, Stone, so don’t rip it. King, while I was at the desk—”

“Tell Hank I’m sorry.”

Boyleston’s lips tightened at the interruption. “What?”

Stone started to shrug, and stopped as a seam gave way. “Whatever I said, whatever I did—apologize for me, would you? You’re one of the few who stuck by me.” His voice dropped. “Hell, Chand, I wouldn’t want to think I’d lost your friendship, too.”

“You’ve come close a couple of times, Stone.” Boyleston held his gaze steadily. “But we go back a long way, you and me…back to before everything fell apart for you. I told Hank you were a jerk, but that deep down you were still one of the good guys.”

Her smile wavered. Sighing, she turned back to Tamara. “Like I was saying, King, your uncle Jack called. Apparently he dropped round to the stationhouse to chew the fat with some of his old buddies and some fool told him you’d been taken to the hospital. I told him it was nothing serious but that I was giving you a few days off to let that shoulder mend.”

“You’re putting me on sick leave?” Tamara shot the other woman a glance. “Come on, Lieut, it’s just a pulled muscle.”

“Until you can swing an axe or carry a hose you’re off the roster, and that’s not negotiable.” Boyleston frowned. “Count your blessings, King. Joey might never return to work. When will we get the message through to the public, dammit—smoking in bed is like drinking and driving. You just don’t do it.”

“What’s your point?” McQueen’s thumb was on the call button of the elevator. He looked impatiently over his shoulder.

“My point is that if the dead woman had exercised some common sense, her little girl would still have a mom, Stone. She was smoking in bed. The only reason her room didn’t go up in flames first was because a previous tenant had punched a hole in the drywall, and it acted as a kind of crude chimney.”

Boyleston raked a hand through her cropped hair. “That’s a preliminary assessment, of course, but I doubt the official investigation’s going to find different. The bed smoldered just enough so that the woman died from asphyxiation, but the fire itself went into the walls and the attic.”

“Nice theory.”

As the elevator doors slid open Stone planted one hand solidly against them. Lieutenant Boyleston stepped in, but Tamara paused, alerted by something in the big man’s tone.

“Nice theory but what?”

He shrugged. “Nice theory but it’s crap.”

The elevator doors started to close and he slammed them back into place. This time Tamara heard the seam in the borrowed jacket give way completely, but his next words drove everything else from her mind.

“That fire today was arson—and whoever set it was targeting your friend and her child.”




Chapter Three


“I thought you knew who the kid was! I didn’t know I was the only one she’d talked to.”

Stone swung his gaze from the woman sitting beside him in the waiting room. He was handling this all wrong and he knew it, he thought. It would have helped if Chandra had come with them but the child’s attending physician had stood firm on that, so it was just him and the woman.

And already it wasn’t working.

Tamara was sitting as stiffly as a statue, her face white, the strands of auburn hair escaping her braid like tiny flames flickering around her. He began again, aware that beyond the swinging doors was a ward full of sick children.

“Like I said, she was in the bathtub when I got to her. She already knew her mother was dead.”

And when I tried to lie about that, I just about lost her trust right then and there, he added silently, remembering the almost adult note of scorn in the childish voice.

“If Mom’s only sleeping, why isn’t she breathing?” He’d had an arm around the small shoulders while he’d been hastily dipping a torn sheet into the water, and he’d felt a tremor run through them. “She’s dead. She was dying of cancer anyway, so I’m glad. This way it didn’t hurt. It—it didn’t hurt, did it?”

That question he’d been able to answer truthfully. “She wouldn’t have known anything, Tiger,” he’d told her.

He blinked, torn from his thoughts by the quiet approach of the nurse entering the room. She was young and pretty, he saw. He was relieved. The kids behind those swinging doors deserved to hear a soft voice, see a kind face.

“Dr. Pranam says if you’d like, we can phone you when she wakes up.”

“I’d rather wait.” Tamara’s lips barely moved. “Tell Dr. Pranam I appreciate him bending the rules for us. I know visiting hours are over.”

“We bend a lot of rules.” The nurse smiled, but there was sadness in her voice. “Some of these little ones won’t be leaving, so we do what we can to make them happy. And like Dr. Pranam told you, the only way we could calm her when she arrived was to tell her that we’d find Mr. Stone and bring him to see her.”

“Stone.” He looked away uncomfortably. “It’s my first name. Stonewall.”

“Like the general?” The nurse laughed softly as she pushed open the swinging doors. “That explains a lot. I hear you laid waste to the fifth floor.”

“Stonewall Jackson was shot by his own troops.” As the nurse exited Tamara spoke, her face still white but the blank look in her eyes replaced with a glitter of anger. “So unless you want the similarities between yourself and your namesake to go further, I’d suggest you tell me everything you found out from Claudia’s daughter—starting with why you’re so certain she is her daughter. Why would Claudia come back to Boston to see me?”

“Petra said she was dying of cancer.” Stone saw her lashes fall over the angry blue of her eyes. He continued, wanting to get it over with. “Petra’s the kid,” he added. “I told her to call me Stone, and she told me what her name was. I was trying to keep her mind off what was happening.”

Tamara nodded tightly. “Go on.”

He didn’t want to go on. In fact, he didn’t want to be here at all, Stone thought savagely. The whole damn thing was bringing back too many memories—memories of other vigils in other hospitals—and the urge to just walk out was overpowering. Walk out and find a bar, you mean, an amused voice in his head said. So why don’t you, McQueen?

“She wanted you to take care of her daughter when she was gone,” he said shortly. “That’s why the photo was so important to Petra. She knew that with her mom gone she’d have to find you all by herself.”

“She didn’t mention her father?” Tamara was rubbing her thumb against a smudge of soot on her jeans. “She has to have a father, for heaven’s sake. Where’s he?”

“He died in a car accident before she was born, if I understood her right.” The smudge was now a smear, he saw. “I wasn’t listening to everything she said. I was too busy wondering what our chances were of getting out of there alive.”

He paused. “You don’t want her to be Claudia’s daughter, do you? You don’t want to believe any of this.”

“And I don’t believe it.”

Abruptly she stood. She walked over to a bulletin board and stood there studying flyers for a hospital fund-raiser, her back to him. Stone rose, too, his movements more controlled than hers.

“What’s not to believe? If nothing else, she had that photo of you. How the hell do you explain that away?”

She lifted stiff shoulders in a shrug. “Chandra thought it might have fallen from Joey’s helmet. It seems like the most logical explanation.”

“For the love of Mike—logical? Isn’t it more logical to accept that the kid’s telling the truth?” He had the sudden impulse to take her by the shoulders and force her to listen to reason. With an effort he turned away.

He was getting too involved in this, he told himself tightly. He’d spent the past seven years making sure any involvement he had with the rest of the world was as minimal as possible, and lately he’d come to realize even that was becoming too much to take—although her accusation that he’d been ready to detach completely in that rooming house today was far from being a given, he thought, frowning.

He’d wanted to look into its face. He’d been pretty sure he would see his own staring back at him. Instead he’d looked around and seen her, and that had been the biggest shock of all. He closed his eyes.

Beyond those swinging doors was a little girl whose world had been smashed to pieces—a little girl who was asking for him. He knew why she wanted to see him. He hadn’t told the woman who’d been her mother’s best friend everything that had passed between him and the child, he thought heavily.

He’d crashed through the doorway of the rented room. It had been years since he’d run through a burning building but all at once he’d been back in the past, knowing that there had to be clues if only he could see them, knowing that in seconds those clues could disappear forever.

The woman had been lying on a smoldering cot by the wall. Even before he’d fallen to his knees beside her and placed his thumb firmly on what should have been the pulse-point of her neck he’d known instinctively that Joey had been right. She was gone. An even earlier habit had come back to him, and without conscious volition he’d swiftly crossed himself.

“Rest easy, sister.” For some reason it had been important to put it into words, just in case any shadow of her had lingered and could hear him. “I’ll take care of her for you. I’ll get her out of here.”

As he’d started to rise the information he’d automatically noted even while he’d been concentrating on the woman clicked into place and his heart sank. Between the fingers of the outflung hand was the burned-down butt of a cigarette, the sheet the hand had been resting on now only charred fragments. The cot itself had caught and smoldered, he’d realized, and whatever outdated material it had been filled with had thrown off the toxic fumes that had proven so fatal for its occupant. But at some point the smoldering should have become a full-fledged blaze. Why hadn’t it? And how had the fire skipped to the rest of the building, leaving this room untouched?

He’d gotten swiftly to his feet. Finding the child and getting her to safety was his main concern. Giving the woman on the cot one final glance, he’d seen a remnant of the sheet leading from the cigarette to the emptiness of the hole knocked into the wall, and had realized he was looking at the answer to the questions he’d just dismissed.

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.

“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.




Chapter Five


It was like running into a fire without any protection. His hands spread wide on either side of her face, and in the instant before she closed her eyes she saw those dark lashes come down like inky spikes over his. He swayed slightly, immediately regaining his balance by widening his stance. Leaning back against the counter, he pulled her with him, a hard-muscled leg on either side of her thighs.

Dear God, Tamara thought dizzily. Stone McQueen had come close to swooning. She felt him harden against her.

He wasn’t a subtle man. But though his lack of finesse in a social setting might be something he could consider working on, she thought, right here and right now it was incredibly, overwhelmingly erotic.

His mouth more than covering hers, his tongue licked the wetness of her inner lips and then went deeper. She felt her head tipping back with the force of his kiss, and her arms tightened around his neck. Oh, no, McQueen, she thought disjointedly. No fair. I get to taste you, too.

She slid her fingers upward through the coarse silk of his still-damp hair, and felt the solidity of his jaw graze her cheek. With no preliminaries, greedily the tip of her tongue lapped against his with short, flicking strokes. It was like licking sweet cream, she thought—like desperately licking up sweet, melting ice cream from a cone on a hot summer’s day, before it could run down her hand.

Except she wanted him to melt all over her. She wanted him running down her, running into her, pouring over her. She wanted to see him in shadowy half-light, that big body over hers, those corded arms braced on either side of her, that wet hair falling into his eyes.

He’d said a woman had struck the match. He’d said he’d been burning so long he’d grown to like it. But whoever that woman had been she’d walked away years ago, leaving the fire unattended. Tamara felt his hands move to her neck, to her shoulders, down her rib cage until they were spanning her waist. Whoever she’d been, she’d walked away, leaving him smoldering.

And that was dangerous. Any firefighter knew a damped-down flame only needed the slightest breath of air to bring it to a full-blown blaze. He pushed her sweatshirt up, and she gave an involuntary little gasp. Impatiently he shoved the sweatshirt higher, his palms sliding up to the cotton bra she was wearing. She dragged her mouth from his, raised herself swayingly to her tiptoes, and nipped the lobe of his ear.

Lightly she blew against it.

An immediate shudder ran through him, and his fingertips tightened convulsively on her skin. With deliberate slowness she lowered herself from her raised toes, her exposed flesh rubbing against his taut stomach, the thin material of his T-shirt hardly a barrier. The chinos he was wearing were even less of an obstruction. Through the soft fleece of her jogging sweats she could feel every hard, rigidly outlined inch of him, pressing stiffly and immediately against her thighs.

“You do like to burn, don’t you, McQueen?” she whispered, looking up into his face and feeling the heat of his breath on her lips. “You’re liking it right now.”

His eyes were still closed. With a carefully controlled movement he nodded, cautiously exhaling as he did. She saw the bulge of his jaw muscle tighten.

“Yeah, honey, I am,” he rasped. “You’re going to take advantage of that, aren’t you?” Opening his eyes just enough so she could see the smoky gleam of his gaze through the dense lashes, he looked down at her. “But I told you I thought you’d like it, too.”

His hands were still splayed open against her bra, the ball of each thumb just under the thin cotton. Smoothly he hooked them farther under the scrap of material and tugged upward. Before she had time to do more than throw him a startled glance, her vision was cut off as he unhesitatingly drew both her top and her still-secured bra up and over her head.

In the bright kitchen light she felt immediately, shockingly exposed. Her first impulse was to cover her breasts with her hands, and instinctively she started to do just that. Dropping the clothes he’d just stripped from her to the floor, he caught her wrists, trapping them lightly.

“Uh-uh, Tam. Don’t cover anything up.” His voice cracked on the husky plea. “They’re so damn pretty, honey.” She felt herself flushing at his words. His gaze flicked back up to her face, and he gave her a slow smile. “Pink and cream. Like ornaments on a Christmas tree—perfect little globes.”

“Stop it, McQueen.” Her laugh was breathily uneven. She tried to take her gaze from his, and found she couldn’t. “You—you’re embarrassing me.”

“The tough girl, embarrassed? I don’t believe it.” He ran a finger along her collarbone to the base of her throat, and let it trail lightly downward. When he got to the hollow between her breasts, he stopped. “Call me by my first name, Tam. I want to hear you say it,” he added softly.

“But I think of you as McQueen.” She blinked at him.

“I know you do, honey.” He brushed his palm against her nipple and instant weakness spread through her. “That’s why I want to hear you say it. Just for now, I want you to think of me as Stone.” His smile was onesided. “Let’s face it, as far as you’re concerned McQueen’s a total jerk, right?”

A gurgle of shocked laughter escaped her. “Not a total jerk,” she protested, arching her back and letting her lashes drift over her eyes as his other hand skimmed down her shoulder to her breast. “Not—not all the time, Stone,” she murmured, finally giving in to the sensations that were swirling around inside her.

“Oh, stop,” he muttered against the corner of her mouth. “Now you’re embarrassing me, honey.”

The blunt ends of his hair fell forward onto her skin as he bent his head to her breasts. As he took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling the aureole around it and his lashes brushing against the sensitive swell just above, her teeth sank into her bottom lip, but not fast enough to stifle the small moan that escaped. Through her own half-closed lashes she could see the dark tan of his hands against her creamier flesh, could see his palms cradling her breasts so that it seemed as though they were being pushed up and together by the most wanton of tightly laced bustiers. His mouth moved with excruciating deliberation to the shadowed tunnel he’d created between her cradled breasts and she felt his tongue stroke first one uplifted curve and then the other.

The silk of his hair, the tiny flickering movements of his closed lashes, that steady, circling wetness…did the man have any idea what he was doing to her?

It was like being on some sensuously adult version of a carousel. She let her head tip back on her neck, feeling suddenly as if it was too heavy to support, and behind her closed lids a spangle of colors danced crazily around and around. Liquid heat fused through her—as if, she thought ridiculously, the painted horse she was riding in her fantasy had been transformed into molten gold even as she straddled it.

This had to be what he’d meant when he had said he could make her burn, and make her like it. But he’d also said he’d been burning for years. If Stone McQueen walked around every day feeling just a little of what she was feeling right now, she told herself tremulously, no wonder the man gave the impression of being a loaded gun.

Except that doesn’t explain why the safety slipped so easily off your own inhibitions a few minutes ago. You’re one wet kiss away from falling into bed with a complete stranger—a stranger you don’t even like, for God’s sake.

The voice inside her head was as cold and jolting as water from a hose. It was nothing compared to the shock that ran through her a split second later.

“Hell.”

At the muttered imprecation, Tamara’s eyes flew open. His eyes dark and his jaw tight with tension, McQueen met her startled gaze. He shook his head.

“We both know it’s not going to work, you and me.” His tone was ground glass. “What are we friggin’ thinking?”

The mouth that only moments ago had been driving her out of her mind was a hard line. The hands that had been touching her so intimately were now clenched at his sides. The last tattered remnants of desire fled from her and she narrowed her eyes, her shock giving way to anger.

Not everything about him had withdrawn, she thought icily. Whatever he was playing at, it seemed his libido hadn’t totally gotten the message.

Of course, she was still standing there giving him a free show, she told herself in swift chagrin.

She snatched up her sweatshirt, dragging it over her head as she straightened. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something white protruding from the neckline, and disgustedly she pulled her bra out, tossing it onto the nearest chair.

“Tell Rover down boy.” Her glance flicked south of his beltline and to his face again. “Or take him for a walk or a cold shower or something. I don’t know what we were freakin’ thinking a couple of minutes ago, McQueen.” Sometime in the last half hour her hair had escaped from its elastic. With a frustrated gesture, she scooped it back with both hands. “I know what I’m freakin’ thinking now, though.”

“Good for you.” He gave her a tight smile. “If you do, you’re one up on me.” He exhaled tensely.

“Look, Tam, this isn’t me being a jerk again. This is me trying my hardest not to be one. As you so sensitively point out, it’s pretty damn obvious I’d rather be throwing you over my shoulder and hauling you into the bedroom right now.”

“You’ve been reading the romance poets again, McQueen,” Tamara said flatly. “You must know what those flowery phrases do to a girl. But I’ll bite—just how do you see yourself not being a jerk here?” Her voice rose on the question.

Sighing, he scrubbed his palm irresolutely across his mouth, as if he was trying to come to some decision on a problem that was proving thornier than he’d expected. His lashes dropped over his eyes, and when they flickered back up again his gaze was shadowed.

“Marry me, Tam.” Under the huskiness was an undefinable note. His smile was wry. “You know, the white dress, the church—hell, the whole nine yards. Petra can be your flower girl. What do you say?”

She realized she was gaping at him, and she closed her mouth with a snap. “Are you crazy, McQueen? Because it’s either that or you managed to pick up a bottle at the mall today, and I was close enough to you a couple of minutes ago to have known if you’d been drinking.” She shook her head in disbelief. “What are you trying to prove, asking me that?”

“That you would have hated me two minutes after we did the deed, Tam.” His tone held an edge of the anger she’d displayed. “You don’t like me that much in the first place, and we sure wouldn’t have lain in bed holding hands and whispering sweet nothings to each other afterward.”

He lifted his shoulders tensely. “I know you want me, though I’m damned if I know why. Maybe you just go for big and basic. Except that’s all she wrote, honey, and I’m not enough of a jerk to screw and run. Not in this situation, anyway. We’ve got the kid to think about.”

Meeting his grim gaze with a wary one of her own, Tamara suddenly felt the ballooning anger in her deflate.

He was right. He was right about everything. Even in the insanity of that fire today she’d taken one look at him and fallen, not in love, but in lust. She’d known instinctively how dangerous he could be to her, and she hadn’t cared.

And as hard as it was for her to admit it, he was right about Petra, too. The child was emotionally fragile and she’d formed a bond with the stranger who’d rescued her—a closer bond than the frayed connection she had with the woman who’d once been her mother’s best friend.

He was still watching her. Walking stiffly past him to the cupboard, she took down a couple of plates. With the spatula he’d used to cook with she hacked the omelet into two jagged pieces, slapped one on a plate and held it out to him.

“Omelet McQueen,” she said curtly. “One of your specialities, I believe? It used to be hot. Then it got burned by you. Now it’s cold. Enjoy.”

Dishing out her own portion, she turned back to the table and dropped into her chair as he sat down.

“Your friend was killed,” McQueen said tonelessly. “I know Chandra thinks I’m crazy and I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m not. What do you intend to do about it?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “We’re going to leave it to the people who get paid to look into these things. They’ve got the resources and the contacts. We don’t.”

“Says who? I might be able to dig up a few old contacts, and I’m a hell of a lot more resourceful than the two bozos Chandra told me were assigned to this case.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tommy Knopf and Bill Trainor were the geniuses who pegged the Dazzlers fire as an accident, and they weren’t real happy when I came up with the evidence that put Jimmy Malone behind bars.”

He shrugged. “Besides, to get the Dazzlers case reopened I may have mentioned something to the press about their incompetence. If Knopf and Trainor still hold that against me they’re not going to listen too hard to anything I say about what I saw in that room today.”

“Two more names on the list of people you’ve alienated,” she said shortly. “What a surprise.” She got to her feet and collected their untouched plates. “Look, McQueen, you got a split-second glimpse of the scene, and based on that you seem to assume everyone should ignore the rest of the evidence. Claudia smoked. She’d been smoking in bed. And she was dead by asphyxiation before the fire took hold in the rest of the room, which is an almost textbook example of this kind of…of this kind of tragedy.”

Noisily she scraped the plates into the garbage, her back to him. This wasn’t the way she wanted to be talking about Claudia’s death, she thought unhappily—with brutal logic and cold reasoning. Being put in the position of blaming the victim wasn’t anything she enjoyed, either, but she had to make him see how dangerous his misplaced certainty in his own theory could prove to be. She turned to find him standing only a foot or two away.

“I accept that you used to be good at your job, Stone,” she said tremulously. “But that was years ago. From what you tell me of how you spent those years, they had to have taken their toll on your skills. As long as you encourage Petra in this notion that her mom’s death wasn’t an accident she’s going to believe there’s a bogeyman out there who could come back for her. I can’t allow you to do that.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/harper-allen-2/mcqueen-s-heat/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.