Harper Allen - Mcqueen's Heat

“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!”

“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?”