Mcqueen's Heat. Harper Allen

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