Mcqueen's Heat

“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.”