Hatfield and McCoy

by Heather Graham

  “Do you or do you not like me, McCoy?” she asked frankly.

  A handsome smile curved his lips. “Obviously, I like you, Miss Hatfield.”

  “Then why do you suddenly get so mad at me all the time?”

  “Because I don’t want to hear about this ridiculous psychic business!”

  “Ridiculous?” Julie said. He didn’t answer. His jaw was set in that line again. The barrier was up. Hot and cold.

  She swung around and walked to her room. She ignored him as she dug into her drawers for clothing, choosing jeans and a T-shirt. He watched her as she dressed, seeming to be in no hurry to do so himself. Then he suddenly strode across the room and gripped her shoulders.

  “Julie, damn it, we both knew we were coming to this. You are beautiful. I have never wanted anyone more. And it’s more than wanting … it’s your eyes. It’s your voice. It’s the way that you care about people. Hell, yes, I like you. I just don’t want to hear about the voodoo bit when we’re together!”

  She pulled back, staring at him. “You say that you care about me, McCoy. But don’t you see? It’s part of what I am! I can’t take it on and off like a coat!”

  “What do you mean, it’s part of what you are?” he demanded. His voice was rough and angry. “That’s it, that’s your whole function, your life?”

  “You’re a G-man, right?”

  “That’s a job, Julie. It’s what I do for a living.”

  She sighed softly. “And you do it day and night.”

  “I don’t—”

  “But you do. It’s not just a job to you, it’s more. If you’re needed at night, you’re there. I wouldn’t ask you to change.”

  “It’s not the same at all! Unless you’re trying to tell me that you do this for a living—”

  “No!” Julie said. “I would never charge anyone to help them. I’ve never taken a penny and I wouldn’t. There’s no way to put a price on human life.”

  His jaw was still at that angle that meant trouble.

  “No tea leaves during the week, no crystal balls?”

  She gritted her teeth, spun around and hurried down the stairs, leaving him behind.

  From the main hallway she walked through the formal dining room to the kitchen. She was muttering beneath her breath as she filled the teakettle.

  “Tea leaves, my foot!”

  She slammed the kettle on the stove. When she turned around he was behind her again, barefoot and bare-chested.

  And he didn’t have a single problem making himself completely at home in her kitchen. He opened her refrigerator.

  “I’m making tea,” she said.

  “Thanks, I’ll have a beer.” He found one, flipped the pop top and grimaced at her. “You’re driving me to drink. What have you got to eat?”

  “We just came from brunch.”

  He looked at his watch. “That was five hours ago.”

  “You’re kidding!” Julie gasped, glancing at her watch. He wasn’t kidding. And she was suddenly starving.

  “Haven’t you got anything in here that isn’t green?”

  “I do not have molded food in my refrigerator!”

  “No, but the only thing you do have seems to be lettuce.”

  “Well, it isn’t,” Julie said indignantly. She came to the refrigerator and pushed him aside.

  Maybe tea wasn’t the right idea at exactly this moment after all. She had a chilled bottle of white Zinfandel, which she set on the counter with a bang, then she opened the freezer. He had simply been looking in the wrong place. She had lots of food. Chicken, lamb, pork, beef. She even had a turkey. Microwave defrostable? She had to stick with the beef.

  “Is stir-fry too avant-garde for you?”

  “I do stretch to a bit more than meat and potatoes,” he said. “Especially if you’re cooking.”

  “We could call for a pizza with the works.”

  He grimaced. “Not on your life. Cook, woman.”

  She arched a warning brow. “You’d best be careful. You’re coming very close to having a greasy pizza.”

  For some reason, she didn’t mind the idea of cooking for him, although she should have minded. She tossed the package of sirloin strips into the microwave and dived into the green stuff in her refrigerator, some of which wasn’t green at all. She had red bell peppers as well as green, and mushroom caps and onions.

  “Should I pour you a glass of wine?” he asked her.

  “Please.”

  She began chopping vegetables while he opened the wine bottle. She noted that he knew right where to go for the corkscrew, but she didn’t comment on it because he didn’t seem to realize it himself. And since she had already started chopping the vegetables, she didn’t want to get into another of their arguments where he could either stalk out—or she could become determined to throw him out.

  If she was capable of carrying out such a deed.

  “So what do you do?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  “For a living. You said you aren’t paid for being a—”

  “Charlatan?” she asked sweetly. She pulled out the wok, then dug out her peanut oil and teriyaki and oyster sauces. “Well, I was left some money.”

  “Nice,” he commented.

  “No, not really. I’d much rather have my parents back.”

  “Sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean it in that way. But does that mean that you’re independently wealthy?”

  She shook her head. “I write short stories.”

  “Really?” He poured her glass of wine, handed it to her and propped himself up on the counter with his beer to watch her. “What kind of short stories?”

  “Charlatan short stories.”

  “Now really, the question was civil.”

  “By your standards, I imagine it was.”

  “Testy, testy.”

  “We charlatans get that way.”

  “Are you going to finish slicing that onion or do you need help? I’m hungry. Let’s get going!”

  She stared at him, amazed, then saw the silver glitter in his eyes and knew he was doing his best to get beneath her skin. “I think I’d rather do the chopping. And you’re the guest. And not really invited. Therefore, you can just wait until I’m done.”

  “Just remember, I have to report to work in the morning.”

  Julie sipped her wine and looked at him. A sharp tremor seized her. Was he leaving the area already? She was startled by the sharpness of the pain that seized her. They were scarcely friends.

  They were lovers.

  And with her whole heart, she didn’t want him to go.

  “Here? Are you still working out of the station—or do you have to be back in Washington, or wherever it is that you usually do work?”

  “No, I’m still working here,” he said softly, the humor gone from his eyes as he studied the beer bottle. “Tracy Nicholson came out of it okay, and that was the most important thing. But we didn’t catch our man.”

  “You think he’ll strike again?”

  “Yes.”

  Julie stared at her wok. There was a very frightening criminal out there. A kidnapper, a murderer.

  And all she could think for the moment was that she was absurdly pleased McCoy wouldn’t be leaving the area.

  “Do you want—” she started to ask, then broke off. No, he wouldn’t want her help.

  “Do I want what?”

  “Wine with dinner, or would you like another beer?”

  “I’ll have a glass of wine with you, if you don’t mind making some coffee after.”

  Julie laughed softly.

  “Coffee is funny?”

  “Well, you found the beer yourself, managed to inveigle dinner—”

  “And sex. Don’t forget the sex.”

  Julie flushed. She hadn’t forgotten it.

  She never would.

  “At any rate, I just can’t imagine you asking for the coffee so politely. Not when you tend to see what you want and merely take it.”

&
nbsp; “Do I do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I do that with you?”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned slowly in return. “Good. That means I can probably do it again.”

  “McCoy, damn you—”

  “Your meat is sizzling,” he told her. He leaped from the counter, still grinning. “Shall we eat?”

  “I’m not so sure,” Julie murmured. But he was already reaching for the plates he could see through the glass cabinet doors.

  “I think we need to eat really quickly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we just might have another argument coming on. And your stir-fry smells delicious. And I’m starving. And I don’t want you to throw me out of the house before I get a chance to wolf it all down.”

  Despite herself, Julie was smiling again.

  How was it possible to want to hang a man one minute and find herself laughing the next?

  Well, that was McCoy. He was complex and hard. Sometimes distant, and sometimes as weary as if he had already lived out a whole lifetime.

  And then there were times like this. When his chest muscles gleamed like copper and his dark blond hair was still damp and falling disobediently over his forehead and one eye. When some of the silver edge had left his eyes, and he seemed so young, so handsome …

  And so damned sexy …

  “Yes! We need to eat. Quickly!” Julie said. She was not letting her mind wander in that direction again.

  She scooped the concoction from the wok onto two plates.

  “Where shall we eat?” McCoy asked.

  “The dining room?”

  “Too mundane.”

  “The kitchen?”

  “Too tight. Ah,” he said softly. “The bedroom?”

  Julie shook her head warily. “Too intimate.”

  “Well, that was the idea.”

  “You have to work tomorrow,” Julie reminded him. “Remember, you’ve got to get going. We’ll eat in the parlor.”

  It would be safe, Julie thought.

  But it wasn’t.

  McCoy just wasn’t a safe man.

  They dined slowly. They talked politely. Mostly about Brenda and her children. Julie learned that his brother-in-law was a serviceman based in D.C. but on loan to a base in California at the moment. Their conversation remained pleasant, easy, casual.

  “I have to go,” McCoy said softly. “Go—or stay,” he added.

  “Oh, no,” Julie said. “Not tonight. You’re not staying tonight. We hardly know one another.”

  “I thought we were getting acquainted rather well.”

  “No. You have to go,” she said. But his eyes were on her lips. He watched her speak with fascination. He reached out and touched her lip gently with his fingertip.

  “I’m going.”

  But he didn’t leave. He pulled her into his arms again. His lips came down on hers. Tasting them, brushing them. Slowly, slowly savoring them.

  Julie broke away, looking into his eyes. “You have to … to …”

  Damn, but she liked his mouth. It was full and generous. And sensual. And when it met hers … as it was doing again … she felt such a startling arousal and sweet birth of emotion.

  “I have to what?” he whispered softly. The warmth of his breath touched her ear. Seared her throat. Entered into her.

  They hadn’t had an argument for well over an hour, she realized.

  She met his eyes, secure in the warmth of his arms, and she smiled. Slowly. Wickedly.

  “You have to stay, McCoy. That’s what you have to do.”

  He laughed softly.

  And kissed her again.

  Chapter 6

  Julie hadn’t expected to find herself at the police station the next morning, but by ten o’clock, that was exactly where she was.

  And the man with whom she had shared a warm and passionate night was staring at her as if she was a distasteful stranger. A thunderous frown knotted his forehead, and his lips were drawn tight and thin.

  It hadn’t been Julie’s idea to come. She had considered herself done with the case for now. She could help with the victim—not with the criminal.

  But Petty had wanted her called in.

  McCoy had left her house very early, just about with the crack of dawn. He’d gone home, showered, shaved and changed, and this morning, he looked just like a G-man.

  He was wearing a three-piece suit.

  And like black leather and casual knit shirts—and nothing at all—he wore it very well. The suit accentuated the tightly-muscled leanness of his physique and the breadth of his shoulders. His hair this morning was firmly brushed back from his forehead—the better to see the scowl, my dear, she thought—and he was all business.

  Well, she wasn’t particularly pleased about the turn of events herself. She had been so tired when he had left. Deliciously sleepy, worn and warm. She had barely roused herself when she’d heard him whisper that he was leaving and felt his kiss on her forehead. And when she had fallen asleep again, it had been a deep, comfortable sleep.

  Then her doorbell had seemed to shrill with the force of a million banshees, and she had shot up, disoriented. The doorbell had continued that awful screeching as she promised herself that she was either going to get a new one or rip the entire thing out while she hopped around, quickly trying to drag on a pair of jeans so that she could answer the summons and make the noise stop.

  Joe Silver and Patty had been on her porch. “Petty wants to see you, Julie. He said that we’re not to let you escape. We’re to sit right here until you’re ready to go to the station.”

  “You’re kidding,” Julie told her.

  “No. I’ll make the coffee. Have you any of that mocha blend to grind? I love it. It tastes better at your house than any other place in the world.”

  “Thanks, yes, grind away,” Julie called after her, looking at Joe Silver. He was a nice-looking man, mid-thirties, medium height and build, dark brown eyes, with a great smile. Julie had wondered for a long time if there wasn’t something going on between him and Patty.

  Patty always denied it.

  “What does Petty want?” Julie asked Joe.

  “He wants you to talk to a police artist from Charlestown, a man who’s supposed to be one of West Virginia’s finest.”

  “A police artist?”

  “Yes. To give him a description.”

  “But a description of what? I didn’t see anything!”

  Joe shrugged. “Well, I told Petty that. He’s just grasping at straws, but you know Petty when he gets something set in his mind.”

  “Yes, I know Petty.”

  “Coffee’s on. Get ready, Julie,” Patty said. “We’re not allowed to let you dawdle.”

  “Does our G-man know I’m coming?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

  “Yes, he knows,” Joe told her. He was watching her closely. So was Patty. Had they both guessed that there was something going on between her and McCoy?

  “And?”

  “And what?” Patty demanded.

  “He can’t be pleased.”

  “Oh, he isn’t,” Patty assured her cheerfully, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “But it is Petty’s station. And even our real McCoy respects that. Um, wake up and smell the coffee. Isn’t that a great aroma?” she asked Joe. “I’ll get you some. Julie Hatfield, you go get ready!”

  So she’d gotten dressed, choosing a light knit business suit with a soft white lace-trimmed blouse beneath, and stockings, fully aware that she’d need to be composed around her doubting McCoy.

  She hadn’t quite expected the look she was getting from him now. He hadn’t addressed her since she’d come into the station.

  Now he was half leaning and half sitting on Petty’s broad desk, his arms crossed, one long leg firmly on the floor, the other dangling. The police artist was sitting next to Julie, and Petty was in front of her, straddling an office chair and resting his chin on the high arched back of it as he watched Julie.
Joe and Patty had been dismissed after bringing her in. Timothy Riker, the chief’s right-hand man, was there, too.

  If McCoy wasn’t speaking to Julie at the moment, then Julie made sure she didn’t have anything to say to him. She addressed Petty and the artist. “I didn’t really see the man, Petty. If I’d had any kind of a picture, I would have told you. You know that.”

  “Yes, Miss Hatfield, but anything would be helpful at this point. Any impression at all. All I want you to do is close your eyes and think—and give me anything at all that comes into your mind.”

  Julie leaned forward, closing her eyes. At first she couldn’t think at all.

  McCoy had been staring at her with daggers in his eyes, and that made concentration hard. Even when she wasn’t looking at him, she could feel the heat of his gaze.

  Pity they didn’t need a description of McCoy. She could have told them inch by inch exactly what he looked like, his face, his legs, his chest, his …

  Shoulders …

  No, she couldn’t see the kidnapper’s face. But she could see his shoulder.

  Fear ripped through her, suddenly, vividly.

  Then the visions rushed in upon her. She was with Tracy again. Tracy as she stood in the road, Tracy as the man jumped from the car to sweep her up.

  Tracy, struggling …

  She couldn’t see the man’s face. Couldn’t see it at all because a stocking was pulled over it, distorting his features. But as Tracy fought with him, she pulled at his shirt. A long-sleeved tailored shirt. But he wasn’t wearing a tie, and several buttons were undone.

  Tracy ripped another one off. And the shirt slid off his shoulder. And there it was.

  A scar. About three inches, jagged. Maybe it had come from a fall or a knife wound. At one time, the tear had been deep. And it had left behind that scar …

  The same scar that Julie had seen in her dream. That dream she had nearly forgotten this morning, that dream in which her lover came to her …

  She was trembling, yet she was achingly aware that she had been afraid the scar had belonged to her dream lover. And now she knew.

  No, they were not one and the same.

  And then the realization struck her. They were coming closer and closer to the time when the terror would not come to her through another.