Hatfield and McCoy by Heather Graham

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.
    â€œSo what do you do?” he asked her.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œFor a living. You said you aren’t paid for being a—”
    â€œCharlatan?” 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.”
    â€œNice,” he commented.
    â€œNo, not really. I’d much rather have my parents back.”
    â€œSorry,” 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.”
    â€œReally?” 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?”
    â€œCharlatan short stories.”
    â€œNow really, the question was civil.”
    â€œBy your standards, I imagine it was.”
    â€œTesty, testy.”
    â€œWe charlatans get that way.”
    â€œAre 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.”
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œHere? 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?”
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œYou think he’ll strike again?”
    â€œYes.”
    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.
    â€œDo you want—” she started to ask, then broke off. No, he wouldn’t want her help.
    â€œDo I want what?”
    â€œWine with dinner, or would you like another beer?”
    â€œI’ll have a glass of wine with you, if you don’t mind making some coffee after.”
    Julie laughed softly.
    â€œCoffee is funny?”
    â€œWell, you found the beer yourself, managed to inveigle dinner—”
    â€œAnd sex. Don’t forget the sex.”
    Julie flushed. She hadn’t forgotten it.
    She never would.
    â€œAt 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.”
    â€œDo I do that?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDid I do that with you?”
    â€œYes.”
    He grinned slowly in return. “Good. That means I can probably do it again.”
    â€œMcCoy, damn you—”
    â€œYour meat is sizzling,” he told her. He leaped from the counter, still grinning. “Shall we eat?”
    â€œI’m not so sure,” Julie murmured. But he was already reaching for the plates he could see through the glass cabinet doors.
    â€œI think we need to eat really quickly.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause we just might have another argument coming on. And your stir-fry smells delicious. And I’m starving. And I don’t want