MacNamara's Woman

by Lisa Gardner

  C.J. picked up one of the papers sitting on the top of the in-basket and began to scan the campaign schedule. Instantly, she snatched it out of his hands and slapped it back onto the pile.

  “This is a working campaign headquarters, Mr. MacNamara,” she snapped. “I suggest you either state your business, or move on.”

  “I already told you,” he said with complete innocence. “I would like to learn more about the senator. This does seem the place for that.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How did you find me here? Did you follow me?”

  “A little bit paranoid, aren’t you?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  He shrugged. “All right. I looked you up, and lo and behold, here you are.”

  “You couldn’t look me up. I never gave you my name.”

  “I didn’t look up your name. I looked up your forehead.”

  She stopped frowning long enough to blink her eyes in genuine bewilderment. “Mr. MacNamara, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I don’t have time to play games. I would suggest you start telling me how you got here and what you want, or I’m going to call the security guards.”

  He leaned over until he could capture her gaze. Her chest was rising and falling a bit with agitation. Her features were pale, shuttered and remote, but he could see her tension in the blue vein pounding right above the line of her scarf. “Your stitches,” he said gently. “While you doubted me at the time, I knew you would need stitches. There is only one hospital nearby, so I called the ER. They gave me your name and, with a bit of cajoling on my part, the hotel where you are staying.”

  She leaned away, clearly not trusting him. He remembered that look on her face from last night. What was it that made her so cautious? He’d honestly never had a woman look at him as warily as she did. He wanted to shake her firmly and cry, “Hey, I’m one of the good guys.”

  “Hospitals don’t give out that kind of information,” she said firmly.

  “I’m a real bail enforcement officer, got a cool plastic badge and everything. You’d be amazed at what kind of information that will earn you.”

  Her forehead crinkled again. She appeared at once remote and vulnerable, controlled and fearful. But then her expression smoothed over and her chin came up a notch, the seasoned warrior ready for battle. He would’ve clapped at such a fine display of control, but she probably would’ve hit him. Given how well she drove and how nicely she was armed, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out how well she could hit.

  He tried another charming smile. All his life, women had been telling him they couldn’t resist that smile. “So how are you, Tamara Thompson? I worried about you all night.”

  Charisma didn’t appear to work well on her, either. “Huh,” she snorted with clear skepticism. “Do you always follow up on the women you save?”

  “Only the ones who might be suffering from concussions and are still too stubborn to let me drive them home.”

  She set down the pen with a sharp rap. “Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you again for stopping, all’s well that ends well, and you can be on your way now.”

  “You look very tired.”

  “Car accidents and concussions can have that effect on a woman.”

  “How are the brake lines? Have you figured out what might have caused one to rupture?”

  “I really haven’t had the time to look into it.”

  “I could look at it for you, if you’d like.”

  She said sharply, “Don’t you have a bar to run or something like that?”

  C.J. smiled. “My bar seems to take care of itself just fine whether I am around or not—”

  “Then your bar and me have something in common!”

  He couldn’t help it. He chuckled, and for whatever reason, that made her face flush becomingly. “I like talking to you, Tamara. I’ve never really had a woman so thoroughly put me in my place.”

  “Obviously.” She was trying to sound sharp, but she was clearly flustered. She picked the red pen back up, twirling it between her fingers and no longer meeting his gaze. He had a feeling that it had been a long time since a man had flirted with her. That made no sense to him. She was clearly an intelligent and attractive woman. He figured any self-respecting male would at least try for small talk. Then again, she was from New York. He didn’t pretend to understand New Yorkers.

  “So you work here?” he prodded.

  “I’m trying to.”

  “What brings a New Yorker all the way to Arizona to work on a senator’s campaign?”

  “I have family in the area. A . . . cousin. Patty. Patty Foster. She owns an art gallery in town.”

  “Yeah, Wild Horses. It’s a great gallery.”

  “I’ll tell her you said that.”

  “You don’t look anything like Patty.”

  Tamara’s lips thinned. “All right, Mr. MacNamara. Here’s the drill. I live in New York. I work for a big public relations firm called Lombardi’s. We like to think we’re one of the best firms around, and I like to think I’m one of the sharpest junior partners. As such, I’m entitled to four weeks of vacation a year. Maybe you’ve heard of vacations?”

  “Touché.”

  “I took two weeks. Monday, I arrived to assist with kicking off the senator’s campaign. In another ten days, I’ll be returning to New York—”

  “Perfect, you know all about the senator. Why don’t you show me around? I’m a registered voter. I figure someone has to be president. Tell me why it should be him.”

  She took a deep breath. He could almost see her mentally counting to ten. Her cheeks had gained more color, and her eyes had taken on a fierce, golden hue. He liked her looking this way—on the verge of chewing him up and spitting him out. He tried another smile.

  “You did not come here to ask about Senator Brennan!”

  “True, but since I am here—”

  “Mr. MacNamara—”

  “Please, call me C.J.” Her eyes were beginning to burn. Tiger eyes. He was incredibly intrigued. She slapped her pen down on her desk hard enough to make the young girl walking by flinch.

  “Stop it! I have no idea why you are here. I have no idea why you insist on following me around. Look, I’m grateful you stopped last night, but I can take care of myself. Now, I want you to leave.”

  “Tamara, I’m not stalking you—you can call the sheriff for a character reference if you’d like. However, I am very attracted to you—”

  “You don’t even know me!”

  “Exactly. Which I’m trying to remedy, but so far conversations with you are like getting up close and personal with a porcupine—”

  “Which you should take as a hint.”

  “Well, I’ve always been a little slow that way.” He cocked his head to the side, regarding her seriously for the first time. “You seeing anyone?”

  Her jaw worked. She was beginning to look a little dazed. He had a feeling there weren’t many situations she couldn’t control and not many men who gave her a true run for her money. Yep, he liked her.

  Abruptly, she shook her head.

  “You married?”

  She shook her head again, but her gaze was mutinous.

  “You’re not interested in me at all?” he cajoled. “Not the teeniest bit? Not even one iota of interest?”

  “No. Not even one iota. I am completely iota-less.”

  He beamed smugly. “Liar.”

  “Oh, you egotistical, insufferable—”

  “You’re blushing again.”

  “I am not!” But she was blushing, and now her face grew even redder. She was very, very flustered. Her eyes had turned to molten gold; the air around her was beginning to crackle. On her desk, her hands opened and shut in tight movements of frustration. If they hadn’t been in the middle of a ballroom filled with people, he would’ve leaned over and kissed her.

  Instead, he stood abruptly, removing himself from the edge of her desk. A volunteer was walking by them. He used the oppo
rtunity to say loudly, “Why, Miss Thompson, I had no idea the senator felt so strongly about family values. We sure could use more of those.”

  The volunteer, an older woman in a bright flowered dress, beamed at them both proudly. C.J. waited until she’d passed to add, “So why does he chase anything with breast implants and a short skirt?”

  Tamara closed her eyes. She was definitely counting to ten now. But she was good. Even as he watched, she pulled herself together. “Those are merely rumors,” she said crisply. “You know how the press is these days.”

  “He’s not a womanizer?” C.J. quizzed quietly.

  “George Brennan has been married for thirty-two years. He’s a proud husband and good father. He got both of his kids into Harvard Law. He believes very strongly in family.”

  “And education?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about Medicare, Social Security, the increasing number of homicides being committed by kids under the age of sixteen?”

  “George Brennan is tough on crime. As a senator, he backed several key legislative initiatives to try juveniles as adults and build more prisons. He’s on record as being pro death penalty.”

  C.J. nodded, but he was frowning. For a woman who five minutes ago had practically sizzled with frustration, she was totally lacking in emotion now. She recited the senator’s political positions like a paid announcer in an infomercial. No passion, no conviction, no religious belief. His instincts resumed nagging—something about this woman wasn’t right.

  “I always heard that the senator was an old-school, boys-will-be-boys kind of man. You know, the kind with several ladies on the side, an inflated expense account and enough extravagant presents from the lobbyists to make you really wonder.”

  “Rumors.”

  “He’s been in politics for twenty years, Tamara. The media nicknamed him The Fox for his ability to consistently evade all hound dog reporters. How much of it really is a lie?”

  “I have the senator’s position sheet right here, if you’d like,” she said coolly.

  “Have you ever met the senator?”

  “No.” She paused for a minute, then added, “He arrives in town one week from Saturday for the big kickoff.”

  “You must be very excited.”

  “We’re all very excited. This is a very exciting time.”

  “Tamara, why don’t I believe you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Her gaze had latched on to her computer, her face impenetrable. He wanted to touch her cheek. He wanted to smooth his thumb down the line of her jaw. Then he wanted to brush his thumb over her lips, see if they would gently part, look into her eyes for some kind of sign, some kind of response. For one moment, he’d thought he’d reached her, dug beneath her composure to find a fierce, witty, passionate woman. Now she sat so still, so remote, so contained inside herself.

  “Walk me to the door?” he suggested at last, his voice light. He knew how to beat a strategic retreat.

  The relief on her face made him smile. “You’re leaving?”

  “You could at least fake disappointment.”

  “I would hate to be inconsistent.” She rose smoothly, obviously more than willing to show him out if that’s what it took to get rid of him. He shook his head, having to smile at the irony. In all of his life, he’d never encountered a female so immune to his charm. If his brother, Brandon, or sister, Maggie, ever heard about this, they’d laugh until their faces turned blue.

  Tamara came out from around her desk. She kept a reasonable amount of distance from him and was already turning toward the front doors of the ballroom. Her sharply tailored pantsuit resembled the one she’d worn last night. Between the black, glossy form of her boots and the delicate puff of scarf at her neck, she was basically covered from head to toe. Elegant, striking, a woman who had something to hide.

  She took the first step forward and he immediately noticed her limp. “You’re hurt.”

  She shook her head. “Old injury. Nothing to do with last night.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “The doctors gave me a clean bill of health. I just need to change the bandage on my forehead. Really, the accident wasn’t that serious.”

  “You handled your car like a professional.”

  Her lips curved up slightly at his unspoken question. “You know, C.J., you’re even more stubborn than I am.”

  “Just unbelievably curious. You handled a car at high speeds through S curves. You carry more tools in your trunk than even I do, and you fix brake lines as casually as flipping eggs.”

  “The SCCA,” she admitted at last.

  He stopped in genuine surprise. “You race cars? I race cars. What class are you in?”

  “ITA.”

  “Really? I’m ITC! I have a 1980 Volkswagen Scirocco, 1.5 liter engine, one hundred horsepower. Just bought it last year. Suspension is a mess, but it’s getting there.”

  “Mine’s a 1983 Toyota Corolla GTS. Bought it five years ago. It needs a new engine, but it’s hanging in there. One-hundred-twenty horsepower engine, of course. What can you do with one hundred?”

  “You race Limerock, New Hampshire and Pocono?”

  “When I can.”

  C.J. let out a low whistle. A woman who knew about cars. A woman who liked to spend her weekends racing cars. Now he was impressed. More and more women were getting into racing, but they were still grossly outnumbered by the men. In the friendly, low-key world of SCCA racing, the “Leave It to Beaver” family model still applied. Daddy raced the car. Mommy packed the picnic lunch for the day. Little children ran around like hellions amid the stacked tires, piled tools and dismantled engines, while the teenage son attentively went over the engine with Dad, checked the tires, adjusted the suspension and waited for the day he would be the one behind the wheel.

  This woman belonged to that friendly, easygoing community. This woman with her cool expression and fancy suits knew how to get down and dirty, how to wrestle with mufflers, shocks and pistons to squeeze that last ounce of performance from a car. She could drive.

  “Wow,” he said at last. “If you can also handle dry-wall, tap a keg and burp the ABCs, I’ll marry you.”

  Her lips curved reluctantly. “I don’t burp.”

  “Darn. Women have no idea how much that would put men at ease.”

  “I’m sorry, but if you’ll just keep looking, I’m sure your ideal woman is out there somewhere.”

  “What got you into racing?”

  She paused, eyeing him up and down. “Last question?” she negotiated.

  “Last question, then I’m on my way. Marine’s honor.”

  She appeared skeptical but nodded. “All right, I got into racing to learn how to be a better driver. You know how it is back east. December hits, snow starts arriving, and the roads become something out of a nightmare.” She shrugged. “I have a demanding job. I have to be able to get around no matter what the conditions. And I don’t like being afraid. A racetrack teaches you what you need to know about handling a car at high speeds, in aggressive traffic and under adverse conditions. I learned. And last night, I was very grateful for those lessons.”

  For a change, her expression wasn’t guarded; her deep, dark eyes were clear.

  “Yes,” he murmured at last. “I bet you were.”

  “Here we are, C.J. I answered your questions. Now I have to get back to work.”

  They arrived at the huge double doors of the ballroom. A steady traffic of bodies flooded around them. C.J. lingered a minute longer. His expression grew serious. After a moment, he gave in to the impulse and gently brushed his thumb down her cheek.

  She flinched, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Please. I’m really . . . I’m really not someone you should be interested in.”

  “You won’t consider dinner?” he asked softly.

  “No. I’m in town to assist with the senator’s campaign. Once things get going, I’ll need to return to New York.”

  “Then we’ll make it a sh
ort meal.”

  She shook her head again, refusing to look at him. “I need to work.”

  “Tamara, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course.”

  C.J. crossed his arms over his chest. “Tamara, if you know so much about cars, then you know as well as I do that punctures in a brake line are not common. Especially upper brake lines. I saw your engine, too. There was nothing loose, no sharp edges—”

  “The brake lines were new,” she interrupted firmly. “I’m sure I just received a bad line. I’ve called my mechanic about it. It’s taken care of.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  C.J. took a deep breath, surprised by the spark of anger and frustration that shot through him. It was his business because he wanted it to be his business. And frankly, he was used to getting his own way. Particularly when he grinned.

  “My bar,” he said abruptly. “It’s called the Ancient Mariner. If you ever need anything, ever want to reach me, I’m there.”

  “Fine,” she said, clearly humoring him.

  “If you need anything, you will call?”

  Her eyes were starting to glow again. “You are so persistent!” Abruptly she threw her hands in the air. “You are insane, C. J. MacNamara, but if it means so much to you, then, yes, if a big bad dragon ever shows up at my ivory tower, you’ll be the first knight I look up in the yellow pages.”

  “Good.” He pushed away from the door frame. He walked into the throng of arriving volunteers, but at the last moment, he turned back. “Tamara,” he said softly. “Take care of yourself, okay? Take care.”

  • • •

  “Who the hell is C. J. MacNamara?”

  Tamara sat down hard in front of Patty in the sitting room at the back of the Wild Horses gallery. The store had closed an hour ago, and away from prying eyes, Tamara could release the emotions building in her chest. That she had so many emotions was already something of a shock for her. Her life for the last ten years had been a carefully modulated exercise in control and concentration. It had gotten her through physical therapy even on the days when her body had rebelled, and after that, it had turned her into one hell of a public relations executive.