by Alicia Scott
"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 race track 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 into 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 short 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.
This afternoon, on the other hand, she'd had no focus or concentration to speak of. She'd sat at her desk, trying to edit the senator's announcement speech and thinking about C.J. MacNamara instead. She thought of his blue eyes, his wavy blond hair, the way he leaned against her desk as if he had all the time in the world. The way he smiled as if he was very pleased to see her. The way he gazed at her, as if he wanted to turn her inside out and learn every last nuance of her thoughts. The way his fingers thrummed on the edge of her desk, long, blunt and callused.
Oh, for God's sake! She shook her head hard, trying to erase the images from her mind. She did not get angry. She did not get frustrated. And she did not lose sight of her goals and objectives merely because a nice-looking man with way too much testosterone stopped by for a chat.
"C.J. MacNamara?"
Tamara leaned forward, recognizing the shock stamped on her friend's face. After all these years, Patty was still beautiful. She wore her bright red hair down in a mass of springy curls. Her loose, flowing silk dress in deep purple fit her image as an art gallery proprietor. They had first become friends in grade school. Then, when they were twelve, Patty's mother had died of breast cancer. For a while, her father had been too overwhelmed with his grief to handle his daughter. Patty had adopted Tamara's family instead, becoming the sister Tamara had never had. When Tamara had decided to return to Sedona, Patty had been the first and only person she'd called.
"How did you meet C.J.?" Patty quizzed sharply. Her green eyes appeared anxious.
"He was the one who assisted me last night when I had trouble with my car." Tamara hadn't told Patty all the evening's details; she didn't want to worry her too much. "Then he showed up today at campaign headquarters."
"He's following you?"
"Yes … well…" Tamara didn't know quite what to make of it herself. "He … uh, he asked me out."
Patty sat back abruptly, looking even more startled and slightly appraising. In spite of her best intentions, Tamara felt herself blushing. There was nothing to blush about, dammit. He'd expressed interest. She'd said no. He'd persisted. Some men really liked a challenge. Obviously, C.J. MacNamara was one of them.
"He's quite the ladies' man," Patty said softly.
"I got that impression."
"Do you want to go out with him?"
Tamara vehemently shook her head. "I committed myself when I returned to Arizona. I'm here to learn the truth about what happened to my family. For God's sake, Patty, I just saw the list of preliminary donations coming in for the senator's campaign. Several Fortune 500 companies have given hundreds of thousands for TV commercials, you name it. The senator's announcement won't be halfhearted. He's committed to running for president. If he learns what I'm up to…"
Patty's expression was becoming more anxious. When they had been kids, Patty had been the high-spirited rebel, always getting them into trouble, while Tamara had been the good girl bailing them out. After her mother's death, Patty had really gone off the deep end. She'd started smoking, drinking, breaking curfew. Now, however, the tables had turned, and the adult version of Patty seemed intent on subdued caution.
When Tamara had called about coming to Sedona, Patty had been against it. It was too dangerous, she'd said. Tamara had managed to talk her into it, but it was obvious Patty's doubts remained.
"Go back to New York," Patty said abruptly. "Really, if you return now, the senator will never suspect a thing and everything will be all right."
"It'll be okay."
Patty shook her head. "Tammy, please… You live in Manhattan, you make all this money and drive a fancy car. You're this incredibly successful public relations person. You were even dating some big-name doctor—"
"Donald. It … it didn't work out."
"But you'll meet others. The point is, you have this great life. So what are you doing, Tamara? You're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. And if the senator was the one who hit your family's car, and he does find out what you're doing…"
"I'm being very careful."
Patty threw up her arms, her red hair crackling. "Tammy, what about me? I live here. I'm trying to run an art gallery, and frankly, I am not driving a Lexus. We're telling everyone you're my cousin. He starts looking at you and he's going to find me!" Patty's lips trembled, then she pressed them into a thin, angry line. "I want to help you, Tammy. Your family was like my family too. I do want to know what happened that night. But not if it risks everything. I've lost enough in my life, and what can either of us really change?"
Tamara was silent. She wanted to be able to answer that question; she wasn't sure she knew how. When she'd first awakened in the hospital and remembered the accident, an image had hovered at the edge of her mind, the blurred picture of a man's face leaning over her. She couldn't make it come into focus. Then, six months later, recovering from the bone graft operation on her lower left leg, she'd seen Senator George Brennan being interviewed on the news and she'd realized abruptly, that was the man. The man who'd leaned over her at the accident site.
She'd followed up with police, but when they pressed her hard, she'd backed down. No, she wasn't one hundred percent certain. No, she didn't remember that well. The police weren't going to pursue a state senator without solid evidence, they told her. They were looking for witnesses to the crash. They were trying to find a car matching the red paint they'd taken from her parents' car. The skid marks helped them deduce the tires, suspension, and so forth, to discover the type of car the other person was driving. They'd find that car, they'd find the driver, they would solve the case. She didn't need to worry about it. She needed to work on getting well.
She had. Alone in Manhattan at one of the few hospitals in the nation capable of rebuilding shattered pelvises, she went through enough surgeries and physical therapy to last her a lifetime. Year turned into year. She got a degree. Got a job. Built a career. The police still searched for leads. She learned to live alone. She tried to tell herself she was happy. She used her success to buy the right clothes, the right co-op, the right car. And she woke up on Christmas mornings so weighted down she couldn't get out of bed. She spent Thanksgiving and Easter and her birthdays and their birthdays in a black fog so thick she couldn't cry, she couldn't speak, she couldn't moan.
She won major new PR accounts but never made close friends. She attended all the glitzy PR functions, but rarely with a date. Finally Donald had pursued her, and he'd seemed so patient, so kind, such the right kind of man for a successful PR executive, she'd given it a try. She should get on with her life. She should date. She was strong. She could do this.
It had ended six months ago for reasons she couldn't tell even Patty about. And Tamara had stayed up all night, feeling the dark mood roll over her again, and she'd realized for the first time that she had to go back. She simply had to go back. Maybe if she could determine the truth about her parents' last night, then she would finally be able to go forward.
She'd given herself two weeks. If she couldn't find any new information on a ten-year-old accident in two weeks of focused search, then she probably just wouldn't. Maybe it would be enough to know that she'd tried.
"I have to do this," she said at last, the closest she could come to expressing all the jumbled thoughts and emotions in her mind.
"Tammy—"
"Patty, I'll be careful. I'm hardly running around town accusing anyone of anything. I researched articles on the accident in the library. I learned the senator was receiving an award from the American Legion that night, which would put him on the same road as my parents. I've been asking aro
und campaign headquarters to learn more about him and his habits, just subtle things. Tomorrow, I'm going to talk to a woman who lives by the crash site. Maybe she saw something.
"I won't do anything rash, I promise. I want to know the truth … but you're right … I'm not prepared to sacrifice everything I've built in the last ten years for it."
"What if someone recognizes you?"
"That was ten years ago, Patty. I was just a kid. Most people don't even remember the Allistairs. There's no reason to connect New York PR executive Tamara Thompson with little Tammy Allistair. It'll be all right."
Patty looked away, her face still troubled. The silence grew long.
"That night," Patty said softly, "when my father woke me up to tell me that there had been an accident, that Mr. and Mrs. Allistair were dead, that Shawn was dead, that you were in critical condition and might not live—that was so horrible, Tammy. Like my mother, all over again. I don't want to go through that again. That … that hurt in ways you don't understand."
"I do understand."
"No, Tammy, you don't. You lost your first family. I lost my second. I went through everything twice. I hate funerals!"
"You and your father are close now. You have family."
"It's taken us a long time."
"I'll be careful," Tamara insisted, her voice curt. She didn't want to discuss it anymore. She just wanted to do it.
After another awkward moment, Tamara gathered her things. "What do you think of C.J. MacNamara? Is it just coincidence?"
Patty rolled her eyes. "Of course it's coincidence!" she snapped, obviously still unhappy. "For God's sake, Tamara, keep your grip on reality. The whole world is not out to get you."
"You're right, you're right." Tamara held up her hands in apology. Suddenly self-conscious again, she said, "Call you in a bit."
Patty nodded but the mood still wasn't right. At the doorway, Tamara paused one last time. She saw her childhood friend sitting on the edge of a funky chocolate leather sofa. She saw the bright coppery hair that filled so many of her childhood memories. She looked at the woman she'd once considered a sister.
