by Alicia Scott
Her gaze remained locked on the blue-checked picnic blanket. "I'm … I'm not very good at this."
"What is 'good at this'?" he quizzed gently. "You either enjoy being with someone or you don't. You're either comfortable with someone or you're not. I don't expect anything from you. I'm happy we had dinner together. I enjoyed talking with you. I do think you're beautiful. Especially when you smile."
Her head turned slightly. For a moment, she studied him as if she was trying to figure out whether he was lying or not. Then she removed her hand from his grip, and in a gesture that was curiously vulnerable, she pressed it against her stomach.
"Thank you for dinner," she said quietly. "I did enjoy the conversation. Your family … they sound very special. Now I need to go, C.J. I have work to do. And in one week or so, I will be returning to New York."
"Understood," he said softly, though he was disappointed. Acutely disappointed. More disappointed than he had been in a long time. He worked on shrugging it away. "That's still at least a week away, you know. And a girl's gotta eat…"
"Maybe, C.J. Maybe."
* * *
After pulling up in the parking lot, he waited while she retrieved the items she'd left in her car. He complimented the kachina doll, but she didn't seem to have much to say about it.
They walked through the lush garden and swimming pool of the resort until they came to her hotel room. C.J. could tell she was becoming nervous again, tense. Her face had shuttered over. Her shoulders were square. She was retreating somewhere deep inside herself, marshaling her energies, cutting herself off.
He waited until she put her key in the lock, then gently turned her around.
He was aware of the softness of the night, the way the dry, dusty shadows swirled around them. He could hear crickets, the whir of gilla woodpeckers, the rhythmic lap of pool water against the patio. He let the sounds settle and linger, his arms still around her.
And he waited for the moment of awareness to hit her, too. That sharp, electric moment when her breath would suddenly slow, her eyes widen and her lips part. That moment when her gaze would meet his again and finally bloom with warm wonder. That moment when her body would subtly and unconsciously lean toward his.
It didn't happen. Nothing changed. Her body remained as rigid and tense as the very first time he'd met her. She was frozen.
Puzzled, he bent and slowly brushed her lips with his own. Then he brushed them again, testing the full softness, feeling them part. He dipped his tongue in and tasted her. Warm, he thought. Sweet. And totally unresponsive.
He pulled back. She'd already averted her face.
"Is it me?" he asked quietly.
Her mouth opened, her throat working. It looked like she was saying yes. Maybe she wanted to say yes.
Instead, she stated abruptly, "No. It's not you. It's just … it's just the way I am."
"Tamara—"
She pushed out of his arms, already shaking her head. "It's been a long night. I need to go." She yanked open the door and disappeared inside her room without preamble.
His hand was still reaching out for her when the door slammed shut.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. He stood there feeling like an absolute idiot and having no idea what to do about it. He raked his fingers through his hair once, twice, then three times.
Finally, still shaking his head, he turned to walk away.
Just as he stepped forward, however, the silence of the night was broken. Behind him, Tamara screamed.
Chapter 4
« ^ »
"Tamara!" He pounded on the door. "Tamara!"
Her screams grew louder, then broke off in a strangled cry. C.J. gave up on civility. He took six steps back, then barreled into the door with the full force of his body. It burst open.
Tamara stood in the middle of the luxurious room beating at the floor with her kachina doll. Her dark hair flew around her face. Her pale cheeks were covered in beads of sweat. She pounded at the floor harder and harder, lost in a frenzy.
Beneath her rage, a good-size scorpion was being pulverized to bits.
"Tamara! Tamara, it's dead."
She slammed the kachina doll more furiously, her hair crackling. C.J. made a grab for her arm but couldn't catch it. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay."
She finally looked at him, and the fear in her face caught him off guard. Then so did the rage. She hammered the wooden doll hard.
C.J. moved forward forcefully, catching her full-shoulder and spinning her around. She raised the wooden statue unconsciously, and he blocked the blow, grabbed the doll and tossed it onto the bed.
"Stop it, stop it. Sh. It's okay. It's okay."
She remained, struggling. "I don't need you!" she cried fiercely.
"Tamara—"
"Get out! Get out!"
"Tamara—"
"I don't need you! I don't need your smiles or your chicken. You have to be able to stand alone, don't you get it?" Her fists suddenly beat his chest. "You want to learn how to walk, you take the first step yourself, that's what Ben always said. No one's going to do it for you. There's only yourself. Only yourself!"
C.J. finally caught her flailing fists and pinned them between their bodies. He gripped her shoulders hard, his fingers welting her skin. "Tamara, calm down! What the hell are you talking about?"
Her head fell back. Her eyes killed him, and he didn't even know why. She looked unbelievably angry. She looked unbelievably scared. She looked like she might shatter into a million pieces and never be put back together again.
He didn't understand what she was saying or thinking. He followed instinct, cradling her body against him, her cheek against his shoulder. She went rigid, like a rod of steel, and then the spell broke and she sagged against him.
"Sh," he whispered against the top of her hair. "Sh. It's all right now. It's all right."
He rocked her, rubbing her back, stroking her long, silken hair, then her arm, her waist. He waited for tears. He waited for her to wrap her arms around him and hold him as if he were the last anchor in the storm. She did neither. She just stood there, slumped against him like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He could feel the delicate structure of her ribs, the slender curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her hips. She hardly made a dent against him, her build was so slight. She must have lost weight recently—a fair amount of it.
"It's okay," he murmured again, wishing he knew what she needed—or what she was so afraid of. He rested his cheek against the top of her hair, still rocking her back and forth. Her body was warm and fragrant. He smelled Arizona sandstone and windswept creosote tangled in her hair and dusting her skin. Just as he was beginning to relax, she pushed away.
She stepped back too quickly, her bad ankle not ready and almost sending her to the floor. He caught her arm, and when he was sure she wouldn't fall, withdrew on his own.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly in the silence, her breath labored. Abruptly, she raised one hand and scrubbed her pale cheeks.
"Tamara," he asked quietly, "are you all right?"
A shiver snaked through her body. "I don't know what came over me…"
"You had quite a shock." He waited a moment and, when she still didn't speak, asked, "Did you just find the scorpion on the floor?"
"No. The bed. In the middle. I went to sit down to take off my boots and…"
"And that probably scared the living daylights out of you."
"Yes. It did." She rubbed her arms, her head finally rising to look out her window. The emotion had left her face. Now her skin was the color of bone, her smooth cheeks and chiseled jaw like the face of a marble sculpture.
"Tamara, who is Ben?"
"Ben? He was my physical therapist."
"I see," C.J. said, but he didn't. He didn't understand why she had become so angry, and he was beginning to wonder if she knew. She was a study of contrasts, a strong, composed, professional woman who said she didn't respond to kisses. An enraged, angry female who could pulverize a sc
orpion better than any marine.
He took a step toward her. Instantly she raised a hand, halting him.
"Please," she whispered. "I just … I need some time to myself." She looked at him finally. The shadows seemed to have darkened around her eyes. She appeared at once vulnerable and wary.
"You don't have to be alone, Tamara. No, no…" he said when she opened her mouth to immediately argue. "I'm not hitting on you this time, that's not what I meant. But you've been through a big shock, you've had a long day. If you'd like, I'll stay here on the sofa. Sometimes it's nice to have someone around."
She hesitated, her gaze going from him to the sofa to him. He could tell the idea appealed to her at least a little bit. But then she drew herself up, the fierce, independent stubborn woman winning out.
"I appreciate your offer, but I'm fine. Honest. It was just a scorpion. I'll call hotel management and have them take care of it."
"Like you called your mechanic to take care of your car."
"What … what do you mean?"
"I don't know, Tamara, you tell me. First you have a problem with your brake lines in a car that shouldn't have problems with a brake line, then you find a live scorpion in a room that shouldn't have problems with scorpions."
"I guess I'm having an unlucky week."
"Sounds like a rather dangerous one to me."
"C.J., please. It's just coincidence. Don't be making more out of this than is necessary."
"Tamara, if something was going on, would you tell me?"
"You don't even know me. We're just two strangers—"
"Thank you," he interrupted quietly, "that answers my question." Abruptly, he was angry with her. No, frustrated. Tired of being knocked down when he was honestly trying to be helpful. The distance between them grew tense and unhappy. A rift had appeared in their very tenuous relationship, and he didn't feel like mending it.
He wanted her to make some effort. Instead, as minute turned into minute, she brought her chin up stubbornly and squared her shoulders.
That did it. He headed for the door. There was a certain point where a man went from being a romantic to being a fool. Of course, after opening the door, he hesitated just long enough to give her a second chance at reaching out.
She didn't take it.
He exited stage right, and Tamara was left standing all alone with only her pride to protect her.
Finally, she closed the door, fastened the bolt lock and retrieved her gun from her purse. Long after housekeeping came and removed the dead scorpion, she remained sitting in a dark corner, eyes peeled, gun ready, for a danger she couldn't name.
She thought of the anger that had possessed her when she'd started to beat the scorpion, the white-hot rage that this thing would try to hurt her. She'd been so angry, she hadn't recognized her own self. It was as if some dark, gnashing beast had taken over. Something ugly and hurting and feral. Then C.J. was trying to tell her it would be all right and the beast had turned on him. It would not be all right. Other people did not make things all right. Other people died and left you alone.
She rested her forehead on her knees and squeezed her eyes shut.
She didn't know where any of the emotions had come from. She didn't know what had possessed her, or why she had lashed out at C.J. like a madwoman. She was the cool, composed businesswoman. She was the determined person who'd taught herself how to walk even when her body had hated her. She had put tragedy behind her and built a successful career.
There was nothing to be angry about anymore.
Five days in Sedona, and she was unraveling like a cheaply woven sweater.
Get a grip, Tamara. Get a grip.
* * *
She tried to sleep, but the nightmares snatched it away. She was at the Chapel of the Holy Cross, the cross-shaped church carved in rock that had helped make Sedona famous. She was looking for her family. She was supposed to meet them here for services. She was supposed to find Shawn.
She stood at the arching, cross-shaped window, looking out at Sedona's soaring red rocks and pressing her cheek against the cold glass. The church was so unbearably silent.
She walked across the tiny chapel, hunting beneath the pews for her family, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling as if they were hiding from her there. But she couldn't find her parents. She couldn't find Shawn.
She stood alone in the middle of the cold, empty church.
Why did you take them from me? And why did you let me live?
How could you have been so cruel?
But she couldn't find her parents, she couldn't find Shawn, and even in the church of her childhood, she could no longer find God.
* * *
She woke up with a start. The clock glowed 3:00 a.m. The exhaustion pressed against her and made her limbs heavy. She crawled out of bed, anyway, pulled herself together and formulated a new plan.
* * *
After tossing out two drunks and breaking up one brawl, C.J. finally closed up the Ancient Mariner and made it home. His mood hadn't improved since leaving Tamara, and he was definitely looking forward to a long night's sleep. In the morning, he told himself grumpily, he'd figure out the rest. In the morning.
He'd just dozed off when the phone rang.
"No," he moaned from beneath the covers.
The phone rang again.
"Absolutely not. It's three in the morning."
The phone rang a third time.
"Dammit!" He snatched the receiver off the phone and dragged it beneath the covers. "What?" he demanded to know, still refusing to open his eyes for the occasion.
"Temper, temper," a distinctly male voice drawled. "Am I interrupting something? Please tell her I said hi."
"Brandon!" C.J. scowled, gave up on getting any sleep in the near future and sat up in bed, raking his hand through his hair. Since his wife's death three years ago, Brandon had been traveling the globe in a rambling, restless fashion eerily similar to their father, Max. The last time C.J. had seen his brother was a year ago when Brandon had returned to Oregon to help rescue their sister, Maggie, who had been taken hostage by an escaped murderer, Cain Cannon. A former investment banker, Brandon had supplied a six-digit reward and his razor-sharp intellect. C.J. had brought guns and considerable other skills.
Maggie had stunned them both by saving herself and then turning around and marrying the man. Go figure.
"Brandon, where the hell are you, and why can't you remember the time zone the rest of us are in?"
"It's 3:00 a.m. where you are."
"Thanks."
"And tomorrow here in Iceland."
"What?"
"Iceland. You're right. The country is beautiful."
For a moment, C.J. was too stunned to speak. He knew Iceland. After his mother had died, Max had taken him to Europe ostensibly on business. A few months later, Max had announced that they deserved a vacation, and they'd gone to Iceland. For two weeks, they'd stayed up all night to enjoy twenty-three hours of sunlight. They'd hung out in bars with the grinning, happy locals, who could toss back beer like nobody's business. Twelve-year-old C.J. had gotten his first taste of vodka and his first hangover. His father had taken him horseback riding across the breathtaking green landscape.
And for one moment, C.J. had forgotten the dirt and graffiti of Sunset Boulevard. He forgot cracked sidewalks filled with too many people who'd given up on their dreams. He forgot the nights he'd gone to bed hungry because he'd given all the food he could scrounge to his coughing, feverish mother. He forgot the hot, angry tears that had dribbled down his cheeks as he'd held her hand and watched her die, still calling for the man she insisted was the love of her life—Max Ferringer.
C.J. forgot some of his hatred. He saw Max as the strong, laughing, exotic hero his mother had claimed him to be. And for two weeks, he'd been proud to be Maximillian's son.
Two months later, C.J. was on a farm in Tillamook, Oregon, while a grandma he'd never met quietly told him his father wouldn't be picking him up. His plane had g
one down in Indonesia. A search party was still trying to find his body.
"Why are you in Iceland?" C.J.'s voice was sharper than he wanted it to be.
"I've never been."
"Dammit!" C.J. no longer tried to hide his anger. "This is me you're talking to, Brandon. Don't play your slick, Ivy League double-speak games with me. You think Maggie and I don't know what you're up to? Do you think we're not worried sick about the way you're treating yourself? When I saw you last year, you looked liked you'd dropped a good thirty pounds. Maggie complains that you've forgotten how to smile. For God's sake, if you don't care about yourself, at least think of Maggie and Lydia. They deserve a helluva lot better than—"
"Another Max?"
"You said it, Brandon, not me."
There was a long silence filled with the crackling static of under-the-ocean phone cables. "Did you know that Iceland is one of the most volcanic regions on earth?" Brandon asked abruptly.
C.J. scowled, hating the way Brandon could so easily change topics. The man was scary bright, and his stint as a Wall Street investment banker had given him a hard edge that C.J. at once respected and abhorred. "Gee, Brandon, sitting in Arizona at 3:00 a.m., no, I had not contemplated that Iceland was one of the most volcanic regions on the planet. But thanks for the geography lesson."
"So is Indonesia."
"So?"
"So don't you think there could be some connection here?" Brandon asked.
C.J. blinked his eyes a few times, then he shook his head. "No. No way. There is no connection between Max's vacation with me in Iceland and his plane going down in Indonesia. For God's sake, Brandon, the man hit about every country there was. It was what he did. Given your itinerary for the last few years, you ought to know that better than anyone."
"Haven't you ever wondered what Max actually did for a living?"
"He was an importer-exporter," C.J. said blithely.
"Didn't you ever wonder where all his money came from?"
"Maggie's and your mothers." C.J. zinged, then bit his own tongue. "Sorry," he said after a moment. "That was unfair."
"Yes," Brandon said quietly, "but I understand."
