Macnamara's Woman

by Alicia Scott

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was nothing Brandon, C.J. and Maggie wouldn't do for one another, and in that sense, Lydia's plan had worked. But Max still hung between them. They had shared different experiences with him and had come to terms with him in their own ways. C.J. tried hard not to resent the fact that Max had married his half siblings' mothers when he'd refused to marry C.J.'s. Brandon and Maggie tried not to resent that for one year, C.J. had gotten to live with Max. More than any of them, he'd spent time with their enigmatic, unreachable father.

  "Brandon, why are you doing this? Maggie, Lydia and I are beginning to really worry about you. For God's sake, let Max go. Let Julia go."

  "I can't."

  "You need to get a job again."

  "And make more money?" Brandon's laughter was harsh. "No thanks."

  "Brandon," C.J. sighed, but his older brother wouldn't let him finish.

  "I think there's a connection," he announced suddenly. "C.J., I think Max had something to do with Julia's death."

  "What? Brandon, your wife was killed by a mugger in Central Park. And it was horrible and it was tragic and God, Brandon, I would do anything I could to help you, but this is insane—"

  "Listen to me. Julia was working on a surprise birthday present for me when she died—a complete family history. To do that, she'd been researching Max. I found files, C.J., with articles she'd clipped, notes about his business partners. Julia was an academic, a research fiend. Once she got started … I think she may have asked too many questions. I think … I think she may have rocked the boat."

  "What boat?"

  "I don't know." Brandon clipped the words out. "But don't try to pretend our father was normal. He was not normal. Our mothers knew nothing about him. We don't know anything about him. Not even Lydia understands the man he became. Why don't we know more about him?"

  "Why do we care?" C.J. was yelling. So was the normally reserved Brandon. The subject of Max was never without emotion.

  "Because he was our father! And I want to know. I want to know exactly what kind of man—"

  "Abandons his wives? Abandons his children?"

  "Exactly!"

  "Brandon," C.J. groaned, "You're obsessing. You've been obsessing since the day Julia died. Come on, get over it! Move on with your life. And leave Max alone. He was always best from a distance."

  "I can't."

  "Brandon—"

  "I'm going to continue this, C.J. I have to."

  The line went dead. C.J. was left sitting in bed, clutching the phone and swearing into the darkness. Damn, damn, damn. After all these years, Max was still messing with their minds. Dammit, he was still messing with their minds.

  * * *

  Tamara didn't know what she was doing. She did it, anyway. At 4:00 a.m., she entered the El Dorado Hotel and Conference Center in black jeans and a dark gray cashmere turtleneck. The outfit would have screamed "Stop, Thief!" if not for the deep green raincoat she had belted over it. Her gun was tucked into the small of her back.

  She had a flashlight, notepad and pen tucked in her coat's deep pockets. And she was working very hard at not hunching her shoulders and skulking through the hotel.

  There was hardly anyone in the lobby at this time of night. The front desk was manned only by a dutiful night clerk and droopy-looking bellboy. She walked by them as if she had every reason to be there and headed down the vast main hall leading to the ballrooms. Chandeliers winked overhead. Marble tables with elaborate, wrought-iron pedestals boasted huge arrangements of larger-than-life cacti. Silk flowers in rich pink, burnt orange and deep red gave the illusion of blooms even in October. Elaborate mirrors reflected her image back to her a dozen times over.

  She discovered quickly that the ballroom doors of the Brennan campaign headquarters were solidly locked. She tugged on them once, then twice, as if that would help.

  She glanced down the huge hallway and waited to see if the bellboy was running after her. In the distance, he was flipping through a magazine and rubbing his temple. She looked back at the door. She was a public relations executive, for God's sake. She knew how to package the most mundane lock as a complete home security system, but she had no idea how to force one open. She chewed on her lower lip.

  Go home, Tamara. Get some sleep. You're exhausted. You're losing your grip. How many hours have you even slept since arriving in Sedona? Ten? Eight? Six?

  She couldn't go back to her hotel room. She couldn't bear the thought of crawling into bed and trying to sleep. She just couldn't.

  She moved down the end of the hallway, found a door marked Employees Only and ducked into the bowels of the hotel. Gray concrete floors and exposed pipes haunted her passage. She encountered doorway after doorway, peering through each tiny window into an inky blackness her eyes couldn't penetrate. One by one, she tried the doorknobs. Some were locked. Some were open. Obviously, the hotel staff was lax about such things. How lucky could she get?

  The fifth door led her into an antechamber she recognized. From it, she walked into the gaping black hole that was the campaign war room. She stood in the middle with her flashlight, feeling the silence throb around her like a drum. The cold air curled around her cheek. The empty metal chairs and abandoned tables made her feel hollow.

  She was shivering.

  Find Mrs. Winslow's desk, Tamara. Just find Mrs. Winslow's desk.

  Mary Winslow had been an active member of Senator Brennan's various campaigns for the last fifteen years. She'd served as his head lieutenant in Sedona on the last three. There was nothing done on Senator Brennan's behalf in Sedona that Mrs. Winslow did not know about and approve. Hopefully, that included car rentals.

  Why would she keep car rental agreements that were ten years old? What do you really think you'll find, Tamara?

  She cut off her own doubts and sat down at Mrs. Winslow's desk. Placing her flashlight upright on the desk like a lantern, she booted up Mrs. Winslow's PC.

  An arm swept around her neck and clamped over her mouth. One instant she was sitting nervously on the edge of a metal chair, the next she was dragged up and flattened against a wall. She cried out, but a callused palm muffled the scream. She lashed out with her foot, and muscled thighs clamped her legs. She began to struggle in earnest. The man pressed his full body against her, his arm trapping her arms, her breasts flattened by his torso.

  Oh, God, think Tamara, think. Do something!

  The rough rasp of a twenty-four-hour beard scraped her cheek. And the strong, well-toned man buried his lips in her hair and whispered in her ear, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  She sagged against the wall, the relief so piercing it stung her eyes. C.J. would have none of it. He pressed his body against her more tightly, his eyes cutting through her like lasers.

  She said against his palm, "Are you following me?"

  "Dammit, Tamara, you don't want to mess with me after the night I've had. If I were you, I would start talking now. And I'd say the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Got it?"

  His forearm pressed against her throat with just enough pressure to let her know he meant business. For some reason, it made her more stubborn. She leaned back against the wall as much as she could and dug in her heels.

  "How is it you manage to show up every place I am?" she whispered fiercely. "What the hell are you doing, C.J.?" She glared at him right back, and the air between them heated up another few degrees.

  "I am here," C.J. growled, "because I followed you."

  "You are stalking me!"

  "You stubborn, ungrateful fool. I'm not stalking you. I'm worried about you! I drove to your hotel at three-thirty in the morning because I couldn't sleep and I kept thinking about your punctured brake lines and scorpion-decorated bed. So I went back to your room, Tamara, and lo and behold, I found you sneaking across the parking lot in a trench coat. A dark trench coat. Have you seen too many movies or what?"

  "Maybe." Her voice had lost some of its fierceness. He had been worr
ied about her? Or maybe he was lying. How would she know? Her lips were dry. She kept licking them, but they were dry, anyway.

  "So there you have it. I followed because I was worried about you. And then I discover you breaking and entering the good old senator's campaign headquarters. So you'd better start talking, Tamara, because I may have been worried once, but I only play the fool so many times."

  She stared at him in the darkness, feeling the intensity of his gaze, the way it seemed to bore into her, turn her inside out and reveal all her weaknesses like dirty laundry. His body was still pressed against hers. His legs clamped her thighs. His torso flattened hers, but the pressure was merely firm, not bruising. And in a crazy way, it was reassuring.

  When was the last time anyone had worried about her? When was the last time anyone had held her and stroked her hair and whispered, "Sh. I have you. I have you."

  The exhaustion, the raw, aching need, hit her suddenly. She wanted to lean into him. She had the teeniest desire to wrap her arms around his waist, press her cheek against his shoulder and rest her head. Maybe for a moment, he would make her feel safe. He would make her feel less alone.

  She pulled herself up tightly. She squeezed her fists so hard her fingernails welted her palms and caused her pain.

  She stated firmly, "I do not need you to worry about me."

  "Good, because I'm not anymore. I just caught you breaking and entering. Now I'm worried about the senator. Are you working for his opponent?"

  "No."

  "Are you a thief?"

  "Hardly."

  "Well what in the name of God are you doing skulking around campaign headquarters at four-thirty in the damn morning?"

  She gazed at him haughtily. "Would you honestly believe me if I told you?"

  "Tamara…" His voice rose with warning. She had the distinct memory of her father saying her name just that way. Generally when she'd stayed out too late with Patty.

  "All right," she said abruptly. The silence between them grew taut. "I'm a reporter."

  "A reporter?"

  "A reporter. I have reason to believe the senator was responsible for a hit-and-run automobile accident ten years ago that killed three people."

  C.J.'s breath inhaled sharply, his body easing back a little and giving her more room to breathe. "Keep talking."

  "The hit-and-run vehicle was a red sports car. The police could never find the car or driver, even though there should have been serious damage to both. I think the senator took himself and his car someplace out of town and paid to conceal his own injuries and destroy the automobile. However, I have no proof of that. I was hoping to find some here."

  "Huh." His tone was neither believing nor disbelieving.

  "Are you going to let me go?"

  "I haven't decided yet. First you're an eager-beaver PR specialist. Then I find you skulking around like a thief. Now you claim to be hot on the trail of the next Chappaquidick. One thing is for sure, you tell a good story."

  "Well, we can't stay like this all night. People are going to start arriving soon."

  "That would make it int—" His sentence was cut off by a small beeping. Belatedly, Tamara looked down and realized it was coming from C.J.'s waist.

  "Damn," he swore. "Now what?"

  He held up the small beeper until the digital display glowed in front of his eyes. He was frowning. "That's the number for my bar. Oh, dammit Sheila. I have to go!"

  He was already clipping the beeper to his waist and stepping back. Tamara began to breathe again. Saved by the bell.

  "We'll talk later," she said, edging toward the door.

  "Oh, no, you don't." C.J.'s hand snapped around her wrist. His grip was tight and his gaze was hard. "I still don't trust you, Tamara, and until I do, you're coming with me."

  "I am not—"

  But it was already too late. C.J. simply dragged her with him.

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  C.J. drove like a true racer. It wasn't that he drove fast—any fool could do that. It was that he drove with such incredible control and concentration. He pushed his car the way a jockey might push his horse, urging it toward its limit but never losing grip on the reins. He climbed upward of a hundred and ten on the straightaways, his eyes narrow, his face grim. Tamara gripped the armrest on the door, still uncomfortable being the passenger after all these years. She liked to drive. Drivers were the ones in control. Passengers … passengers couldn't do a thing when it all went wrong.

  She kept her eyes on C.J., and she discovered as long as she did that, the fear remained a dull shadow, whispering in her subconscious but unable to gain substance. She understood the look on C.J.'s face. He was paying attention. He was in the zone, listening to his engine, eyeballing the road surface, determining the best line and computing the absolute breaking point. His jaw was tight with concentration, his eyes squinted. His hand rested on his gearshift, and his lean, muscled thighs rippled as he accelerated, shifted and braked. He knew this car. He knew this road. He owned the experience.

  A sharp corner loomed. The fear crept up Tamara's throat. She kept her gaze on C.J. She trusted him to know what to do. She needed him to know what to do.

  He didn't hug the inside of the turn as amateurs did. Instead, he treated the looping corner like a pivot point, downshifting and heading in a straight line for the apex of the turn. At almost the far left corner of the road, with red dust dunes looming beside them like Arizona's version of a tire wall, he cranked the wheel, stepped on the gas and accelerated like an arrow shot to the track-out point. They zipped back toward the far right, already set up for the next curve.

  He was good, very, very good.

  And suddenly Tamara heard her mother's voice clearly in her mind. "Slow down, Robert. It's not like we're in a hurry to get home. Besides, who knows what kind of idiots are out driving at this time of night?"

  Tamara shook her head and her mother's voice was gone. She sat alone in the passenger's seat, confused and feeling slightly nauseated. Goose bumps had broken out on her arms.

  They hadn't crashed because her father was speeding, they had crashed because of Senator Brennan. He'd hit them. He'd sped away. He'd cost Tamara her family. She knew this.

  She eased her grip on the door. Sweat beaded C.J.'s upper lip and brow. At the second corner, a slow trickle began down the side of his face. He didn't seem to notice. He glanced once at his mirrors, confirmed there was still no traffic behind them, then returned to the road. He didn't waste time with his gauges. The sound of his engine as it accelerated, decelerated and labored told him when to shift, when to brake and when to accelerate. His arm and shoulder flexed as he worked the clutch.

  People thought racing was easy, just sit and steer, but Tamara knew from firsthand experience that it was physically and mentally grueling. Dressed in a thick, flame-retardant Nomex jumpsuit with flame-retardant socks, shoes and face mask, a driver quickly overheated and began to sweat. Five crisscrossing seat belts bolted the person to the roll cage, placing incredible pressure across the hips, stomach and chest. The constant movement of shifting, braking and steering slowly took its toll on arms, while the heavy weight of the helmet strained the neck and shoulders. Even with earplugs, the sound of twenty raw, unmuffled racing engines was like standing in front of a screaming jet, the noise hammering against temples and pounding against eardrums. A driver couldn't afford to notice any of this—the heat, the discomfort, the fatigue, the sound. Drive at more than a hundred miles per hour on a track filled with twenty other speeding objects, passing, breaking, swerving, crashing, a driver had to concentrate on driving and only driving. The first five minutes weren't bad; neither were the next. By halfway through the race, however, the elements took their toll. Reflexes slowed, minds grew tired. Mistakes happened.

  And then the physically and mentally fit emerged from the pack, focused, capable and strong till the bitter end.

  C.J. would be one of those. She could tell from the fierce, composed look on his face. H
e wouldn't tire. He wouldn't lose concentration. He could go the distance, for himself and for the people he cared about

  He wouldn't make a stupid mistake and get anyone killed.

  She returned her gaze to the window.

  C.J. braked hard, let the back end sweep around and suddenly gunned the car into a parking lot. Belatedly, Tamara saw a midsize, two-story wooden structure identified as the Ancient Mariner.

  "Wait here for a moment." C.J. reached across the seat, unlocked the glove compartment with a tiny key and immediately palmed a handgun. He did it so fast, Tamara was still cataloging the moves as he popped open his door and bolted across the parking lot.

  Of course, she followed. She had her own gun in her purse. She had very little experience with how to use it, but she had her gun.

  She crept through the front door that C.J. had left swinging open. The bar was dark and shadowed. At 5:00 a.m., the sun was just beginning to rise, and the whole world had the hushed, reverent calm of a newly dawning day. She saw a red-tiled floor and old wooden tables with the chairs stacked on top. Brass bar trim gleamed dully in the shadows.

  Overhead, she heard sudden footsteps. She stiffened, spotted the stairs in the corner and headed toward them.

  "It's okay, it's okay," she heard C.J. saying. "You did the right thing to call me." And then she heard the sound of a woman's muffled sobs.

  Her foot raised for the first step, she froze. Suddenly she felt like an intruder. He was up there with another woman. A woman who had paged him. A woman he had driven like a maniac to help.

  She should go back to the car. She should call a cab and return to her hotel before C.J. had a chance to think about her. Hell, she should get on a plane and return to Manhattan, because she was accomplishing nothing here and the whole thing had been a horrible mistake. She was trembling, shaking and overwhelmed with exhaustion. She couldn't sleep and she was snappy and temperamental. She didn't know herself anymore. She never should have come to Sedona.

  She never should have met C.J. MacNamara.

  She found herself heading up the stairs.