by Alicia Scott
The hallway was narrow and poorly lit. Thick floorboards creaked beneath her feet. She followed the faint ray of daylight spilling out of an opened doorway, and the sound of sobbing grew louder.
She found C.J. sitting on the edge of a narrow bed, holding a young brunette and rocking her back and forth as she cried. The girl had her arms wrapped around his neck. She was sobbing hysterically despite C.J.'s efforts. Then Tamara saw the man sprawled facedown on the floor. He wasn't moving. A shattered lamp decorated the floor beside him.
Tamara didn't require any other explanation. Keeping her gaze averted from the sight of C.J. holding the weeping girl, she asked, "Have you checked for a pulse?"
"No. Could you?"
She bent down and felt the man's neck. This close, she could see the blood trickling from his forehead and matting his hair. He'd taken quite a blow from such a small girl. She found a faint but steady heartbeat.
"I'll call 911."
"Thank you," C.J. said as the girl's sobs began to subside. "That's Sheila's husband," C.J. murmured. "Or, her soon to be ex-husband, Al."
Tamara nodded. She couldn't bear to watch C.J. He held the girl so tightly, comforted her so naturally. And the girl clung to him. She collapsed, and he put her back together. Because that's the kind of man C.J. MacNamara was—the kind you might dream of someday saving you.
Tamara crossed to the window and stood alone until the ambulances arrived.
* * *
The rest happened in a blur. The EMTs arrived in a cacophony of sirens, pounding footsteps and demanding yells. Al was immobilized, placed on the stretcher and whisked away. Sheila sat the edge of the bed, pale and cried-out.
The police pulled in next. While C.J. stood beside her, his hand steadying on her shoulder, Sheila related how she'd been down the hall in the bathroom. She'd just returned to her room when she'd heard a noise behind her. She grabbed the lamp as Al had stepped out from behind her door and hit with all the strength she could muster. Al had collapsed like a rag doll. Honest, she hadn't meant to kill her husband, not even send him to the hospital.
Sheriff Brody jotted it all down, occasionally nodding. The sheriff was a large man, with a big barrel chest and a comfortable girth. In his late forties, he had thinning hair that was cut so short none of it appeared beneath the wide brim of his dark brown cowboy hat. In contrast, his mustache was still thick and luxuriant, and he stroked the graying brown strands from time to time as he listened. Beneath the wide brim of his hat, he possessed a pair of keen brown eyes that reminded Tamara of her father.
The sheriff seemed to know both Sheila and C.J. quite well. Apparently, this wasn't the first time he'd had to deal with Al, either. The biggest difference was that this time, Al was the one going to the hospital.
"She's got a restraining order against him," C.J. supplied.
"Yup." Sheriff Brody made a note of it in his little spiral pad.
"I found a broken window in the back, that must have been how he got in."
"B & E." The sheriff wrote that down, too. "Wanna take us to it?"
"Be glad to." The words were casually spoken, but Tamara had a sense there was a great deal more subtext. Obviously, C.J. and Sheriff Brody were worried about Sheila. No doubt they'd have quite the discussion downstairs—out of Sheila's hearing—on just how to protect her.
Of course, from what Tamara had seen of Al's forehead, Sheila was doing just fine.
The men bustled out, their faces serious and intent. They would go secure the perimeter. Fix broken windows. Protect pretty women from evil ogres. Talk about sports.
Tamara remained in the room with Sheila, staring at the hardwood floor, the old rocking chair, the red-and-brown Navajo rug adorning the wall. Sheila was still sitting on the edge of the twin-size bed, her arms wrapped around her middle, her blue eyes dim and shell-shocked. Tamara felt the silence stretch awkwardly.
She'd never been good at this kind of thing. Other women had nurturing, mothering impulses. Tamara snapped at her assistants to get back to work and kept slugging away right beside them. "You have to learn to walk for yourself. Ain't no one that's going to walk for you."
"How … how are you?" Tamara asked at last. Bad question. The woman had knocked out her abusive husband. Obviously, she was not doing well. Tamara was ready to go home now.
Sheila shrugged. "I'm tired," she whispered. Her hands rubbed her arms. She was covered with goose bumps and shivering. Tamara found a blanket and gingerly wrapped it around Sheila's arms. The girl didn't seem to notice.
"Come on," Tamara said brusquely. She sat on the edge of her bed and began to rub Sheila's hand rapidly. "Everything's all right now. Al's been taken to the hospital. C.J. and the sheriff are downstairs. You took care of yourself, Sheila. You knocked the man out. That was quick thinking."
Sheila still seemed dazed. Tamara tucked the first hand beneath the covers and picked up the second.
"I didn't mean to hit him," Sheila said abruptly.
"I know." Was that the right thing to say? Tamara tried to remember how her mother would've comforted her. It was so long ago, she couldn't bring the pictures into focus. "I'm sure you did the best you knew how," she said, trying again. It still sounded weak.
"He surprised me. I was scared."
"I know."
"I just … I just reacted." Sheila finally moved. She looked at Tamara with miserable blue eyes. "I could've killed him. I … I kinda wanted to."
Now Tamara definitely didn't know what to say. When she had been hurt, when she had needed comfort, none of her family had been left alive to give it. She had turned inward and that had gotten her through. She didn't know what worked for other people.
She patted Sheila's hand again. "You … you probably have a lot of anger."
"Sometimes I hate him."
"It's understandable."
"He's my husband."
"It sounds like he wasn't a very good one. Listen… You have the right to protect yourself. You have the right to take care of yourself. I don't know much about your situation, but it doesn't sound like Al was a very nice man, and I doubt he broke into the bar just to talk. You did the right thing, Sheila. You thought fast, you protected yourself. See, you're learning how to stand on your own."
Sheila's face brightened. She sat up straighter. Her chin rose up a notch. "You're right. I took care of myself."
Tamara nodded more enthusiastically, encouraged by the color returning to Sheila's cheeks. She hadn't done so bad, after all. She'd said the right thing. Sheila appeared to feel better, and for a moment, so did Tamara. She felt … connected.
They sat together in silence, no longer needing words, and everything was all right.
Tamara finally glanced at the doorway. C.J. was lounging against the doorjamb, and it appeared he'd been there for a bit. He smiled when he caught her gaze, and there was a tender, proud gleam in his eye.
* * *
"So do you believe me or not?" Tamara asked at last. They were back in C.J.'s black Mustang. Sheila had been tucked into bed to rest, and Gus had been called to stand guard. Now it was almost seven and Tamara was due at campaign headquarters in only an hour, even if it was Saturday. The senator was arriving in a week. At this point, efforts were entering high gear.
"That you're a reporter?" C.J. was driving with only one hand on the wheel. His left arm was propped up on the edge of his door, his fingers raking through his hair. He looked tired, but in good spirits.
"Yes." She needed to know how well her lies were working. She had a busy few days ahead of her.
"I haven't decided."
"You haven't decided? What does that mean?"
C.J. merely shrugged, apparently not that concerned with the situation. "It means I want to look into it."
"My word isn't good enough?"
He grinned lazily. "Nope."
She scowled, feeling ridiculously injured even though she knew he was right. If she were him, she wouldn't believe herself, either. After all, she was lying.
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I'm going to get some sleep. Frankly, rescuing damsels in distress is a lot more taxing than you women seem to realize."
"My heart goes out to you," she muttered. He didn't believe her. Most people believed her. She was an intelligent, sophisticated, well-paid executive, what wasn't there to believe? For a moment, she fantasized about having C.J. in a boardroom just so she'd have the upper hand.
"On the one hand," C.J. continued blithely, "I'm pretty sure you're lying. On the other hand, how bad can it be? You had plenty of opportunity to 'flee the scene,' so to speak, back at the bar, and yet you stayed, helped out with the situation and comforted Sheila. Those don't seem the actions of a master criminal."
"Maybe I'm a bad master criminal."
C.J. glanced over at her. His bemused smile told her he didn't believe her. Then abruptly, he reached across and brushed his hand down her cheek. She froze. She didn't pull away or flinch, she just froze. For a second, she was even struck by the sensation of his rough, thick thumb rasping gently down her smooth, tender skin.
"That was a very nice thing you did," he said softly. "You told Sheila exactly the right things."
"I didn't know what I was doing."
"No one ever does. Well, all right, Ann Landers probably does, but the rest of us figure it out as we go along. You stayed with her. You were simply there. After a big trauma, a lot of times we just need someone to be there."
Tamara nodded. She'd wanted someone to be there. She'd wanted her parents to be there. She'd wanted Patty or Patty's father to come so she could see a familiar face while she lay in a foreign hospital room, watching other families visit other patients, talk to other patients, laugh with other patients. No one had ever said that life was fair.
"You … you care for Sheila very much."
"Sheila's like a sister to me," he said bluntly. "Don't worry about that."
"I'm not worried about that." She pulled herself up with haughty indifference. "Who you date is your business. Why should I care?"
"Uh-huh."
"I don't care."
"Uh-huh."
Her gaze narrowed dangerously. "You say that like you don't really believe me."
"I don't I think I'm starting to get to you. I think maybe a little bitty bit of you might actually like me. Maybe even be attracted to me. And on a really good day, might even miss me."
"I … I…" She knit her fingers together quickly on her lap. Her heart was beating too hard in her chest.
"It's still just an itty, bitty bit," he continued casually. "You know, a tiny portion."
"An iota?"
"Yeah, an iota."
"I don't know," she said at last, which wasn't the same as no and they both knew it. C.J. pulled into the parking lot of her hotel. He parked next to her Lexus.
"Any more problems with the brakes?"
"No."
"And your room?"
"Housekeeping removed the scorpion. They think it crawled in while they had the door propped open to clean."
"Uh-huh."
"They are just coincidences, C.J."
He cocked his head to the side, his blue eyes frank and piercing. "Who knows you're here, Tamara?"
"What … what do you mean?"
"Who knows that you're trying to determine if a soon-to-be presidential contender was involved in a fatal accident?"
"Not many people," she said honestly.
"At this point, I would say one is too many."
"They are just coincidences," she insisted, but his fears were getting to her. She popped open the door and crawled out quickly, needing the space. Her ankle had stiffened in the car, and she had to cling to the door for a bit to get her balance.
"Tamara," C.J. said quietly, "was there anyone there for you? You know, after the car accident. Was there anyone there to hold your hand?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said faintly. She gripped the door harder until her knuckles went white.
"The car accident you spoke of earlier. You were in it, weren't you, Tamara? That's why you limp. That's why you're back in Sedona. That's why you're investigating the senator. It was your family, wasn't it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. I know, Tamara. I can see the fear in your eyes."
She stiffened her spine immediately but knew it was too late. C.J. saw too much. She'd never met a man who could penetrate her shields so easily.
"The senator is a powerful man, sweetheart. Do you know what you're doing?"
"No," she said abruptly. "I don't. But I'll figure it out. I'm doing all right."
C.J. got out of the car. Before she was ready, he was standing in front of her. "Let me do this," he whispered. "For once, just let me do this."
His hand enfolded her shoulders. His fingers were warm and strong. He pulled her against him slowly, as if he knew that at any second she would bolt. His left arm curled around her waist, his hand flattening on the delicate curve of the small of her back. He pressed her against him and cradled her cheek against his shoulder.
She stood rigid and wide-eyed. She felt the soft comfort of his worn T-shirt. She heard the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She felt his hand burning into her back. She felt his long, workingman's fingers lift and thread through her hair. He massaged her scalp until little tingles swept down her neck. He smoothed her hair back until she found herself leaning against him. She didn't want to lean against him. She didn't want to lean against anyone.
He shifted and bore her weight effortlessly.
His fingers moved down, found her shoulders and dug in. She almost moaned. She'd felt like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders for years now, and the tight, knotted muscles testified to each moment of doubt and fear. Now his strong, callused, wonderful fingers squeezed and kneaded and pressed until her muscles gave up, turned into Silly Putty and begged for him to mold them.
Her arms had become wrapped around his waist. Her eyes had drifted shut. He smelled of soap and Old Spice. She loved Old Spice.
Oh, God.
She was going to cry. She was going to weep. The traitorous emotions were welling up again. She didn't know where they came from, but now they were a tidal wave sweeping up her gut, rolling into her throat and about to gush from her eyes. She knotted her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut. She held her breath.
She would not lose control. She would not lose control.
"Sh. It's okay, Tamara. It's okay. Relax."
And then she was angry again. Unbelievably angry. An intelligent, rational human being like herself should never be so angry.
But she was furious. It would not be okay. Why did people say it would be okay? People told you they would take care of you. People told you it would be all right. People let you love them, trust them, need them. And then they were gone and you had only the memory of their lies. No one could take care of you. No one could comfort you. No one could protect you.
You had only yourself and the red Arizona desert and the sound of crickets as your family gave up one by one, and left you.
She planted her hands on C.J.'s chest and pushed hard. Immediately, his hands snapped around her wrists.
"No, dammit! Enough of this advance and retreat. I've never been good at dancing. Tell me what's going on, Tamara. Tell me what's going through your mind."
She stared at him, her eyes blazing, her throat thickening traitorously. She was so sick and overwhelmed by all these emotions she didn't understand and never felt. She acted on instinct. She acted with rage. She grabbed his cheeks, yanked down his head and kissed him hard.
Suddenly his arms were around her. If she'd thought he was only tenderness, she'd underestimated him. He met her inch for inch, his mouth opening, his tongue plunging. He devoured her, he consumed her. He buried his hands in her thick sable hair, angled back her head and showed her what it was like to be kissed by a man who knew how.
Her breasts flattened against his chest.
Her hips were molded against his thighs. He grabbed her lower lip with his teeth, suckling it fiercely. Then he was kissing the corner of her mouth, nibbling on her jawline and rasping his twenty-four-hour beard against her soft cheeks. She felt hot. She felt achy. Need and desire swirled and swarmed, and she at once pulled him closer and tried to step away.
His teeth fastened on her earlobe, his tongue teased the edge, and the shivers ripped through her. Her knees were weak. Her leg muscles trembled.
She'd lost her mind. She'd lost control.
It was too much.
She pushed him away vehemently, dancing back as fast as she could. Their chests were heaving, their breaths loud and labored in the silence. They looked at each other without words, and the distance between them heated up another few degrees. C.J.'s gaze was not tender or gentle. It was a bright, fierce blue, and it told her in no uncertain terms just how much he wanted her.
She stared back at him just as intensely and hated herself for succumbing so easily.
"I do not want this!" she hissed.
"Wrong. You're afraid of it."
"Don't tell me how I feel!"
"Then, stop telling me lies and admit to it yourself."
"My life is none of your business!"
"Too late."
"I am not one of your damsels in distress!" she practically cried. "Stick to your waitresses!"
"Too late," he growled.
She threw her hands in the air. She wanted to strangle him. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to run back into his arms. The ice had finally broken. She'd found a man whose touch and taste drove her crazy. Lucky her, lucky her.
She gave up on composure, and fled.
C.J. watched her go with dark eyes. He stood in the parking lot long after she'd disappeared into the courtyard, still too wired to move. His body was rock hard, the desire in his groin painful. His jeans were not cut out for this kind of pressure. Hell, his body was not cut out for this kind of raging need.
Holy mother of… He took a deep breath, then another, then another. When he finally trusted himself to move, he crawled gingerly back into his car and stared at the dash.
Bloody hell, he thought in perfect imitation of his brother Brandon. How did a man get through to that woman, anyway? And why couldn't he just let her go?
