Macnamara's Woman

by Alicia Scott

  Patty frowned. Her shoulders were hunched up, tense. "But what about the senator?"

  "What about the senator? I've checked around all I can, and there's absolutely no evidence that the senator was involved with the accident. He's never owned a red car, he's generally driven around by a car service. I've been grasping at straws, obsessing over nothing, looking for someone to blame. And it's just prolonging the inevitable. My family is dead. No one knows who killed them, but hopefully what comes around goes around. As for me…" As for me, I have to learn how to sleep at night. How to eat again. How to forget, because maybe then I can at least have my cold, sterile peace back. "I need to go home."

  Patty, however, appeared uncertain. Maybe she was just confused, given how vehemently Tamara had defended her decision to return to Sedona. "You're sure?"

  "Yes."

  "So what are you going to do? Pack up and drive away this afternoon? Disappear, just like that?"

  "Tuesday, probably. I'm committed to helping prepare the senator's announcement. I should see that through."

  "Why? If you're ready to leave, then you should go. Face it, Tamara, you don't even like Senator Brennan. You're not planning on voting for him. Working at campaign headquarters at this point would be hypocritical."

  Tamara shrugged. "Leaving them in the lurch seems unfair."

  "Who cares?" Patty said bluntly. "If you really don't think it's him, if you really want to get on with things, then if I were you, I'd just hit the road, drive straight through to Manhattan. You don't owe them anything, Tamara. They don't even know your real name."

  The vehemence of Patty's words startled Tamara. For just a minute, her friend sounded the way Tamara remembered her—the strong, rebellious girl who thought more of herself than others. Tamara didn't know whether to smile or shake her head. "Midweek," she said. "That will give them a few days' notice."

  "It gives you time to give a few other people notice, too. You know, like C.J. MacNamara?"

  Tammy sucked her lips against her teeth. "How … how did you know?"

  "In a town as small as Sedona? With a man as sexy as C.J.? It's all I've heard from the locals when they come into the gallery. 'C.J.'s found himself a city woman.' 'C.J.'s chasing some executive skirt.' Tammy, he's not your type."

  "I know," Tamara said immediately, but her voice wasn't firm. How would Patty know what her type was? a little part of her cried. She quashed the voice ruthlessly.

  "He just likes the chase."

  "I know."

  "The minute he thinks you're interested, that will be the end of it. Ask around, Tamara. There isn't a red-blooded woman in a fifty-mile radius who hasn't had her sights set on C.J. MacNamara at one time or another. He's a nice man. He's a sexy man. But he has the attention span of a two-year-old."

  "I know."

  "I just don't want to see you hurt, Tammy."

  "Then stop bringing up his name!" Tamara snapped. Immediately she caught her lower lip with her teeth, as if she could bite back the harsh words. Too late. Patty had recoiled a step. Now her face was clearly masked. "I'm … I'm sorry," Tamara said weakly. "I'm not sleeping well. I'm on edge."

  The silence still felt tense. After a moment, Patty pushed a coffee cup in Tamara's direction. Then the cream. Then the sugar. Now Tamara could see that her friend's hands were shaking. And for the first time, she took notice of the shadows staining Patty's green eyes, the gaunt lines of her cheek. The past week had taken its toll on her as well, and Tamara had never appreciated that. She was ashamed.

  "You know, Tamara," Patty said stiffly, clutching her white porcelain coffee cup, "it's never been easy being your friend. You were like this little princess with two perfect parents who doted on you, and Shawn, who adored you. Even before my mom got sick, my parents were always going at each other. And boys … well, what boys wanted from me wasn't a relationship. I was the popular one, the fun one, but you, Tamara, you were the one everyone loved."

  "That's not true—"

  Patty held up her hand. "And you deserved it," she said quietly. "You really were sweet, kind, sugar and spice. When my mom died, you were the one who was there for me. When I was angry, you hugged me. When I yelled at you, you forgave me. I was the rebel, and you were the choirgirl."

  "You were going through a rough time."

  "You shared your family with me, and you never complained."

  "You were my best friend!"

  "But Tamara, after the accident, you were gone. My father said you'd been taken to some special hospital in New York, and that was that. I didn't see or hear from you again until six months ago. Suddenly you have this idea to pursue the senator. You need me to check on this, you need me to pretend that. Suddenly, you're putting my life on the line and I can't say no to you, Tamara, because you once gave me your whole family. How can I refuse anything to you now? But it's not the same. You're not the same. You've changed, Tamara. You're … you're much more brittle now. Driven. Self-centered. You've become hard."

  Tamara was too stunned to reply. Patty abruptly opened the refrigerator door. "Orange juice?"

  "No," Tamara said weakly. She was having a hard time hearing herself above the ringing in her ears. She couldn't argue with what Patty said. It was all true. And it hurt her a great deal more than she would've expected to hear it put into words. You're much more brittle now. You've become hard.

  She hadn't meant for it to happen. She hadn't meant to become this cold, frigid creature, more at home in a boardroom than with her childhood friend. But after the accident, there didn't seem to be anything to believe in anymore. Her parents had died on her, Shawn had died on her. Even God had abandoned her. Suddenly there was just herself and a horrible pain she had to learn to overcome on her own. No one to lean on, no one to help her. No one to believe in.

  And all of a sudden, she felt a burst of raw anger. She wanted to grab Patty, shake her and cry, "If I was so sweet, so wonderful, why didn't you ever come to the hospital? Why didn't you ever realize how much I needed to see you, any familiar face? I took you into my family when you needed support. But where were you when I needed support?"

  She recoiled, taking a step back from the counter. She wasn't prepared for such a thought or its intensity. Now she looked at Patty and she saw the red haze hanging between them like a gauzy curtain. Patty's anger, because Tamara had been in a car accident when Patty had needed Tamara and her family to be immortal. Tamara's anger, because Patty hadn't been there when Tamara had needed someone to hold her hand and make her feel less alone. Had the haze always been there? Patty always resenting Tamara's "princess" life and Tamara just too naive to see it?

  No, there was a friendship there once. I know we were friends!

  But she wasn't so sure. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.

  "I should go," Tamara announced. Her voice sounded shaky. "You're right. It was selfish of me to call you. So much has changed. I should've considered that. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous."

  Patty's chin was up mutinously, her pale face like hard sculpture, but her sapphire eyes glistened.

  "I'll call you before I leave for New York," Tamara whispered.

  "Fine."

  "Patty … thank you for being my friend when we were younger. I didn't mind sharing my family with you. I thought of you as becoming my sister. I'd always wanted a sister."

  Patty's face crumpled. A tear spilled over and ran slowly down her cheek. Then another. Then another.

  "I'm so sorry," she whispered abruptly. "For what I've said. For what I've done. Oh, Tamara, I feel so awful. All the time, this huge knot in my chest… You have no idea." She turned away. The tears had become a small flood.

  "I should go now," Tamara repeated. She didn't know what to do or say. She felt wooden.

  "That would be best."

  "I'll call you before I leave."

  "Sure."

  "Goodbye."

  Tamara made it back out to the street. She should've called a taxi from Patty's place. There wasn't a
nother house for a mile. She didn't go back to the house. She couldn't bear to return. She started walking, feeling the cool tendrils of morning against her cheek.

  The end of friendship was like breaking up with a longtime lover. She had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, and though she was too exhausted to cry, she felt a huge hole in her chest. She kept walking.

  "Ain't no one who's going to walk for you. Ain't no one who's going to walk for you."

  I know, Ben. I learned, I learned. I learned too much.

  * * *

  C.J. woke up early and ready to go. For a moment, he just knew he was happy and excited about the day, though he couldn't remember why. Then it came to him—Tamara's visit to his bar, his promise to pick her up this morning and bring her to her car. He'd get to see Tamara. Probably, he would even kiss her again. His body was already hard and hot with anticipation. He rolled over with a groan and stared at the exposed beams of his cabin's ceiling.

  "Oh, man," he muttered, "I got it bad."

  But the thought didn't keep him from whistling merrily as he crawled out of bed and into the shower. He'd pack another picnic lunch. That seemed to work well the first time, and it would give him a good excuse to spend the afternoon with Tamara. Plus, it was obvious she wasn't eating enough. A hearty turkey sandwich, potato salad and fresh fruit would be just what the doctor ordered. He knew the perfect deli where he could pick it all up.

  He finished sluicing the moisture from his body with his hands, grabbed a towel and attacked his hair. Five minutes later, the towel precariously perched around his lean hips, he lathered up his face and prepared to shave.

  Of course, the phone rang. He eyed his white-frosted cheeks in the mirror.

  "Let the machine get it? Hmm, what if it's her?" He shook his head and informed his reflection quite seriously, "You're getting just a little bit punch-drunk over this woman, don't you think? Whatever happened to Love 'em and leave 'em MacNamara?"

  Love 'em and leave 'em MacNamara was too worried she would be on the phone and he'd miss her call. He gave up on dignity, swiped up the receiver and implanted it in his shaving-cream-covered cheek.

  "C.J.'s Taxidermy. You snuff 'em, we stuff 'em."

  At the other end of the line there was a long silence. C.J. sighed. "MacNamara's," he said more formally.

  The silence grew. He could hear the distant sound of static, as if the person was calling from a long way away. Then a voice came over the line, slow and distorted.

  "C.J. MacNamara?" The voice was dragged out in eerie, metallic tones.

  C.J. stiffened. He could feel goose bumps on his back now. Automatically, his gaze moved to his front door. It was still locked. He saw no one through his windows. He moved toward his gun, senses alert.

  "Yes," he said finally. "Who is this?"

  "C.J. MacNamara?"

  "Yes, this is C.J. Who the hell are you?"

  "That's … not … important." The voice rose. The chilly sound of tinny laughter swept over the line. "Ferringer's son. The one who went to Iceland."

  C.J. grabbed for his Baretta. He couldn't breathe. A tightness gripped his chest, like a vice squeezing his ribs. His knuckles had gone white on the phone. "Who is this?"

  "Stay away from Tamara Allistair."

  "Who the hell is this?"

  "You're interfering in things you don't understand."

  "Who the hell is this?"

  "Your father's body was never found. Haven't you ever wondered why it was never found?"

  "If you don't tell me who the hell this is, I'll … I'll…"

  "Hang up the phone?" The laughter was ghostly, "C.J. MacNamara, the marine, the bounty-hunter son. We've been watching you for a long time. We've been interested. You're almost as good as your father. You're just a little too straight."

  C.J. was hunched over now. His ears were ringing, his stomach tensed. He felt like he was going to faint. Worse, vomit. Be violently ill. He hated the voice speaking about his father, about him, and yet he couldn't make it go away. The voice was the first connection to his father he'd had in over twenty years and the voice knew it.

  "What do you want?"

  "Leave Tamara Allistair alone."

  "I don't even know who that is." But then, of course, he did. Tamara Thompson. Tamara Allistair. She'd lied about so many other things, why not her name?

  "Stay away from her," the voice intoned. "She's not your concern."

  The rebel in him rose instantly. "Damn you," he barked.

  "You are like your father."

  "I'm nothing like Max!"

  The voice was still amused. "Do this for us and maybe someday we'll help you."

  "What can you help me with? I don't even know who you are."

  "We know about Max," the voice whispered. "Maybe someday we'll even tell you."

  C.J. was going to be sick. He pressed his hand against his stomach, but it didn't help. Some little part of him fought to say yes, struggled to push out his throat and yell, "Yes, yes, I'll do anything if you'll just tell me about my father." It was the little boy in him who could never believe that his larger-than-life father had just gone. The little boy in him who clutched the memory of Iceland after all these years because it was the only good memory he had.

  He whispered into the phone, "Go to hell."

  The voice replied just as firmly, "Stay away from Tamara Allistair."

  The line went dead, and in a final burst of emotion, C.J. hurled the phone on the floor. It shattered, the bits and pieces spraying his ankles. He remained hunched over, his elbows pressed against his thighs as he hung his head between his knees and struggled for air. Finally, the white spots gone before his eyes, he straightened. He took another deep breath. He crossed back to the sink and picked up his razor.

  The face in the mirror wasn't smiling anymore. The blue eyes didn't crinkle with secret humor. They were hard, they were fierce. They were angry.

  He shaved cleanly, the movements precise and efficient. Five minutes later, he stormed out the door, his Baretta tucked in his waistband. He stilled for a minute in his front yard. His Scirocco was still up on blocks, but the racing tires, neatly stacked in the corner, had all been slashed.

  "Dammit. Dammit, dammit."

  He found his Mustang and gave it a thorough checkup while the muscle twitched in his jaw. His Mustang was untouched. No, the voice was still playing games and delivering warnings. The racing tires were only worth about eight hundred dollars, but the fact that someone could get that close to his house without his knowledge—that was costly.

  And it wouldn't be happening again. He'd teach that damn voice to play with C.J. MacNamara.

  He climbed into his car and peeled out without preamble. He was going to find Tamara Allistair. And this time, she would be doing a helluva lot of talking.

  * * *

  "Who the hell are you?"

  Tamara had just cracked open her hotel door when C.J. exploded through the two-inch space. Now he backed her up all the way, like a lion cornering prey. His face was dark, his blue eyes narrow. His shoulders filled the space, muscles bunching dangerously and stretching the thin fabric of his T-shirt. He advanced farther, his attention honed in on her like a laser, his features screwed into a horrible glower.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "What … what?" The backs of her legs hit the king-size bed. She couldn't retreat any farther. She bent backward, but it was no use. He leaned over her, his breath expelling onto her cheek, his nostrils flaring. Abruptly, his gaze latched on to the open suitcase behind her.

  "Packing up? So eager to leave?" In one smooth move, he ripped her suitcase onto the floor, sending the clothes flying. She flinched, still pinned by his body against the bed.

  "Tuesday," she barely whispered, wetting her lips to get the words out.

  "Why are you packing now?"

  "I … I wanted to. It made it seem more final."

  "When were you going to start telling me the truth … Ms. Allistair."
<
br />   She froze. His angry words hung between them, and she couldn't summon a reply. His hard, muscled chest was pushing against her. She could feel the heat of his skin and smell the fresh fragrance of aftershave. His tanned jawline was smooth, his lean cheeks damp. This close, she could see a faint sheen of moisture up by his earlobe. Lower on his neck, she spotted a ruby red pinprick of blood. His hair was water-darkened to a honey wheat and rolled back from his square face in waves. Normally, a wayward lock dangled over his forehead, breaking up the harsh lines of his stubborn features, giving him a reckless charm. Today, even his hair was obedient, and his eyes burned into her with incredible force of will.

  Her gaze fell to his hands, those strong, capable, firm hands that had captured her attention from the very beginning. They were knotted into fists, the tension so tight, sinew sprang up like roping veins on his forearms. His arms were slightly bent, ready for action. His biceps rippled, cleanly defined. He was clearly on edge.

  She licked her lips again. Her mouth was still dry. Her gaze came to rest on his lips.

  "Don't," he growled.

  "What?" she whispered.

  "Don't think you can buy me off with your charms." He practically spat the word.

  "I don't think that," she said honestly. But she was acutely aware of the soft, worn fabric of his jeans barely containing the tensed muscles of his thighs. She felt his hip nestled against hers. And slowly, as she stood there feeling her breath grow shallow and listening to his own harsh breathing suddenly still, she knew the awareness was washing over him, too. The moment suspended, lengthened, and then with almost an audible pop, the air between them seemed to burst into flame.

  Suddenly the worn fabric of his T-shirt was rough and uncomfortable against her. She resented it fiercely, wanted it gone, pictured it on the floor and his naked torso bared for her touch. She hated his jeans, his belt buckle, his boots.

  Her hands were twitching at her sides, her lips parting, her brow growing shiny with a light sheen of moisture. She wore a fine linen shirt in creamy yellow and expensive linen slacks in chocolate brown. She wanted the fragile, overpriced fabric ripped from her frame and tossed on the ground. She wanted his mouth on hers again, without gentleness, without coaxing.