Macnamara's Woman

by Alicia Scott

  The air was cool. Not cold, but crisp enough to stir her skin and send a fresh wave of ripples up her arms. He leaned over her, pressing his warm, bare skin against her back, tangling his legs with hers. She couldn't see him. She was flattened against the mattress, unable to move and unable to hold him. He nuzzled back her hair, then suddenly closed his teeth around her earlobe and suckled hard.

  She nearly bucked off the bed. Her whole body shivered. Nerve endings screamed to life, passion poured into her belly. She wanted to cry out, she wanted to yank away. She remained pinned to the mattress, his mouth wreaking havoc with her senses, sucking, sucking, sucking. Then his mouth whispered down, gnawing on her neck, covering her with love bites. His lips trailed around her shoulders to her spine, leaving a shuddering trail of prickling flesh in his wake.

  He kissed the back of her neck. His mouth was hot. She felt it acutely on each exposed inch of her skin. Her nipples were hard, her body achy. It would be so easy to surrender to him. And yet some part of her still fought to maintain control.

  His lips traveled down to her waist, his tongue trailing around the elastic waist of her sweatpants. His leg lifted long enough to permit her to arch her hips, then his hands dipped inside.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, she bit her lip to keep from moaning.

  Control, control, control. Don't surrender too much.

  He pulled her sweats down to her ankles, then yanked them to the floor. Her underwear quickly followed suit. She heard a small rustle as he pulled off his boxers. Then he was over her, the fine hairs of his legs prickling the backs of her thighs, his arousal stiff and hot against the soft swell of her bottom. His hands slipped between her legs. She opened for him wordlessly.

  He stroked her. Those callused, capable fingers delved into her folds, eased inside. She was hot, moist. Her hips arched back. She fisted the coverlet and twisted it urgently. She bit the pillow to keep from crying out.

  Want, but don't need. Enjoy, but don't surrender.

  She hovered on the brink of a nameless precipice. The fall terrified her.

  "Let it go," C.J. whispered. "Trust me, Tamara. Trust yourself."

  He flipped her over, and before she knew it, his hands were bracketing her hips and his mouth was upon her. He found the small, pearly nub of her desire and sucked it hard.

  She cried out, the sound of her hoarse voice shocking her. He devoured her, and the sensations were so intense they almost pained her. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She gripped his head and held him against her shamelessly. She wanted… She needed… She was dying.

  He tongued her, slow and hot and wet. She writhed against the mattress, squirming, wiggling and moaning his name. She could feel the heat building inside her. The prickling pleasure razor-sharp against her skin.

  Her hips arched helplessly. She'd lost sanity. She was going to shatter into a million pieces. And she was scared. She wanted to pull back. She wanted to go forward. She opened her eyes and gazed at him with agony.

  C.J. rose up. His eyes were dark and steady. His arms were strong as he planted them beside her head on the mattress. Abruptly, he plunged into her. She cried out, unprepared for this fresh onslaught.

  "Take it," he commanded. "Go with it, Tamara. I have you. I have you."

  She shattered. She burst around him, digging her fingers into his flanks, welting his skin, screaming his name. The fire rolled through her in wave after wave after wave.

  Far off, she heard his triumphant shout. She felt his body arch, watched his magnificent neck cord and bend. Then he snapped, bowing above her, crashing upon her.

  They collapsed on the bed like broken dolls, limbs tangled, bodies meshed. She was covered in sweat and tears, bathed in glory and shock. She wrapped her arms around him and held him as hard as she could.

  "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," he murmured over and over again.

  She couldn't let him go. She was too raw and turned inside out. She clung to him desperately as her breathing slowed, her heartbeat slowed, and the exhaustion hit her as hard as the passion had. Her eyes drifted shut. Her overloaded senses declared defeat.

  Bit by bit, C.J. felt her fade away into badly needed slumber. He pulled away from her slightly, arranged her more comfortably against him, then wrapped his arms around her bare shoulders and held her.

  "I love you," he murmured, and kissed her sleeping forehead. "And I'm going to tell you about it, too. In a bit. When you're ready."

  He closed his eyes and also went to sleep.

  * * *

  "We got English muffins, we got orange juice, we got raisin bran. Pick your poison."

  Tamara opened her eyes drowsily. C.J. stood in front of her, wearing only the red plaid boxers and bearing a breakfast tray. She thought it should be dusk or late evening, but bright morning sun streamed through the cabin windows. She yawned, disoriented.

  "All three it is." C.J. deposited the tray on the oak nightstand.

  "What time is it?"

  "It's 10:00 a.m."

  "Ten! As in the next day?"

  "Yep."

  "I've been asleep for sixteen hours?"

  "Seventeen. You really needed the rest."

  Tamara bolted upright. The sheet promptly fell down, bearing her naked body and earning C.J.'s full attention. Belatedly, she snatched the sheet back up and tucked it primly beneath her arms. C.J.'s gaze lingered on her exposed shoulders. She blushed, a rather silly reaction given how much of her body he'd seen … touched … tasted. She blushed harder. She was not cut out for the morning after.

  "I would seduce you," he murmured, "but unfortunately, we have work to do."

  She nodded vehemently, trying not be disappointed when she was staring at his bare chest. She remembered how fine and silky that matting of golden hair felt against her fingertips.

  "Come on, let's eat. Then we need to devise a battle plan."

  While C.J. cleared the dishes, Tamara took a quick shower and pulled back on the clothes she'd borrowed yesterday. When she came out of the bedroom, she discovered C.J. sitting at the kitchen table, armed with pen and paper and wearing a fresh pair of jeans.

  "We need a strategy," he said without preamble.

  Tamara pulled out a wooden chair and plopped down. "I don't have any great ideas," she said bluntly. "At this point, I think I'm up the proverbial creek without a paddle."

  "Never. How much time do we have before you go to trial?"

  "Preliminary date is three weeks from today. We might be able to postpone it, though. I'm not sure. I need to get a lawyer."

  "Right. You should call that Lombardi guy today. We'll let the lawyer tackle the legal angles. In the meantime, I think we should mount an offense."

  "An offense? C.J., with all due respect, what kind of offense? I've been checking around. If the senator was the one involved ten years ago, he covered his tracks very well."

  "I know. I didn't say this would be a piece of cake. But let's start with what we do know." He dragged out the pad of paper and a pen. "Now, what kind of car was involved?"

  "The police deduced that it was an old red Firebird, based upon the type of suspension and kind of tires. I don't remember all the specifics, but I have a copy of the police report back in my hotel."

  "Good. We'll stop by your hotel and pick up your stuff this afternoon. What did the police do?"

  "They checked with the local junkyards, auto shops and car rental agencies for any car that had been returned with substantial damage. They also followed up with local hospitals in case the driver had come in with injuries."

  "Nothing?"

  "Zip."

  "We'll need to widen the search, then. It could be the senator drove up to Scottsdale, or down to Phoenix, or what the hell, maybe even to Nogales on the border. A lot of things disappear in Nogales. We can use the phone book, call around."

  Tamara shook her head. "You're forgetting the time span. A lot of shops listed in the yellow pages today might not have existed ten years ago, and there were ones the
n that probably aren't listed today. We'd have to go with an old list from the Chamber of Commerce or something like that. But even then, C.J., can you imagine how long such a list would be? Plus, we're asking about a single car that appeared for repairs or salvage ten years ago. Not even a race car junkie can remember every car he saw ten years ago."

  C.J. frowned. A ten-year-old trail did make life difficult. "Okay, let's try it from a second angle. What's the other thing we know?"

  "I don't understand."

  "We know someone is watching you, right?" She nodded. "For that matter, we know someone is watching me. But more to the point, whoever did this had to know a lot about you, Tamara. He had to know about your yearly visit to the grave site, and that you were back in town. How many people knew about your ritual?"

  "I didn't think anyone knew," she said honestly. "I would fly in the day before, visit the grave site and fly out. I didn't want to linger. I just … I just needed to do something."

  "And the cognac. Was it always the same kind?"

  "My father's favorite brand."

  "You bought it here or in New York?"

  "Here, before I went to the cemetery. I bought it from the same store he always visited, toasted with one glass and left the rest of the bottle."

  "So the same store owner saw you each year?"

  "There were different people working from year to year. I didn't exactly stop and make small talk. I just purchased the cognac and left."

  "What about Patty?" C.J. asked abruptly. "Did she know?"

  "Patty? Eventually she did. I called her six months ago. It was the first time I'd called her in ten years. We talked about my parents, Shawn. I think I told her about my … tradition."

  "I see."

  Instantly, Tamara shook her head. "It's not Patty, C.J. Patty is not the weak link. She's wanted to find out who killed my parents as badly as I did. They were like her parents, too."

  "Then why didn't she stand beside you, Tamara? Why didn't she come to the sheriff's office when you were arrested? Why didn't she go to the arraignment hearing?"

  "Because she's Patty," Tamara said weakly. She leaned forward, wanting to explain it and not knowing how. "We were best friends, C.J., but that was a long time ago, when we were just girls. In those days, Patty was wild, fun, fierce. Then her mother got breast cancer. First there was the mastectomy. Then the radiation therapy. Then a second mastectomy. Then more treatment. Then the news that the cancer had spread to her bones. Her mother died shortly after that.

  "It was horrible. Patty was only twelve, and suddenly her mother was gone, her father was a mess, and she felt like she had no one. So she came over to our house more and more. Sometimes she sat at the kitchen table and cried. Once, she went into a rage and broke half our plates. She could be really sweet, then suddenly, hell on wheels. But my parents never complained. They understood—I understood—and we kept loving her, anyway. That's what she needed. To feel like someone still loved her. And then just when she's coming out of it, just when she's starting to settle down and feel in control of her life once more, there's a night with a full moon and a driver in a red sports car. I woke up alone in the hospital. But Patty was in her own house, sleeping soundly in her own bed, without any reason to believe anything was different. Then her father is knocking at the door."

  Tamara grew quiet. She said, "You lost your mother, C.J. You know how hard it is to get over that. It was your grandma's love, your brother and sister, that helped heal you. What if something had happened to them just a few years later? How would you have felt?"

  "I see your point," he said shortly, his face troubled.

  "She doesn't get close to people, C.J. Not even to me. She never came to visit me in the hospital. She never looked me up in New York. Honestly, I don't think she even liked it when I finally called her. Maybe a part of her did, for old time's sake. But it's been awkward for us. Worse, it's been painful. She just … she needs her distance from me, from the past. It doesn't mean she's bad. It just means she's human."

  "Well, someone knows, Tamara."

  "If it is the senator, maybe he has had me watched. Maybe a private investigator? He would have the money for it."

  "Perhaps," C.J. mused. "Then the question becomes, how do we find the private investigator?"

  "There would be records," Tamara thought out loud. "Money exchanging hands. Maybe checks in the investigator's name?"

  "No, the senator's a savvy guy. He'd pay in cash to avoid the paper trail."

  "Then we're back where we started."

  "Maybe not." C.J. stared at her hard for a moment. "What if we set a trap?"

  "What kind of trap? We're not even sure we know who we're trying to lure."

  "Oh, sure we do. It's the senator, Tamara. Everything simply points to him. One, you saw his face. Two, who else would have the resources? And three, who else would care why you are back in Sedona, asking about George Brennan?"

  "I know, I know." She sighed and dragged her hand through her hair, genuinely troubled. "We've had this conversation before, and you'd pretty much convinced me. But that was before Spider Wallace, C.J. I can believe the senator hit my parents' car, but why would he shoot Spider Wallace?"

  "To frame you."

  "But a witness saw a woman walk away."

  "Perhaps he hired someone."

  "Well, if he could hire someone to shoot Spider, why didn't he hire that person to just shoot me?"

  "Someone's been trying to kill you."

  "Then, why kill Spider?" Tamara insisted. "It makes no sense! Was the senator trying to kill me or trying to frame me? There's no reason to do both, and an extra murder is hardly a small thing. I mean, hitting my parents' car could've been an accident followed by panic. Hiring an assassin to shoot a poor, unarmed cemetery caretaker—that's just unbelievably cold and cruel. And incredibly risky."

  C.J. opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. His glum expression said he agreed. "All right, all right. So we haven't figured it all out. It is far-fetched, but maybe he did plan both. When you went to the graveyard, you didn't see Spider, right?"

  "Right."

  "You opened the cognac, toasted with one glass and left it. Yes?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. So either Spider came to investigate the bottle of cognac and was shot, or he was already shot and the stage was set. Either way, the person wanted the bottle of cognac with your prints on it found. It ties to you. Your gun ties to you. The police will put the pieces together—if they're too slow, an anonymous tip will help them out. They'll come looking for you. Now, if you're alive, you'll argue your case. But what if you were recently killed in an automobile accident, or fatally stung by a scorpion? Suddenly, it's open, shut. Spider Wallace's case is closed, and with you dead, no one asks about a ten-year-old auto accident again."

  Tamara just wasn't convinced. "That sounds so preposterous! Think of all the assumptions we're making and without a shred of proof."

  Abruptly, C.J. perked up. He leaned across the table. "So let's test our theory, Tamara. Let's pretend we have proof."

  Tamara quieted. "I'm listening."

  "You asked around for witnesses, right?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Toketee. But she hadn't seen anything."

  "Let's pretend someone did. Listen, we'll contact the Chamber of Commerce and get a listing of auto shops, and so forth, from ten years ago. We'll conduct the noisiest search in the free world, calling repair shops, driving services, hospitals, the locals. We know someone is keeping tabs on us, so let's give them a show. And then—" C.J.'s voice dropped to a conspirator's whisper "—in a day or two, we'll suddenly stop calling. We'll hole up in here, cast furtive glances over our shoulders and pull the blinds. We'll have a car pull up. I'll appear and hustle the person inside with a coat over his face. The next day, we'll leak word that we have someone who saw George Brennan driving that night. If he's guilty at all, that'll drag him into the fray."

  Tamara sat up straighter. Real research, theatrics and pure pressure
rolled into one. Surely it would make the senator sweat. "But who? If we have someone claim to be a witness, they could also become a target."

  "Gus," C.J. said instantly. "Gus would do it. And believe me, honey, she can take care of herself."

  Tamara turned the idea over in her mind again. "It could be worth a try."

  C.J. smiled. It wasn't his usual smile, however. This was a predator's grin. "We'll get him, sweetheart. Just you wait and see."

  * * *

  Night fell. The sun sank behind bloodred rocks. The waxy moon rose into orbit. The crickets began their mournful cry. In C.J.'s tiny cabin, all the lights blazed, as two people hunched furiously over their work.

  Tamara had been on the phone most of the afternoon. She'd had to explain her situation to Lombardi, request a leave of absence and get a list of lawyers. She told C.J. that Lombardi had been supportive, but C.J. could tell the conversation had taken its toll. Tamara was a person who valued her privacy and her professional image. Murder charges had a way of stealing that from a person—even an innocent person.

  Afterward, she'd started in on the list he'd gotten from the Chamber of Commerce with a vengeance. Using his cell phone, C.J. had contacted Gus and gotten her agreement for the plan. Then he'd called Sheriff Brody. While Brody was satisfied with his arrest of Tamara, he was a fair man and he did respect C.J. After hearing about the punctured brake line, scorpion and homemade bomb, he agreed to have his deputies dig a little deeper. They would talk to employees at the hotel Tamara had inhabited for most of her stay in Sedona. Perhaps someone had seen someone sneaking into her room or tampering with her car. In a perfect world, they'd discover a witness who saw a woman in black steal Tamara's gun and temporarily replace it with another.

  C.J. didn't believe the world was perfect, but he couldn't stop from hoping.

  A little after two, C.J. had made tuna fish sandwiches and heated up the leftover soup. Tamara barely ate two bites. After five, he'd cleared the soup from the corner of her elbow and replaced it with an apple. That had gone completely untouched. Now as he watched, she dragged her hand through her hair for the fourth time, then pinched the bridge of her nose. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by a sea of papers. They had retrieved her clothes from her hotel, but she remained clad in his old sweatpants and oversize shirt. The large, bulky garments made her appear even smaller and more fragile.