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 beg
ged 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.
“Shh. 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?
Bloody hell. He slammed his car into gear and roared away as if driving fast would help. Of course, it didn’t.
• • •
Tamara was shaking so hard, it took her four attempts to fasten the chain lock on her door. She stood in the entry way of the suite, still breathing too hard. Then, in a flurry of movement, she ripped at her clothes as if getting them off quickly would finally rid her of C. J. MacNamara’s touch, taste and smell.
The clothes pooled at her feet. Naked, covered with snaking scars she hated to see, she made a beeline for the bathroom and its whirlpool tub. She cranked the water to the hottest setting she could find. She dumped in half a bottle of hotel shampoo for suds. She climbed at last into the steaming, whirling, floral-scented water, closing her eyes and willing it to soak the last of the emotions from her pores.
She didn’t want to be angry. She didn’t even want to be passionate. At this point, she wanted her composure back so she could return to New York as intact as possible.
She heard her mother’s gentle reprimand. “Slow down . . .”
She heard her father’s hoarse cry. “Oh, God!”
She heard Shawn’s pain-weakened voice. “It’ll be okay, Tammy. They’ll . . . come. Some . . . one . . . will . . . come. The . . . Lord . . . is . . . my shepherd. I shall . . . not . . . want . . .”
She pressed her hands against her forehead. She squeezed the horrible, conflicting pictures back into their special place.
She didn’t want to know. She just wanted justice.
The steam rose around her. It curled her hair. She kept her face buried in her hands for a long, long time. When she finally looked up again, the memories were pushed back. The emotions were gone. She let the hot water soak into her limbs, and suddenly, she was unbearably exhausted.
It was okay. She could handle tired.
She climbed out of the tub, toweled off and got ready to go to campaign headquarters. She didn’t need C. J. MacNamara or his piercing eyes, or his strong embrace. She just needed to find traces of the red car. And she would do that on her own.
Chapter 6
“Where are the bumper stickers? What is this? I thought we had a full five thousand coming in. Come on, come on, where are they?”
“Printer had a slight problem,” Celia called out from across the bustling, churning, phone-ringing chaos. “Delivered them this morning with Brennan spelled with only one n.”
“What?”
“They’ll have them here by Monday morning, they swore.”
“Jerry!” Mrs. Winslow barked. “Get me the phone and the number for the printers. I will handle this personally. Celia, find the pins, instead. If there is a man, woman or child in this county, I want them wearing a Senator Brennan for Our Future pin. Hannah, get me four focus groups, heavy on women and minorities. We just got the new campaign commercials in and we need to test them. Scott, did the newest version of the senator’s announcement speech come in?”
“Yes,” Scott said glumly.
Mrs. Winslow practically grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. One week before the senator’s arrival, the campaign war room was living up to its name. “Spit it out! What’s wrong?”
“I ran it by a dozen test groups in the last three days,” Scott said, the words rushing out. “It rates high with middle-aged men, both white, Indian and Hispanic, but women didn’t respond to it at all, while voters under thirty-five complained it was too old-school. At this point, he’s hitting only forty percent of the voters. We ran the num
bers, Mary. That won’t do it, not with a young, well-respected outsider like Matthew Phillips throwing his hat in the ring. Women love him—young voters adore him. Basically, he’s a really sexy version of Ross Perot.”
“Scott, repeat after me— There is no such thing as a sexy Ross Perot.”
“Mary,” Scott said just as testily, “I’m telling you now, with speeches like this, the senator’s not going to carry his home state. How can he not carry his own state? Demographics have changed around here, and somebody had better explain that to the senator and his head speechwriter.”
Mary scowled, chewing on her lower lip. Then her gaze latched on to Tamara, who was sitting in front of her computer, trying to look like she was working while she blatantly eavesdropped on the senator’s woes. She’d dressed for the day’s chaos in a slimming black pantsuit. Generally, it made her look sharp and chic. Today, it merely accentuated the pallor of her skin and the shadows beneath her eyes. Apparently, Mary Winslow thought the same.
“My God, you look like hell. Are you feeling all right?” What the question lacked in genuine concern, it made up for in razor-sharp demand.
“I’m fine. I just had a late night.”
Mrs. Winslow’s hands settled on her trim hips, garbed in a sensible navy blue schoolmarm’s skirt. “I know you are just a volunteer, Tamara, but it’s only a week until the senator’s arrival and I can’t have my staff up late drinking and performing poorly—”
“I know—”
“Don’t you understand how important this is? Don’t you realize how much the senator is trusting us to do this right? This isn’t some high school most-likely-to-succeed contest. Here in this room, we are working on molding the future. We are setting our sights on determining the next leader of the free world.”
“I drove here all the way from New York,” Tamara fired back, a little bit on edge herself. “It occurred to me it might be important.”