MacNamara's Woman

  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 another 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 Beretta. He couldn’t breathe. A tightness gripped his chest, like a vise 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 ma
rine, 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 the words 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 Beretta 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 gave his Mustang 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 homed 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.”

  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.

  She wanted him to lose control. She wanted C. J. MacNamara ravishing her, devouring her, consuming her.

  Maybe if he lost his control, she would be able to lose hers. Maybe the darkness would leave her; the growing heaviness of too many sleepless nights and too many emotions would finally depart. She could throw herself at this man with all the vengeance and fury and hurt and pain she had. He would meet her halfway. He would take it and demand more. She knew it. He would take her outside herself, strip the unbearable sense of isolation from her once and for all.

  They remained standing there, bodies touching but not hands. Pulse rates joining and soaring, but minds still battling. She felt him grow hard against her hip, his flesh become a ridged line that dug into her softest spot, making her want to shift a little closer. Making her want to whimper. Making her damp.

  “Who are you?” he growled low, the words whispering across her lips.

  “Tamara Allistair,” she murmured, no defenses left.

  “Why did you lie?”

  “I just wanted to be safe.”

  “You think the senator killed your family in a hit-and-run accident? That’s why you came back? That’s why you broke into the campaign war room?”

  “I thought so, but I was wrong.”

/>   His eyes narrowed, squeezing her down even as his body shifted closer, his arousal pressing into her. Her eyes drifted shut helplessly. She couldn’t think anymore. She wanted to dig her fingers into his strong shoulders. Her hands remained fisted at her sides, resisting that last capitulation.

  “How do you know, Tamara?”

  “No red car,” she murmured. “The senator doesn’t even drive when he’s in town. A car service does it for him.”

  “So who did it?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea. It was ten years ago, and I can’t find any leads. Honestly. Please . . .” Her hips shifted against him helplessly. She wanted, she needed. She couldn’t stand her own skin anymore.

  Her eyes opened. She gazed at him without guile. Take me. Strip the control from me. I am so unbelievably tired.

  His eyes darkened. A muscle flinched in his jaw, and his breathing became loud and ragged in the silence. “Why should I believe you now?” he said, grinding the words out. “Why the hell should I trust anything you say?”

  “Because I need you to,” she whispered simply. “Because . . . I want you.”

  He succumbed, his groan angry and furious and as needy as hers. Finally his hands moved. He gripped her shoulders, he held her back one last minute, giving her time to pull away, and when she simply remained in his arms, he yanked her against him and devoured her mouth.

  Her hands fisted his shirt. She angled her head back and gave her mouth to him completely, welcoming his tongue as he raked it across her teeth. Opening to him so he could plunge into her mouth. Her hands moved on his shoulders, rubbing, squeezing, yanking him even closer. His clothes enraged her. She wanted him naked, wanted everything gone, hot, slick skin pressed against hot, slick skin. She wanted desperately to feel all the things she’d never thought she could feel.

  Abruptly, he pushed her back onto the bed. She dragged him down with her, finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it off his body. She sucked her breath in. He was poised above her, his strong thighs clamping her hips, his torso bent over hers. He had such smooth, golden skin, as if it had spent a lifetime being kissed by the sun. On his chest, a delicate mat of honey blond hair swirled in patterns. She ran her fingers through it, marveling at the fine, silky touch.