MacNamara's Woman

  Given the speed she’d hit the corner at, the force at which her car had spun off the road, she was doing all right.

  “Sweetheart, when you said you had a first-aid kit, you weren’t kidding,” the man declared, jogging back over. “Are you a medic or something?”

  “No.”

  She wrapped her hands on top of the seat and prepared to heft herself up. Immediately, his hands curled around her shoulders. She froze.

  “Easy. I’m just trying to help you up.”

  “Please!” Her voice was sharp, more brittle than she’d intended. Instantly he backed off, hands in the air.

  “Hey, I really am just trying to help.”

  “I . . . I know.” She managed to sit up, though the world spun. When it righted, she made out her car fifty feet back, and the man standing in front of her. He no longer looked so gentle or compassionate. His blue eyes had narrowed, and now that gaze was piercing.

  Tamara, you are making a mess out of this.

  She focused on looking at the red dirt, dimly illuminated by his car’s headlights. “I’m . . . I’m . . . Could I have the Band-Aid, please?”

  “It’s your Band-Aid.” He handed it over stiffly, then added dryly, “Gonna apply it yourself, as well?”

  Her cheeks flushed with shame. “Yes.”

  “You’re from New York, aren’t you?”

  She stiffened, but he simply shook his head in disgust. “Yeah, your attitude says it all. Big-city car, big-city clothes, and the gratitude of a hound dog acquiring a new flea. I visited my brother in New York once. I still can’t believe people would actually want to live there.”

  She nodded weakly, fumbling with the Band-Aid as her fingers began to tremble. He could tell she was from New York? She’d come here knowing that she needed to keep a low profile, and yet a total stranger could deduce she was from New York in a matter of minutes?

  How much else could he tell? Why was he out on the roads at this time of night, anyway? And why hadn’t her brakes responded when she’d pumped them for the curves?

  Her hands shook harder. She couldn’t get the backing off the Band-Aid.

  “Yeah, you’re just fine, sweetheart. No problems here.” The man snatched the Band-Aid back impatiently, ripped off the backing with one deft movement and latched it onto her face. “Band-Aid won’t do it in the long run. You’re going to need stitches.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Listen, I spent twelve years in the marines and six years owning a bar. Let me tell you, you’re going to need stitches.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’d believe you a lot more if your forehead didn’t look like you’d just had a full frontal lobotomy. Now”— he crossed his arms over his chest—“what would you like me to do?”

  “Talk softer.” She gingerly pressed her hand against her forehead.

  “Oh.” He instantly looked contrite. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. Listen, I’m muddling this a bit. Why don’t we start over?” He held out his hand. “C. J. MacNamara. I own a bar, the Ancient Mariner, just a few miles back.”

  She took his hand, feeling warm, strong fingers curve around her palm. He had a good handshake, firm, but not so squeezing that it cut a woman’s rings into her fingers, the way some men were prone to doing. He owned a local bar. It had probably just closed—that’s why he’d been on the road. She returned his handshake with more enthusiasm, relaxing a fraction.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she murmured. “I guess I’m more shaken up than I thought.”

  “You really should go to a hospital.”

  “No . . . I’m . . .” She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t like to talk about the first auto accident in the best of situations, and since she’d decided to return to Sedona, she’d realized it was dangerous to bring it up. She settled for shrugging, hoping he would take that at face value.

  “Could I have some more water?” she asked. He handed the canteen to her wordlessly, his gaze still sharp and waiting. She would be rescued by a man who wasn’t easily put off. “Uh . . . Thank you. I mean . . . really. Thank you . . . for stopping.”

  “Welcome to Sedona. We still help each other out here.”

  Her lips twisted ironically before she could catch them. Quickly, she smoothed out her expression.

  “Lady, what were you doing hitting those corners so fast?”

  “I wasn’t trying to.”

  “You hit them going seventy. Only a complete idiot hits S curves going seventy.”

  “You didn’t take them so slow yourself.”

  “I was doing fifty-five. There’s a huge difference between fifty-five and seventy.”

  “True.” She took a step, swayed, and he cupped her elbow. Of course, she flinched; she just couldn’t help herself. C.J.’s gaze narrowed again.

  “I swear I’ve had my shots,” he said quietly.

  She turned away from his scrutiny. Her car was fifty feet back, spun around in a circle of loose rock and red dirt. The good news was that the roadside was pretty flat, so damage to her car was slight. The bad news was, she should never have gone off the road. Mr. MacNamara was right—there was a great deal of difference between fifty-five and seventy. Eight years ago, she’d started racing cars so she could learn about all those differences—and so she would never feel terrified or helpless behind the wheel again.

  But tonight, she’d panicked. She’d seen the curves looming, pumped her brakes futilely and thought that she’d die. If she hadn’t had experience on how to take sharp corners at high speeds, if she hadn’t known exactly when to downshift and how to turn into a spin, her car would’ve hit those curves at almost a hundred, flipped and rolled.

  What had happened to her brakes?

  “I’m all right now,” she said. “Thank you for stopping, but I’ll be fine. You can go.”

  Without a backward glance, she walked over to her car. Her heels sunk down deep into the soft, dusty soil, worsening her limp.

  “I’m not just leaving you here.”

  “Really, it’s okay.” She dug a flashlight from her trunk, then found her tool kit. “You know us New Yorkers. We like to take care of ourselves.”

  “Am I being brushed off by a woman with a concussion?”

  “I don’t have a concussion.”

  He didn’t take her hint. Instead, C. J. MacNamara followed her to her car, invading her desperately needed space with the distinct odor of fresh soap and faint laundry detergent. He stood very close, something she just wasn’t used to. She plunged into her tool kit with shaking hands.

  “How exactly are you going to get home?” he persisted reasonably. “Civilization is a good five miles back or forty miles ahead. Either way, it’s a little late to catch a bus.”

  “I’m going to fix my car.”

  “You’re going to fix your car?”

  “Yes.” She popped the hood, putting the whole car between them. Shrugging off her silk blazer, she leaned over the hot engine and, with her flashlight, got serious.

  “All right, I consider myself to be a modern man. Hell, I was raised by a woman who can make just about any piece of machinery work. But my grandmother runs a hundred-acre dairy farm. She doesn’t race around back roads driving a Lexus and wearing designer suits.”

  Tamara didn’t answer. Brakes could stop functioning for a variety of reasons. Problems with the main computer manning the lines. Air in the lines. A slow leak that drained brake fluid. Loose fittings with the master cylinder, leading to drained brake fluid. Baking soda and vinegar or hydrogen peroxide added to brake fluid.

  Very few of those options were true accidents.

  Get a grip, Tamara. You’ve been back in Sedona for only a few days. No one knows who you are. No one knows what you’re after. You just have to be cautious and careful for a little while longer.

  Ten days and you’ll have your answers one way or another. You just have to make it through ten days. . . .

  The engine was still steaming. She tried to examine the fit
tings with the master cylinder and nearly singed her finger.

  “Here”—C.J. held out the soaked towel she’d once had on her forehead—“at least use this.”

  She accepted the offer wordlessly, prodding at the fittings. They seemed tight enough. She found a drop of oily brake fluid and lifted it to her nose. It smelled like an engine, no sharp overtones of vinegar. She rolled the heavy orange-red fluid between her index finger and thumb. It was warm, thick and oily. No grit from baking soda.

  Her fingers danced down the rubber brake line, checking for leaks. The bottom brake lines were metal, protecting them from being punctured by jagged potholes or debris. The top brake lines, however . . .

  Two inches down, she found the irregularity. Then another. Then another. Five in all. None very big, but all taking their toll.

  A faulty line?

  Sabotage.

  Immediately, she pushed the thought away. No, not probable. As far as anyone knew, she was just a New York PR executive who’d volunteered her expertise and time to work on Senator Brennan’s political campaign. She and Patty had started planning this six months ago and they had been very careful. Their story was simple and straightforward and mixed with just enough truth to have credibility. She’d been back in Sedona for three days and hadn’t so much as seen or spoken to Senator Brennan. There was no reason to believe he knew who she really was or what she was really about. No reason at all. Everything was going according to plan.

  “Brake lines?” C.J. said abruptly. She startled, having forgotten that he was there, then startled again when she found him bent over right beside her, his face a mere three inches away. “Looks like you’re leaking fluid,” he continued matter-of-factly.

  For a moment, she simply stared at him, not sure what to do or say.

  He had his hands gripping the edge of her car like a man who knew a thing or two. Certainly, his hands were a working man’s hands—long, lean fingers, with a trace of Arizona dust around the nails. He wore ridges of yellow calluses and absolutely no rings. Crisscrossing white scars from a lifetime of use webbed his knuckles, while tendons sprang up on the backs of his hands. He had broad palms, strong forearms. Those were capable hands. They probably knew a lot about engines, a lot about tools and a lot about other things a woman like her shouldn’t consider.

  “Yes,” she managed to say after a moment. “The brake lines seem to have suffered some damage.”

  He frowned. “Punctured?”

  “There are holes.”

  “Kind of hard to puncture an upper brake line, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps it was a faulty line. I just had some work done on the car before I drove out here.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” His eyes squinted. “I don’t think you should be driving this car anyplace now. I’ll give you a lift to your . . . ?”

  “Actually, I have duct tape and brake fluid in the metal tool bin. It’ll be fine.”

  “You travel with brake fluid?”

  “It does come in handy.” She tried to move away. His hand clamped around her forearm, stopping her. His hand was strong. Those fingers were callused. She was acutely aware of them against her skin—not bruising, but very, very firm.

  “Of course, maybe that shouldn’t surprise me . . . seeing how you are also carrying a gun.”

  Her heartbeat accelerated before she could catch it. Her ankle holster. When she’d bent over, she must have exposed it. Or maybe when he was carrying her. Oh, God . . .

  She said, “Excuse me. I’m trying to get the brake fluid.”

  “And I’m trying to figure out just who the hell you are.”

  “I don’t remember that being any of your business.”

  She jostled past him forcefully, grabbing the plastic bottle of brake fluid and the roll of duct tape. C.J. didn’t move out of her way. He leaned against the front of her car with his ankles crossed and his arms akimbo. His white T-shirt stretched across his chest, barely tucked into his worn jeans. For the first time, she noticed his boots. Scuffed up, well broken in. A workingman’s boots. Her father had once owned a pair like them. He’d loved them, said a man couldn’t be a man without wearing boots.

  “Who are you? You haven’t given me your name.”

  “I’m tired. It’s late. I just want to tend to my car and get home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “I don’t give out that kind of information to men I don’t know.” She ripped off a piece of duct tape savagely and wrapped it around the wounded line.

  “I’ve given you my name. I pulled over to help you. How much do you need to know?”

  “In this day and age, a girl can’t be too careful.” She tore another strip. He stood too close. She caught a faint hint of Old Spice. She’d once loved Old Spice. Now it made her eyes sting. She was tired; she was distraught. She was standing on the side of an Arizona highway, too close to another night when her car had gone off the road and she had listened to the people she loved die.

  “Here, at least let me put in the brake fluid.”

  “I don’t need your help!” She snatched back the plastic container. “Please, I just want to be left alone.”

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. His gaze walked over her face slowly, seeming to peer into each crevice, as if he could find every secret she’d been hiding.

  She thinned her lips and met his gaze head-on. Dammit, she didn’t cow anymore; she had earned her battle stripes. She snapped, “Doesn’t a man like you have virgins to deflower or something like that?”

  “That’s Friday night. This is Wednesday, and on Wednesdays I only rescue damsels in distress.”

  “Well, I’m not in distress,” she announced crisply, unscrewing the brake-fluid cap and pouring the liquid in. Dammit, she really could take care of herself. But C. J. MacNamara continued to eye her coolly.

  “No, you’re not,” he drawled slowly. “In fact, for someone who was just in a car accident, you don’t seem the slightest bit shaken.”

  “I don’t do shaken.”

  “You don’t seem to need help.”

  “I don’t need help.” She capped the plastic bottle tightly, tossed it into the metal tool kit and threw in the duct tape and flashlight.

  “You show no trace of nerves or hysteria.”

  “I definitely don’t do hysteria.”

  “What do you do?”

  She slammed the tool kit shut with a resounding crash. “I mind my own business.”

  She stalked past him, too angry to feel her headache or sore limbs. She dropped the kit into the trunk, slammed her trunk door, then climbed into her car. When she tried to fasten her seat belt, however, it hurt her stomach and neck. Damn, damn, damn.

  C. J. MacNamara leaned into the driver’s-side window just as she started the engine. Her heart was suddenly hammering in her chest.

  “Who are you?”

  “No one. Goodbye.”

  “What happened to your brake lines?”

  “Faulty line. Damn those mechanics. Goodbye.”

  She eased her car onto the road and took off into the night.

  C.J. remained standing there a minute longer, watching the disappearing glow of her taillights.

  He said at last, “Liar.”

  He still didn’t get into his car.

  The woman was right; it was none of his business. But then his eyes were on the dark spots of brake fluid still staining the ground. A nameless woman with faulty brakes and a.22 semiautomatic handgun. A beautiful woman who froze every time he touched her.

  You’re sticking your nose where it isn’t wanted, C.J., a little voice warned. Probably his grandma’s.

  Too late, he thought philosophically. His interest was piqued!

  Chapter 2

  “Miss Thompson. There’s a visitor here to see you.”

  Tamara looked up from her desk blankly, and C.J. knew the minute she spotted him standing behind the receptionist, because her deep brown eyes became instantly wary. He grinned at her charmingly
and waved. She scowled.

  By day, she was more stunning than he’d remembered. Rich brown hair was pulled sleekly back and tied at the nape of her neck, reminding him of an otter’s thick, glossy coat. She wore another one of her fancy New York pantsuits, this one a deep bronze color that picked up flecks of gold in her eyes. A dark brown, green and gold scarf was tied expertly at her neck, adding a splash of color and style. She would have looked one-hundred-percent corporate woman, except for the bulky white bandage plunked over her delicate forehead and the violet purple shadows staining her eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked without preamble as the receptionist walked away. They were in the middle of Senator Brennan’s “war room,” basically a converted ballroom at the El Dorado Hotel & Conference Center. Three chandeliers winked above them, but they were the only signs of elegance left in the room. Otherwise, the huge floor was now covered by wooden tables and metal fold-down chairs. The walls hummed with the throbbing, lively music of people chattering, computers beeping and phones ringing. In the front, a receptionist signed everyone in. After her, three campaign lieutenants directed the throng of volunteers, arranging them into battalions fit for cold-calling voters, stuffing envelopes and canvassing neighborhoods. Senator Brennan’s full-color mug shot, blown up to monolithic proportions, beamed benevolently down on the chaos created in his honor. C.J. half expected to see altar candles burning at the man’s feet.

  “I’m interested in Senator George Brennan,” C.J. said casually to Tamara. Ignoring her cool glower and the dozens of people milling around them, he settled his hip on the edge of her desk and got comfortable. She was one of the few people with a computer in her work area. In- and out-baskets overflowed with paper. In front of her, a press release was bleeding to death from her red-ink edits. The pen was still poised in her fingers like a weapon. She looked on the verge of using it.