MacNamara's Woman

  Her shoulders came down. She finally offered a tremulous smile. He could hear fresh noise in the hall.

  “Two o’clock,” he whispered, winked and strode for the door. As silently as he came, he disappeared.

  Tamara sat alone at the table. She replayed his words in her mind, the feel of his hand gripping hers. And she did her best to believe in him, even if she wasn’t very good at believing in others.

  For C.J., she tried.

  • • •

  At two o’clock, Tamara was delivered to the courthouse, where she was met by an overworked, underpaid public defender who only had time to ask her how to pronounce her name before the judge called the brief proceedings to order. The district attorney pointed out that Tamara had no roots in the community and was wanted for cold-blooded murder, making her a high flight risk. Her public defender mumbled that she’d once lived in Sedona, ten years ago, and with a bang of the gavel, the judge set her bail at $500,000. Tamara began to realize it was a good thing she made a lot of money—she was about to spend it all on a good defense lawyer.

  Just as the court officers were leading her away, she spotted C.J. in the back of the room. He gave her a thumbs-up and a wink.

  An hour later, two corrections officers delivered her to him. Immediately, he guided her to his car.

  “Sorry about the delay. Brandon had to liquidate some stocks, and you wouldn’t believe the paperwork they made me fill out.”

  “Your brother paid the full $500,000 to post my bail?”

  “Wired it thirty minutes ago.”

  “That . . . that was incredibly generous of him.”

  “That’s what family is for.”

  “He’ll get the money back, C.J. I promise.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I should tell you this, but Brandon will hardly care. He’s . . . uh . . . well, actually, he’s doing his damnedest to lose money. Of course, the poor guy has the Midas touch, so generally his sure-to-fail investments end up making him more money. Talk about a curse.”

  Tamara decided she must be in a greater state of shock than she’d realized. “He’s trying to lose money?”

  “Well, Brandon worked too hard as an investment banker. His wife was always trying to get him to slow down, spend more time at home. He kept insisting he would—when they had more saved. Next thing he knew, she was dead and he was rich—her life insurance was worth a million. Brandon doesn’t appreciate irony. He’s been fighting it ever since.”

  Tamara just nodded. The story seemed to run in circles around her head, and she was too overloaded with other matters to try to make sense of it. Instead, she said with all the meager dignity she could muster, “I’m innocent, C.J. I am. And I have no intention of jumping bail or becoming a fugitive from the law. If worse comes to worst, I’ll hire the best defense lawyer Lombardi can find to beat this thing.”

  “Lombardi?” C.J. opened the passenger-side door of his Mustang for her.

  “He’s the founding partner of the public relations firm.”

  “No romantic interest?” He slid into his side of the car.

  “He’s seventy.”

  “Oh, okay. Then Lombardi sounds like a great guy.”

  “He knows lots of lawyers.”

  “We’ll give Lombardi a call, but tomorrow morning. It’s after five in New York now, and frankly, you look like you’re on the verge of fainting. Fasten your seat belt, sweetheart. I’m taking you to my place and putting you in bed.”

  • • •

  Tamara had never really thought about where C.J. lived, but when he finally pulled up to a small cabin on the outskirts of town, she realized this was exactly where she’d pictured him. A white Volkswagen Scirocco was up on blocks in the front yard. Its hood was propped open, and she could see the interior roll cage through the windows. A pile of four slashed racing tires rested beside it.

  C.J. walked past the tires as if he didn’t see them, but she saw a muscle jump in his jaw.

  “Here we go. Nothing fancy, but, well, it’s home.” For the first time, Tamara realized that C.J. was a little bit nervous.

  She walked through the front door to discover a house of sunlight and wood. Windows of different sizes and shapes dotted the walls like a crazy quilt of sky and wind. Above her, exposed beams arched up twenty feet, while thick gold pine planks glowed beneath her feet. The cabin had no interior walls. The old beat-up sofa and oddball collection of chairs seemed to be the living room. The kitchen was straight ahead, defined by a relatively new blue counter and barstools. To her left, a Chinese screen sectioned off an area she supposed was the bedroom. Next to it, a small room was boxed in and packaged with a door. She figured that had to be the bathroom.

  “Forgive the mess. I don’t have visitors often.”

  Obviously the man wasn’t into housecleaning. As Tamara watched, he self-consciously snatched up the navy blue towel puddled in front of the kitchen counter, the white T-shirt thrown over the Chinese screen, the pair of jeans wadded in a corner. Other miscellaneous items were quickly scooped up and unceremoniously piled behind the screen. The dirty dishes were dumped into the sink.

  Tamara used the time to roam. There were fragments of people’s lives in their homes. She knew this, because she had no such fragments in her apartment. She had glass, chrome, works of art—the kinds of things a successful PR executive of an exclusive firm should have. She didn’t have pictures. She didn’t have crystal her grandmother had given her, or a doll handed down from her mother, or a baseball glove used to play catch with her father. Those items lived in boxes she only dragged out on Christmas morning, when the darkness was already crushing her chest.

  C.J. had fragments. She found pictures, a huge collection of them, unframed and jumbled together on his mantel. A large black-and-white portrait shot of an older woman in barn clothes. A small color photo of three kids sitting on the back of a parade float, dressed up in straw hats and blue jeans and dangling bamboo fishing rods. The middle child was a charming girl with a beaming smile and red Pippy Longstocking braids. Here was a wallet-size photo of C.J., the young marine, wearing full dress uniform and looking at the camera with his sternest expression. There was C.J. on some tropical beach, waving a fruit-festooned coconut and dipping a scantily clad woman. Writing on the back stated, “We’ll always have Maui.” Tamara put it back quickly. Most of the shots, however, were of C.J. in fatigues with his marine buddies, or C.J. in blue jeans with his siblings. Except for his formal marine class photo, he always looked happy.

  She found a kachina doll at the end of the mantel. Above the mantel, he had a samurai sword mounted in its intricately carved sheath. A wood-carved chess set with crude peasant figures, reminding her of sculptures she’d seen from South America, sat in front of a window. Bamboo weavings covered one wall.

  “Here. You can change into these.”

  C.J. held out a pair of gray sweats and a blue chambray shirt for her. He still looked nervous.

  “Your cabin is very beautiful.”

  He shrugged. “I like it.”

  “You collected all these things while traveling?”

  “The marines. You know, travel to exotic places, meet exotic people, and kill them.” He smiled abruptly. “I miss the marines.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Time to move on. After a while, always following orders—and bureaucracy—gets to a man. I like it here in Sedona. I’m happy with the Ancient Mariner. Racing all year round is pretty good, too.” His expression grew curious. “Do you ever miss Arizona, Tamara? Do you ever think of coming back?”

  “No. The land . . . it has a beauty unlike any other in the world. But for me . . . There are too many sad memories here, C.J. Even the crickets remind me of my parents dying.”

  C.J. opened his mouth. She thought he’d push the subject harder, but abruptly he changed his mind. He shoved the clothes in her hands. “I thought you might like to clean up and change. There are fresh towels stacked in the bathroom. The bedroom is behind the
screen. I promise not to peek . . . maybe.”

  She arched a brow skeptically.

  “I’m not much of a cook. I kind of think Chinese takeout was one of the greatest advances of the twentieth century. But I do make a mean pot of chicken noodle soup—”

  “Fresh?”

  “Yeah, right. I add some ‘personal touches,’” he insisted. He brought up his nose in perfect imitation of a haughty connoisseur. “Just you wait until you’ve tried my soup. You haven’t had nothing till you’ve tried my soup.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Abruptly, he brushed her cheek with his fingers. The touch lingered. “I want you to eat,” he said softly. “I want you to relax and sleep. You’ll be safe here, Tamara. Do you believe me when I say that?”

  “Yes.” She spoke the truth and it surprised her.

  “I don’t expect anything from you. I’m not going to jump your bones the first time you close your eyes—”

  “I know you wouldn’t do that.”

  “I understand you’ve been through a lot. I understand you probably need some space, some room, to sort it all out. I can be a sensitive nineties guy. Just don’t let the word get out.”

  “C.J. . . . you’ve been unbelievably kind.”

  “Yeah.” He made a face, then shrugged ruefully. “Just don’t let the word get out.”

  Tamara smiled. She liked the cute side of C. J. MacNamara. Their gazes met and held for a moment. Neither of them said anything. The silence stretched, not taut, not sparked, just . . . comfortable. Real. Nice.

  “I’m . . . I’m going to go shower now.”

  “I’ll cook soup.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  She finally got her feet to move. Her gaze was still on his. He had a half smile around his lips, soft, earnest. She liked that look. It fit the wave of golden hair curling down his forehead. She almost tripped, finally drawing her attention back to her feet. She pulled herself together and showered.

  Afterward, she put on his clothes. She was acutely aware that the soft, worn fabric smelled like him. She caught faint whiffs of soap and spice. She bunched the warm fabric between her fingers and imagined it against his skin.

  She padded into the kitchen, the wood floor smooth beneath her feet. She was just rolling up the sleeves of the chambray shirt—which seemed to fall to her knees—when she spotted C.J.

  He was seated at the small round kitchen table, looking ridiculously proud of himself. A big Dutch oven sat on a pot holder in the middle of the table. English muffins steamed from a recent toasting. He’d set two places with big blue ceramic bowls and hastily polished plastic spoons. The pièce de résistance, however, was the single pink rose he’d placed across her bowl.

  “I bought it yesterday,” he said. “Thought I’d give it to you when I hunted you down this afternoon, maybe get a smile from you. Oh, wait. There we go. You’re smiling.”

  “I’m not smiling. My lips itch.”

  “Your lips itch?” He arched a brow, then waggled it devilishly. That made the corners of her mouth curve more, and he grinned in triumph. He waved her toward the chair and she came.

  She did feel better. More relaxed than she had for a long time, more . . . at ease.

  She ate his soup. It was thick with noodles and fresh carrots and celery he’d added himself. She slathered honey on English muffins and polished off two slices. She drank cool glasses of iced tea and stroked the velvety petals of her rose. The sun was beginning to set. It sent rich, vibrant hues of pink, mauve and amber through the crazy quilt of windows. It bathed them both in gold.

  When she’d polished off the last bite, scraped the bottom of the bowl, and retrieved the last crumb, C.J. pushed back his chair. He held out his arms.

  She went to him, wordless, thoughtless. In baggy sweats and his oversize shirt, she curled up on his lap and slipped her arms around his waist. He held her against him. She inhaled his scent. She listened to his heartbeat. She closed her eyes and let his warmth seep through her.

  “Relax, Tamara.” His fingers lifted, settled on the back of her neck. “And let me do this. I want to do this for you.”

  Chapter 11

  He had such great hands.

  Those long, powerful fingers dug into the corded muscles of her neck, kneading, kneading, kneading. They crept into her hair, massaging little circles and sending pinpricks of pleasure up her spine. They squeezed her shoulders, his strong thumbs rubbing her collarbone and finding more knots. Her head sagged against his chest.

  Traveling down her spine, he searched out her tension and knuckled it away. The small of her back, the indent of her waist, the curve of her bottom, all turned into a pliant, supple mass.

  Her eyes drifted shut.

  He threaded her thick hair behind her ears. He lifted coiled strands and ran them through his fingers. He feathered his fingertips down her cheek, over and over again, as if she were a kitten to be stroked into purring. She shifted more tightly against him.

  He circled his fingers around her upper arms, squeezing slightly, then releasing. Warmth flooded through her. Her breathing grew shallow. Her world narrowed down to the exquisite sensation of his hands working her body. She became acutely aware of his fingertips brushing the side of her breast.

  He moved his left hand to her leg, his thumb channeling deeply into her thigh. He pinched just above her knee, where tendons and ligaments knotted, and when he released his hand, goose bumps bloomed across her skin, and she expelled her breath in a rush. He kneaded the taut muscles of her calves. He found the bottom of her foot and pinched with such delicate pressure she bit her lip to keep from moaning. He even rubbed her toes, her poor, unpainted toes. Then he started back up her legs.

  She began to squirm.

  She didn’t mean to. He was willing to give her space, and she should take it. She wasn’t good at passion. She was frigid, half a woman, ashamed. C.J. deserved better.

  She pressed her cheek farther into the curve of his shoulder. She inhaled his fresh, spicy fragrance. She wished she had more to give.

  His hands were still moving on her body. She wanted to push up his T-shirt and taste his skin.

  “Relax,” C.J. murmured in her ear. “I just want you to relax.”

  She squirmed again. Suddenly, she discovered him against her hip, hard and rigid. Large and hot.

  She curled her hands into fists at his waist. She wanted to stroke him, to taste his skin, explore his flesh. She wanted to show him the sensations he so generously shared with her. She wanted to pretend, for one moment, that she was a real, sensual, giving woman.

  Her fingers twitched. She found her hands creeping beneath his shirt, tentatively touching his bare skin. Warm. Smooth. Like hot satin. She pressed her lips against his neck.

  His hands had stilled on her arms. Now she could hear a ragged undertone to his breathing. He was thinking about her, too. She sat there with her hands against his back and her lips against his throat, waiting to see what he would do.

  “Are you sure?” C.J. whispered.

  “No.”

  His arms tightened around her. His hips moved a bit, his groin pressing instinctively against her. She liked the feel of it. “I want you, Tamara. I do. But only if it’s what you want.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t know what to do. She hungered, she feared, she wanted, she rejected. She pulled back a little. She gazed at him, knowing her need must be in her eyes and willing him to make the first move because she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t do it.

  “Gold,” he murmured. “Pure gold. God, Tamara . . .”

  He swung her up in his arms, and she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. In four long strides, they were in the bedroom.

  “You have to tell me if you change your mind,” he said thickly. “I can be patient.”

  “Please.”

  He dropped her in the middle of the bed, his fingers already struggling with his clothes. As she watched, he grabbe
d the hem of his T-shirt and ripped it over his head. Muscles gleamed and rippled. His skin spread out over his spare frame like a tawny lion’s, while satiny swirls of wheat blond down covered his chest. She stared at the hewn lines of his ribs and the washboard undulation of his stomach. She memorized the thick swaths of muscle binding his shoulders and curving his upper arms. When his hands curled around the top of his jeans, tendons snaked up his forearms.

  Slowly, he popped the first button of his jeans. Then, gripping the material tighter with both fists, he ripped open the button fly, shoved the denim down to his ankles and kicked it free. Clad only in red plaid boxers, he climbed onto the bed.

  The mattress dipped strategically, rolling her into him. She thought he would take her into his arms. Instead, he surprised her, trapping her shoulders and rolling her onto her stomach.

  “Let me,” he whispered. “Trust me. Relax for me.”

  His hands curved around. She arched up enough to give him access to the buttons of her shirt. His fingers lingered on the swell of her breast, finding the hard nub of her nipple. He squeezed gently, and she closed her eyes against the sharp, bittersweet sensation. The buttons slipped out one by one. Very slowly, C.J. stripped the oversize shirt from her body.

  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.