by Lisa Gardner
He held her. He would hold her into the new millennium if that’s what it took. Because, dammit, someone should’ve held her long before this. Someone should’ve let her fall apart, just so she would know that it was okay. Everyone fell apart sometime. And everyone learned how to put themselves back together.
Her body grew soft and damp against his, her muscles exhausted and pliant. He rubbed her back for a bit, letting the last of the emotion drain out of her as her sobs quieted. Then he slid his knuckles beneath her chin and slowly tipped back her head.
Her eyes were large, moist and tearstained. Her long, thick lashes were spiky, her cheeks pale and framed by a thick matting of dark, lush hair. Her lips parted soundlessly.
“How long has it been since you’ve let yourself cry?” he whispered.
“I cried too much in the beginning. It didn’t change anything.”
“And so you bottled it all up, didn’t you?”
“What was I supposed to do? Sob and feel sorry for myself? Lie in the hospital bed and mourn? They were gone. Nothing, no one, could bring them back. And I had doctors all around me, talking about fractures and breaks and internal ruptures. Debating how long it would take for my bones to heal, what were my chances of walking again. How many surgeries would it take?
“You don’t understand, C.J. I had to get on with things. Healing for me wasn’t lying in a bed. I had to learn how to sit up on a shattered pelvis, how to pull myself onto a wheelchair, how to pull myself from the wheelchair onto a toilet. When my fractured leg and pelvis had healed enough, I had to learn how to stand. I had to learn how to balance again, how to walk again. Dammit, I had to put together puzzles!”
“Puzzles?”
“Puzzles! That’s what they do so you have something to distract yourself with while you try to get your legs to relearn something as pedantic as standing. You stand up and you put together puzzles for as long as you can handle it.”
“You mean like those one-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles?”
She scowled, her temper returning, her eyes beginning to glow gold. He didn’t try to allay her anger, because it allowed her to discard the last of her grief and fall back on her natural strength. She was very strong.
“One-thousand-piece puzzles?” she cried. “Are you kidding? My first puzzle was some six-piece thing meant for two-year-olds, and I was out of breath and in unbelievable pain just to slap those six pieces together. I’d just finally got to the puzzles for children ages eight to twelve when they decided my fractured leg was never going to set on its own and sent me back for a bone graft. Then I started all over again. Puzzles for children ages two to four. Made it up to ages ten to twelve, and my knee gave out once and for all. Back to surgery I went. This time I get a whole new knee.” She rapped her left leg. “Made from the finest metal with a plastic liner, and good for twenty-five years or 150,000 miles, whatever comes first.”
“You have a fake knee?”
“Yes, I do, as well as enough pins and plates to hold together the Eiffel Tower. Basically, I’m seventy percent scar tissue and five percent metal and plastic. I travel with X-rays these days just for the airport security systems, and I have my own money-back guarantee. Better yet, in another five to ten years, I’m going to have surgery again. Fake knees don’t last forever. And then”—she scowled—“then I’ll get to reenter PT and play with puzzles!”
“It won’t be as bad,” he tried diplomatically.
“I hate puzzles,” she told him clearly.
“Then we’ll find something else for you. Maybe a game to play. See how long you can stand and beat the socks off of me in Monopoly. Playing against an invalid may be the only way I ever win at that game.”
Her face fell. “Don’t. Don’t promise things you can’t deliver.”
“What can’t I deliver, Tamara? You don’t like Monopoly? You think after decades of being one of the top-selling games it suddenly won’t exist?”
“You alluded to the future. That’s a very dangerous thing.”
“Well, we’re naked and wrapped in a blanket together. Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve been thinking about the future.”
“No. No, you’re not. I’ve heard all about you, C. J. MacNamara, and you’re not a ‘future’ kind of guy. So don’t lie to me and don’t mislead me. Don’t think that because I’ve been through a few things, you have to handle me with kid gloves. I’ve brought junior account managers to tears before and don’t you forget it!”
“Tamara, I don’t think you’re fragile.”
“I’m not some injured woman for you to save.” Abruptly, she was struggling with the enshrouding covers, kicking at them vehemently. “The accident was ten years ago. I’ve moved on.”
“No. Dammit!” He snapped his hand around her wrist just as she broke free from the covers. She didn’t want him to treat her like she was made out of glass? Fine. He flipped her onto her back, straddled her thighs and pinned her on the bed. Her eyes turned to pure gold menace.
“Let me go!”
“So help me God, Tamara, you run so fast, pinning you on your back is the only way I can keep you in place long enough to finish a sentence. One of these days, I’m going to buy handcuffs just for you.”
“I am not enjoying this!”
“Then listen to me. Cut me some slack. You just accused me of manipulating your feelings and lying to you. I don’t deserve that.”
Her breath escaped as a muted hiss. Her eyes glowed with dark promises of retribution, but she didn’t refute his statement.
“Dammit, I’m more than a little bit interested in you. No man in his right mind would put up with everything I’ve put up with if he was just looking for sex.”
“Conquest,” she muttered. “Challenge.”
“Well, you are challenging—no argument here.”
“Compensation.”
“Compensation? What the hell are you talking about? I make a good living on my own.”
“Your mother.” She fired the words out. “You didn’t save your mother, C.J. So now you’re trying to save the rest of us. You’re not the only one who can play psychoanalyst.”
Her voice was injured, raw. For a moment, he was too stunned to speak. He felt a lot of things. Anger. Outrage. And beneath all that, fear. He had wanted to save his mother. He had believed that he could. If he was just smart enough, clever enough, strong enough . . . But he hadn’t. And now it was laid out in black and white, C.J.’s secret failing. The failing so big that even late at night when he was all alone and protected by the shadows, he didn’t bring it out and contemplate it. It made him feel too small, like a fraud.
“I . . . I thought I could keep her well,” he said quietly.
“You were just a kid.” Tamara’s voice had softened.
His gaze latched on to the patch of pillow next to her head. Abruptly, his jaw hardened. He shook his head. “No. I wanted to save her, Tamara. And maybe that made me naive or arrogant or something, but I tried and I failed and I feel like I failed. But”—he looked her in the eye—“I don’t confuse you with my mother, Tamara. When I look at you, I don’t see my frail mother dying in a cheap apartment. I see a strong, vibrant woman with incredible wit and passion. I see good values. I see a sense of honor and pride and dignity. I see someone who interests me very much, someone who attracts me very much. I see someone I want to get to know a helluva lot better.”
“C.J. . . . I’m going back to New York.”
“Why?” he demanded fiercely.
“I’ve got a good job there. I’ve got a good life!”
“Really, Tamara? So why did you come back to Sedona at all? Why now, after all these years?”
Her mouth opened, but she hadn’t a good defense, and they both knew it. The answer was just there: Her life wasn’t so great. Her career wasn’t so wonderful.
“I’ve been there, too, Tamara,” C.J. said quietly. “I lost my parents. I know what it’s like to be that sad. And I know what it’s like to be that angry. My grandma hel
ped get me through it. But you haven’t had anyone help you deal with everything. And that’s why you came back.”
“There’s nothing to deal with,” she whispered mutinously, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“Nightmares, right? That’s why you’re not getting enough sleep. Anger at odd moments. The inability to plan ahead. Moments of stupefying terror when you’re in the middle of doing something simple like climbing aboard an airplane, or car, or boat. And an unbelievable sense of guilt, because you’re alive and they’re not. Then more guilt because you are angry at them for leaving and that makes you feel even worse.”
“Stop it! I don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t change anything. They’re dead.”
“But you’re not, and you have to learn a bit more to get on with the business of living!”
“I am!” she insisted. “I have a job, a car, a co-op. I have friends and a social life.”
“Yeah, Tamara, and you’re so damn repressed you can’t even accept a stranger’s offer of assistance when your car goes off the road! Worse, you’ve got a pretty great guy in bed with you right now telling you how much he cares about you, and you’re calling him a liar! You won’t even allow yourself to enjoy sex, because that’s about life, isn’t it? And you can’t let yourself be that alive.”
“I want out.” She twisted her hips, her heals digging into the bed. The movement arched her against him provocatively, but he was too busy being frustrated to be aroused.
“That’s it. Run away, Tamara. Just keep running, even though some part of you must know better, because you do eventually come back.”
“Sure, fine, whatever.” She fought more vehemently, her face a fierce, unreachable mask. Abruptly, he released her. He could tell by her expression that he wasn’t going to make any progress now.
She practically bolted from the bed. In the shadowed room, the sun fighting the blinds for entrance, she began to hastily retrieve her clothes and yank them on. C.J. remained naked on the bed.
“Sooner or later,” he said softly, “you’re going to have to trust someone.”
“Stop it! Stop analyzing me—stop crawling into my head. For God’s sake, you’ve only known me four days. You don’t know as much about me as you think.”
“I know enough. Tamara . . . Dammit, you’re in a much bigger mess than you realize.”
“I’m not in any mess at all.” She had her slacks on. Now she forcefully stuffed her shirttails into the waistband. “I came to Sedona and volunteered my PR expertise for Senator Brennan’s campaign. End of story.”
“So you really are PR?”
“Of course I’m PR!” She sounded exasperated. Her hands swept up the thick strands of her hair, and she ruthlessly tied the swath into a thick knot. Already, she reached for hairpins on the nightstand.
“You’ve told me several different stories.”
“And now I’m telling you the truth. Listen, it’s none of your business—”
“Don’t insult me.” His voice dropped to a growl. She flinched, not quite as sure of herself as she pretended.
“It’s not important,” she insisted at last, having gotten her hair up. Her transformation was complete, from naked, passionate woman to composed executive in five minutes or less. C.J. still didn’t bother to cover himself. He was feeling belligerent on the subject. Her hands settled on her hips. Composed now, she squared off against him.
“I made a mistake, C.J. I was looking for someone to blame. I wanted someone to blame. I honestly believed it might be the senator who hurt my family. But I checked it out. It’s not him—he had no need for a red sports car. And after all these years, there are no other leads.” Her voice dropped, steady and blunt. “I don’t think I’ll ever know who drove that other car.”
C.J. looked at her just as levelly. “Well, whoever it was, they called to tell me to mind my own business. And if I did—then maybe they’d tell me what really happened to my father. Then to prove their point, they slashed the racing tires of my Scirocco.”
She paled visibly. “What?”
“I don’t know what, Tamara. I don’t know what, who, why or how. But I would guess that you haven’t been as discreet as you thought and you’ve been a lot closer than you realized, because someone sure as hell knows what you’re up to and wants it stopped.”
“No,” she began weakly.
C.J. cut her off with one narrow glance. “The holes in your brake line, Tamara. The scorpion in your room.”
“No, no.” She clenched her hand against her stomach. “I’m a PR executive from New York. I’m a real average, boring human being. Conspiracy theories do not apply to people like me.”
“Then who called me, Tamara? Who the hell would know about my father?”
“I don’t know.” Her gaze swept up. For a moment, her eyes were pleading. “C.J., honestly, I have no idea who might have called you. I didn’t think anyone knew I was back or what I was doing. I’ve spent most of my time in the senator’s war room, surrounded by volunteers—most of whom aren’t even from Sedona and didn’t know me ten years ago, let alone recognize me now. To everyone, I’m just an executive from New York. Honestly, I’ve kept a low profile.”
“Who knows you’re back?”
“Just my best friend, Patty.”
“Would she have any reason to tell anyone about your return?”
“Patty? Are you kidding? She’s been terrified that someone would find out. I told her just this morning that I was heading back to New York, and frankly, she was relieved. In her opinion, I should be heading back today instead of closing out my volunteer work.”
“What about someone else at campaign headquarters?”
“Who? I don’t socialize with anyone. I don’t really talk to anyone. I do what they ask me to do, which is a lot of writing and editing of press releases, speeches, and so forth. Most of the people there probably don’t even know my first name.”
“Well, someone knows something, Tamara. And from the call I got this morning, it’s someone powerful, someone with connections. Someone who knows someone who knows about my father. Maybe you weren’t so wrong about the senator, after all.”
“But . . . but how? He has drivers. He has chauffeured cars. Dark, American-made sedans.”
“Do you know that he actually had driver service that evening?”
“Mrs. Winslow said he always uses a service when he’s in town.”
“Do you know that he actually had a driver service that evening?” C.J. insisted.
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t know specifically about that evening. I thought of calling the service, but would they really have records of one night ten years ago?”
“Probably not,” C.J. agreed. He finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed and picked up his jeans. “We’ll have to figure out another way.”
“We?”
“We. Like it or not, Tamara, you got me involved in this. If Brandon knew I had an opportunity to learn more about our father and wasn’t taking it, he’d personally strip off my hide.”
“C.J., why don’t you take it? You don’t have to help—”
“Stop it,” he said angrily. He yanked on his pants with more force than necessary. “Neither you nor Brandon get it. You’re both too lost in your grief to move on the way you say you are. My father is dead. I don’t care what he did or didn’t do. I care about today, and, dammit, I care about you. You may not be willing to believe it, but I think you’re in a whole hell of a lot of trouble, Tamara. I think someone knows you’re looking for the truth. And I think the brake lines and scorpion were not accidents. Now, come on. I’ll take you to your car.”
Tamara didn’t say anything more. She didn’t seem to have any words. C.J. left her to her silence, too frustrated and wound up himself to feel like talking. Too many things didn’t make sense. He didn’t like things that didn’t make sense. And the phone call had upset him. No, it had ticked him off. Hell, maybe a little of both. Worse, it had made him afraid.
He hated being afraid.
When they arrived at the Ancient Mariner, he pulled in next to Tamara’s car and killed the engine. She was already popping open the door, anxious to bail out, of course. At least she was consistent.
He watched her wordlessly. Her hands, when she fumbled for her keys, were shaking.
“This isn’t over, Tamara.”
“I need . . . I need time to think.”
“Fine. Take an hour. I’ll pick you up for lunch at one. I want to make some calls.”
“C.J.—”
“One o’clock, Tamara.”
Her lips thinned, and she looked as if she would argue. Then she dropped her keys and swore. He waited while she bent down to retrieve them. She took a very long time to straighten back up. When she did, her features were ashen.
“C.J.,” she whispered. The tone of her voice made his blood run cold.
“What?”
“I think there’s a bomb. A bomb, fastened to the bottom of my car.”
Chapter 9
“Okay, sweetheart. Step back real slow.”
Tamara remained frozen like a statue. “Do you have a cell phone?” she whispered. “Call 911.”
“Just a minute.” C.J. eased out of his car and passed around to her side. She stared at him with wide, panicked eyes.
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed harshly, then abruptly bit her lip as if the volume of her voice might activate the bomb.
“I have some training in this kind of thing.” He got on all fours and peered beneath the car. “Please stand back.” Sure enough, he could see a brown-paper-wrapped brick with protruding wires sticking out from between the shocks of her front driver-side tire.
Tamara had actually moved closer. “What can I do?” she murmured by his shoulder.
“Dammit, get the hell behind my car. Do you have a death wish or something?”
“Frankly, that’s quite possible.” She bent down beside him, her brown eyes somber. “I need to do something. Please . . .”
“Stubborn, stubborn fool.” He eyed her a minute longer, but it was obvious she wasn’t going to run screaming in the other direction. She was too much like him—needing to fight her own battles, to prove to herself that she could. “All right, fetch me the flashlight from my car.”