by Lisa Gardner
“A cat door,” she finished and then her eyes widened again. “Oh my God, you put in a cat door! It is for me!”
Now he grinned, relaxed and ridiculously pleased with himself. “You’ll have to help me with the interior, though,” he said softly. “I don’t know exactly what you want.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”
He brushed his thumb down her cheek. “I love you, Maggie,” he whispered. “Did you think I was going to risk you slipping away? A true Hathaway Red is hard to find.”
“I . . . I don’t know,” she babbled. “I wanted you to ask, thought you would ask, but you did just get out of prison and you have a lot to figure out and I didn’t want to pressure you or rush—”
He silenced her with a fingertip over her lips. “I’m not pressured. I’m not rushed. I’m in love. So what do you say, Maggie? Will you take one ex-convict, slightly used?”
“Okay,” she said immediately. And then her face softened beautifully. “Oh, Cain, I love you so much.”
Cain drew her back against him and it was good and it was right.
He held her with his cheek against her fiery hair. And through the windows of his new house, he could see the sun brighten the blue sky and dapple the endless flowing trees.
Read on for a preview of
#1 New York Times bestseller
Lisa Gardner
writing as
Alicia Scott
in her novel
MACNAMARA’S WOMAN
Available in October 2013 from Signet
wherever print and e-books are sold.
At one a.m., C.J. closed up shop, kicking the last four regulars out the door. It being Wednesday night, most of the locals had work the next day. Sedona existed thanks to year-round tourism, a few plush resorts to attract the really rich moths and a solid collection of excellent art galleries. Most of the Ancient Mariner’s clientele were the rugged blue-collar workers fueling the white-collar vacations. The Jeep-tour guides, the hot-air balloon guides, the helicopter pilots. The laundry boys and “customer service representatives” from the various resorts. The kind of people who worked hard looking at how the other half lived and knowing they’d never be them. They worked hard, anyway, and at the end of the day, they wanted to kick back, listen to some good old-fashioned rock ’n’ roll and enjoy a cold beer.
C.J. had bought the Ancient Mariner with the money he’d saved while in the Marines, and he’d kept it a locals’ hangout. The red tiled floor was scuffed up and boot-friendly. Navajo print rugs added warm colors to beat-up wood walls. The tables and chairs still sported the deeply carved initials of long-since-grown reprobates. It was a place for relaxing, telling stories of the New Yorkers who wore designer wool beneath the Arizona sun or the Texans who considered the Red Rocks to be mere pebbles. Guides could brag about how many people they’d stuffed into a hot-air balloon, or how many kids had gotten sick on them that day.
C.J. would shake his head and not believe any of them.
Now he walked to the corner of the room and picked up the TV remote. A news update stated that police still had no leads on the mysterious murder of Spider Wallace, the ignominious cemetery caretaker who’d been gunned down last week in his own graveyard. In other news, Senator George Brennan, Arizona’s fine senator, was rumored to be on the verge of announcing his candidacy for president. He was arriving in Sedona—his hometown—next week for a vacation. Insiders predicted he’d declare his intentions then. The old “local boy makes good” angle.
C.J. clicked off the TV. He didn’t care for politics. Death and taxes were enough guaranteed suffering for any man. He placed the remote on top of the TV, stacked the rest of the chairs on the wiped-down tables and looked around. Gus had finished cleaning the bar and was now closing out the register. Sheila was sweeping the floor.
Everything was under control as it had been last night and the night before that and the night before that. In addition to running the bar, C.J. did some part-time work as a “bail enforcement officer”—bounty hunter—to keep his reflexes sharp. He hadn’t had a case for a while and he could feel it now. He wasn’t unhappy; he was just . . . restless. Dissatisfied.
Lonely.
“Are you going home or you gonna stare at us all night?” Gus grumbled.
“I’m going.” He was still standing in his bar, though. He found himself thinking of his father, Max, and that strange year the two of them had whizzed around the globe so Max could conduct his business as “importer-exporter.” He saw his mother, pale and ethereal, as she’d lain dying in their shabby studio apartment, still loving a man who was too busy traveling to come home.
“Hey, boss man. Get outta here.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
His black convertible Mustang had a five-liter engine and brand-new tires. He pulled back the top so the clear, warm night wrapped around him. Crickets chirped. The wind carried the spicy, clean scent of creosote.
He hit the back road hard. An experienced SCCA race driver, he took the first corner at seventy-five and the third at ninety. In the straightaway, he came close to triple digits, practicing the speed and control he was learning at the tracks, though his grandmother’s voice kept whispering in his ear that this wasn’t the place for it. He found the line of the curving road, double-clutched for the next corner and hit it at seventy-five. His tires squealed.
For the first time, headlights appeared behind him—distant, faint beams.
“Cop?” His foot slipped instantly off the gas, but then he frowned.
The lights were growing in his mirror. Belatedly, he realized that could only mean the car was gaining on him and he was still over ninety. His gaze locked on his mirror. The other car was definitely going really damn fast, probably around a hundred and five, and still hadn’t put on any sirens. The S curves were about to appear.
C.J. downshifted, taking the set of three corners at fifty-five and hearing his tires squeal. His arms bulged as the car fought him. For an instant, he thought he’d taken the corners too fast and that would be it. He threw his body weight behind his biceps and got his car around the last curve.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid, C.J. What is your problem these days?”
Then he remembered the car behind him. He glanced up. He saw twin headlights dashing wildly. Then he heard the horrible high-pitched whine of burning rubber spinning off the road.
• • •
“Sweetheart, are you all right?”
The voice came from far away. She thought that was odd. She’d been through this drill before, careering off a road in an Arizona night. There weren’t other voices, anyone to offer assistance. There had only been her and the sound of the crickets mourning.
“Come on, come back to me. That’s it, sweetheart. Draw a nice, deep breath of air.”
She opened her eyes. The image took a while to gain substance and form. First the man was hazy; she’d expected that. Maybe he’d have wings and a halo—who knew what angels really wore? He’d be Shawn or her father. Longing welled up in her throat. Reality cut it back down.
This man wasn’t Shawn. He was too filled out, with the broad shoulders of a man, not a boy. His fingers brushed her cheek, and they were callused.
Immediately, she stiffened. She was alive. She was conscious. She had better pull herself together.
“Take it easy,” the stranger murmured. “I got you.”
Arms curled around her, and hands fumbled with the seat belt still fastened at her waist. She tried to shrink back, but she couldn’t seem to make her body work. She tried to speak, but no sound came out.
Abruptly, she was cradled against a hard chest and lifted into the night.
“Here we go.”
Her head lolled against his shoulder, and the world spun sickeningly. Cool, composed, always professional Tamara Allistair contemplated throwing up on a man she’d never met. Oh, God.
“Honey, we need to get you to a hospital. Lie down right—”
“No.” This time h
er throat cooperated. She repeated the word more sharply. She’d spent two years in and out of hospitals and physical therapy departments. That was enough time in drafty gowns and sterile rooms for anyone.
‘‘Honey—’’
“No.”
There was a moment of silence. She used it to try to calm her stomach and focus her vision. She hated the feeling of nausea. She hated the way the world refused to snap into focus. She didn’t like losing control.
“Drink this.” Water dribbled over her lips. She spluttered in shock. Two fingers gently parted her lips, and the cool water slid down her throat.
After a minute, the world righted itself.
She was sitting in the seat of another car. Arms were around her. Against her cheek, she felt the soft, worn fabric of a well-broken-in T-shirt. She could hear a heartbeat. Her gaze drifted up.
Wheat-blond hair. Strong jaw with fine stubble. Incredibly blue eyes that crinkled with natural humor. Firm, full lips meant for grinning. She sat perfectly still, too confused to move. His arms were around her, holding her. That was odd enough—very few men dared to touch Tamara Allistair. Moreover, she didn’t feel any pain.
There had been a time when she’d been held a lot, but it had always involved pain. First had been the surgery to insert the metal screws and a rod to anchor her shattered lower leg together. One week later, they’d pinned her pelvis into place with more metal screws and some metal plates. But even after six months of physical therapy, her leg hadn’t healed. There had been another surgery for a bone graft. Her leg had improved; her knee had given out and back into the operating room she went. These days, she carried more plastic and metal than bone. And these days, she knew how to separate her mind from her body so she could escape the pain. She even knew how to be hard.
Life didn’t favor the weak.
She said hoarsely, “Let me go.”
“What?”
“Let me go.”
“Honey, did the crash scramble your brains? I’m trying to help you here. Damn, you’re bleeding.”
His arm uncurled from her shoulders, and she flopped unceremoniously back onto the bench seat.
“I tried to warn you,” the man muttered.
Tamara stared at the never-ending night sky and discovered she could now see three of everything. She breathed deep and inhaled slowly, the way Ben had taught her.
Pull yourself together, Tam. Focus, focus, focus.
“Here, hold this against your forehead.” A soft cloth was pressed into her hand, chilled with water. It felt cool and soothing against the lump hatching on her forehead. Her ribs felt tender, her stomach bruised. She mentally surveyed her pelvis. Cracked, broken, shattered? Seat belts wreaked such havoc on the human body, pinning it into place so the force of the crash could shove a person’s thighs into their pelvis, cracking it like an egg and shattering lower limbs. Toe-box injuries, they called them. She had other words for it, but she didn’t use them in polite company.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” The man’s hand appeared in front of her eyes.
“You’re holding up fingers?” she said weakly.
“Oh, sweetie, we got to get you to a hospital.”
“No.” She closed her eyes and pressed the cold cloth against her forehead more tightly. “I just need a minute.”
“And I thought I was stubborn,” the man murmured. She heard him shifting from side to side, but she felt better with her eyes shut, so she remained floating, feeling her stiff shoulders relax, and slowly taking inventory. Her neck was sore. She had a headache. But she could move all her limbs, even her plastic knee.
She lowered the damp cloth and opened her eyes. The man was still standing there, his hands jabbed deeply into the front pockets of his worn jeans, his face wearing a concerned frown. She blinked her eyes twice and he came into better focus. He had a good jawline—strong, square, blunt. He probably was stubborn.
“Time to go to the hospital,” he said flatly. “Call me crazy, but I have a policy against women dying in my arms.”
“Band-Aids,” she said. “In my car . . .”
“You have a first-aid kit?”
“The trunk.”
“Huh. At least you pack a helluva lot smarter than you drive.”
He stalked toward her Lexus, leaving her alone to test out all her joints. She stretched out each morning religiously, running through the exercises Ben had taught her. Scar tissue grew stiff over time, and she had a lot of it. Now she could get everything to move well enough. Her right wrist twinged, but that was nothing new. Her left ankle—the one that had been fractured, healed badly, then grafted—refused to complete a circle, but she hadn’t been able to get it to do much for ten years now, so why should tonight be any different?
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.”
#1 New York Times bestselling author
Lisa Gardner is back with another thriller.
Read on for a preview of
TOUCH & GO
Available everywhere print and e-books are sold.
Here is something I learned when I was eleven years old: Pain has a flavor. The question is what does it taste like to you?
Tonight, my pain tasted like oranges. I sat across from my husband in a corner booth at Scampo’s in Beacon Hill. Discreet waiters appeared to silently refill our glasses of champagne. Two for him. Three for me. Homemade breads covered the white linen tablecloth, as well as fresh selections from the mozzarella bar. Next would be tidy bowls of hand-cut nood
les, topped with sweet peas, crispy pancetta and a light cream sauce. Justin’s favorite dish. He’d discovered it on a business trip to Italy twenty years ago and had been requesting it at fine Italian restaurants ever since.
I lifted my champagne glass. Sipped. Set it down.
Across from me, Justin smiled, lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. His light brown hair, worn short, was graying at the temples, but it worked for him. He had that rugged outdoors look that never went out of fashion. Women checked him out when we entered bars. Men did too, curious about the new arrival, an obvious alpha male who paired scuffed work boots with two-hundred-dollar Brooks Brother shirts and made both look the better for it.
“Gonna eat?” my husband asked.
“I’m saving myself for the pasta.”
He smiled again, and I thought of white sandy beaches, the salty tang of ocean air. I remembered the feel of the soft cotton sheets tangled around my bare legs as we spent the second morning of our honeymoon still sequestered in our private bungalow. Justin hand-fed me fresh peeled oranges while I delicately licked the sticky juice from his callused fingers.
I took another sip of champagne, holding it inside my mouth this time, and concentrating on the feel of liquid bubbles.
I wondered if she had been prettier than me. More exciting. Better in bed. Or maybe, in the way these things worked, none of that mattered. Didn’t factor into the equation. Men cheated because men cheated. If a husband could, he would.
Meaning that, in its own way, the past six months of my marriage hadn’t been anything personal.
I took another sip, still drinking champagne, still tasting oranges.
Justin polished off the selection of appetizers, took a restrained sip of his own champagne, then absently rearranged his silverware.
Justin had inherited his father’s twenty-five-million-dollar construction business at the age of twenty-seven. Some sons would’ve been content to let a successful business continue as is. Not Justin. By the time I’d met him when he was thirty-four, he’d already doubled revenue to the fifty-million mark, with a goal of achieving seventy-five million in the next two years. And not by sitting in some office. Justin prided himself on being a master of most trades. Plumbing, electrical, drywall, concrete. He was boots on the ground, spending time with his men, mingling with the subcontractors, first one on the site, last one to leave.