Macnamara's Woman

by Alicia Scott

  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. White, criss-crossing scars from a lifetime of use webbed his knuckles, while tendons sprang up on the back 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 any place 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 working man'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 it 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 pant-suits, 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 conve
rted 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.

  C.J. picked up one of the papers sitting on the top of the in-basket and began to scan the campaign schedule. Instantly, she snatched it out of his hands and slapped it back onto the pile.

  "This is a working campaign headquarters, Mr. MacNamara," she snapped. "I suggest you either state your business, or move on."

  "I already told you," he said with complete innocence, "I would like to learn more about the senator. This does seem the place for that."

  Her eyes narrowed. "How did you find me here? Did you follow me?"

  "A little bit paranoid, aren't you?"

  "Just answer the question."

  He shrugged. "All right. I looked you up, and lo and behold, here you are."

  "You couldn't look me up. I never gave you my name."

  "I didn't look up your name. I looked up your forehead."

  She stopped frowning long enough to blink her eyes in genuine bewilderment. "Mr. MacNamara, I have no idea what you're talking about, and I don't have time to play games. I would suggest you start telling me how you got here and what you want, or I'm going to call the security guards."

  He leaned over until he could capture her gaze. Her chest was rising and falling a bit with agitation. Her features were pale, shuttered and remote, but he could see her tension in the blue vein pounding right above the line of her scarf. "Your stitches," he said gently. "While you doubted me at the time, I knew you would need stitches. There is only one hospital nearby, so I called the ER. They gave me your name and, with a bit of cajoling on my part, the hotel where you are staying."

  She leaned away, clearly not trusting him. He remembered that look on her face from last night. What was it that made her so cautious? He'd honestly never had a woman look at him as warily as she did. He wanted to shake her firmly and cry, "Hey, I'm one of the good guys."

  "Hospitals don't give out that kind of information," she said firmly.

  "I'm a real bail enforcement officer, got a cool plastic badge and everything. You'd be amazed at what kind of information that will earn you."

  Her forehead crinkled again. She appeared at once remote and vulnerable, controlled and fearful. But then her expression smoothed over and her chin came up a notch, the seasoned warrior ready for battle. He would've clapped at such a fine display of control, but she probably would've hit him. Given how well she drove and how nicely she was armed, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out how well she could hit.

  He tried another charming smile. All his life, women had been telling him they couldn't resist that smile. "So how are you, Tamara Thompson? I worried about you all night."

  Charisma didn't appear to work well on her, either. "Huh," she snorted with clear skepticism. "Do you always follow up on the women you save?"

  "Only the ones who might be suffering from concussions and are still too stubborn to let me drive them home."

  She set down the pen with a sharp rap. "Well, as you can see, I'm perfectly fine. Thank you again for stopping, all's well that ends well, and you can be on your way now."

  "You look very tired."

  "Car accidents and concussions can have that effect on a woman."

  "How are the brake lines? Have you figured out what might have caused one to rupture?"

  "I really haven't had the time to look into it."

  "I could look at it for you, if you'd like."

  She said sharply, "Don't you have a bar to run or something like that?"

  C.J. smiled. "My bar seems to take care of itself just fine whether I am around or not—"

  "Then your bar and me have something in common!"

  He couldn't help it. He chuckled, and for whatever reason, that made her face flush becomingly. "I like talking to you, Tamara. I've never really had a woman so thoroughly put me in my place."

  "Obviously." She was trying to sound sharp, but she was clearly flustered. She picked the red pen back up, twirling it between her fingers and no longer meeting his gaze. He had a feeling that it had been a long time since a man had flirted with her. That made no sense to him. She was clearly an intelligent and attractive woman. He figured any self-respecting male would at least try for small talk. Then again, she was from New York. He didn't pretend to understand New Yorkers.

  "So you work here?" he prodded.

  "I'm trying to."

  "What brings a New Yorker all the way to Arizona to work on a senator's campaign?"

  "I have family in the area. A … cousin. Patty. Patty Foster. She owns an art gallery in town."

  "Yeah, Wild Horses. It's a great gallery."

  "I'll tell her you said that."

  "You don't look anything like Patty."

  Tamara's lips thinned. "All right, Mr. MacNamara. Here's the drill. I live in New York. I work for a big public relations firm called Lombardi's. We like to think we're one of the best firms around, and I like to think I'm one of the sharpest junior partners. As such, I'm entitled to four weeks of vacation a year. Maybe you've heard of vacations?"

  "Touché."

  "I took two weeks. Monday, I arrived to assist with kicking off the senator's campaign. In another ten days, I'll be returning to New York—"

  "Perfect, you know all about the senator. Why don't you show me around? I'm a registered voter. I figure someone has to be president. Tell me why it should be him."

  She took a deep breath. He could almost see her mentally counting to ten. Her cheeks had gained more color, and her eyes had taken on a fierce, golden hue. He liked her looking this way—on the verge of chewing him up and spitting him out. He tried another smile.

  "You did not come here to ask about Senator Brennan!"

  "True, but since I am here—"

  "Mr. MacNamara—"

  "Please, call me C.J." Her eyes were beginning to burn. Tiger eyes. He was incredibly intrigued. She slapped her pen down on her desk hard enough to make the young girl walking by flinch.

  "Stop it! I have no idea why you are here. I have no idea why you insist on following me around. Look, I'm grateful you stopped last night, but I can take care of myself. Now, I want you to leave."

  "Tamara, I'm not stalking you—you can call the sheriff for a character reference if you'd like. However, I am very attracted to you—"

  "You don't even know me!"

  "Exactly. Which I'm trying to remedy, but so far conversations with you are like getting up close and personal with a porcupine—"

  "Which you should take as a hint."

  "Well, I've always been a little slow that way." He cocked his head to the side, regarding her seriously for the first time. "You seeing anyone?"

  Her jaw worked. She was beginning to look a little dazed. He had a feeling there weren't many situations she couldn't control and not many men who gave her a true run for her money. Yep, he liked her.

  Abruptly, she shook her head.

  "You marrie
d?"

  She shook her head again, but her gaze was mutinous.

  "You're not interested in me at all?" he cajoled. "Not the teeniest bit? Not even one iota of interest?"

  "No. Not even one iota. I am completely iota-less."

  He beamed smugly. "Liar."

  "Oh, you egotistical, insufferable—"

  "You're blushing again."

  "I am not!" But she was blushing, and now her face grew even redder. She was very, very flustered. Her eyes had turned to molten gold; the air around her was beginning to crackle. On her desk, her hands opened and shut in tight movements of frustration. If they hadn't been in the middle of a ballroom filled with people, he would've leaned over and kissed her.

  Instead, he stood abruptly, removing himself from the edge of her desk. A volunteer was walking by them. He used the opportunity to say loudly, "Why, Miss Thompson, I had no idea the senator felt so strongly about family values. We sure could use more of those."

  The volunteer, an older woman in a bright flowered dress, beamed at them both proudly. C.J. waited until she'd passed to add, "So why does he chase anything with breast implants and a short skirt?"

  Tamara closed her eyes. She was definitely counting to ten now. But she was good. Even as he watched, she pulled herself together. "Those are merely rumors," she said crisply. "You know how the press is these days."

  "He's not a womanizer?" C.J. quizzed quietly.

  "George Brennan has been married for thirty-two years. He's a proud husband and good father. He got both of his kids into Harvard Law. He believes very strongly in family."

  "And education?"

  "Absolutely."

  "What about medicare, social security, the increasing number of homicides being committed by kids under the age of sixteen?"

  "George Brennan is tough on crime. As a senator, he backed several key legislative initiatives to try juveniles as adults and build more prisons. He's on record as being pro death penalty."

  C.J. nodded, but he was frowning. For a woman who five minutes ago had practically sizzled with frustration, she was totally lacking in emotion now. She recited the senator's political positions like a paid announcer in an infomercial. No passion, no conviction, no religious belief. His instincts resumed nagging—something about this woman wasn't right.