Macnamara's Woman

by Alicia Scott

  She wanted him to lose control. She wanted C.J. MacNamara ravishing her, devouring her, consuming her.

  Maybe if he lost his control, she would be able to lose hers. Maybe the darkness would leave her, the growing heaviness of too many sleepless nights and too many emotions would finally depart. She could throw herself at this man with all the vengeance and fury and hurt and pain she had. He would meet her halfway. He would take it and demand more. She knew it. He would take her outside herself, strip the unbearable sense of isolation from her once and for all.

  They remained standing there, bodies touching but not hands. Pulse rates joining and soaring, but minds still battling. She felt him grow hard against her hip, his flesh become a ridged line that dug into her softest spot, making her want to shift a little closer. Making her want to whimper. Making her damp.

  "Who are you?" he growled low, the words whispering across her lips.

  "Tamara Allistair," she murmured, no defenses left.

  "Why did you lie?"

  "I just wanted to be safe."

  "You think the senator killed your family in a hit-and-run accident? That's why you came back? That's why you broke into the campaign war room?"

  "I thought so, but I was wrong."

  His eyes narrowed, squeezing her down even as his body shifted closer, his arousal pressing into her. Her eyes drifted shut helplessly. She couldn't think anymore. She wanted to dig her fingers into his strong shoulders. Her hands remained fisted on her side, resisting that last capitulation.

  "How do you know, Tamara?"

  "No red car," she murmured. "The senator doesn't even drive when he's in town. A car service does it for him."

  "So who did it?"

  "I don't know. I have no idea. It was ten years ago, and I can't find any leads. Honestly. Please…" Her hips shifted against him helplessly. She wanted, she needed. She couldn't stand her own skin anymore.

  Her eyes opened. She gazed at him without guile. Take me. Strip the control from me. I am so unbelievably tired.

  His eyes darkened. A muscle flinched in his jaw, and his breathing became loud and ragged in the silence. "Why should I believe you now?" he said, grinding the words out. "Why the hell should I trust anything you say?"

  "Because I need you to," she whispered simply. "Because … I want you."

  He succumbed, his groan angry and furious and as needy as hers. Finally his hands moved. He gripped her shoulders, he held her back one last minute, giving her time to pull away, and when she simply remained in his arms, he yanked her against him and devoured her mouth.

  Her hands fisted his shirt. She angled her head back and gave her mouth to him completely, welcoming his tongue as he raked it across her teeth. Opening to him so he could plunge into her mouth. Her hands moved on his shoulders, rubbing, squeezing, yanking him even closer. His clothes enraged her. She wanted him naked, wanted everything gone, hot, slick skin pressed against hot, slick skin. She wanted desperately to feel all the things she'd never thought she could feel.

  Abruptly, he pushed her back onto the bed. She dragged him down with her, finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it off his body. She sucked her breath in. He was poised above her, his strong thighs clamping her hips, his torso bent over hers. He had such smooth, golden skin, as if it had spent a lifetime being kissed by the sun. On his chest, a delicate mat of honey blond hair swirled in patterns. She ran her fingers through it, marveling at the fine, silky touch.

  His eyes were still dark, his jaw clenched in his effort at control. But she saw something else in him now. With the passion, with the fury, was tenderness. He would not hurt her. He would not force her. He would not use her.

  Her eyes began to sting. She was horribly afraid she was going to cry.

  "The light," she whispered.

  "What?" His voice was hoarse. His hand had settled on the full, delicate curve of her breast. She arched her back helplessly, feeling his fingers like fire through the fine fabric.

  "The light. Please." She needed the darkness to hide the myriad scars that kept her body from being as fine and beautiful as his.

  He snapped off the bedside lamp. Her shades were still pulled from the night, blocking the sun and forming total darkness. In this murky abyss, she could finally open her eyes and let the first tear squeeze out.

  She ran her hands across his shoulders, drawing a line with her thumbs along his collarbone. She squeezed his muscled shoulders, working her hands down his arms, finding the curve of his triceps, the muscled swell of his biceps. His skin reminded her of hot satin, stretched by his bones and muscle, giving him the sleek lines of a jungle cat. She memorized him by touch, finding the tender indent of his elbow and the rough, raspy pads of his palms. Her hands flattened on his stomach, and she heard him inhale sharply.

  Abruptly, his fingers were on her shirt. Nimble and quick, he felled the buttons one by one and wrestled the fabric from her body. Her bra, a sensible white lace, was whisked aside and suddenly his bare torso pressed against her bare torso and the hot, electric feel made them both gasp in the silence.

  "I want you," he muttered thickly, fiercely. "God, Tamara, I want you!"

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. It was no longer slow or tender. They rolled and wrestled on the bed, their tongues dueling, their hands tearing. Belts and pants and socks and shoes and underwear flew in panting, gasping flight. His legs were long and lean and dusted with fine hair that prickled her skin and made her rub her legs against him helplessly. His hands were plunging into her thick hair, sweeping it back from her face so his lips could nuzzle her earlobes, her throat, her breast. His mouth closed over her nipple and sucked so hard it was almost painful. Her hips arched up, her leg wrapping around his lean hips and positioning him against her intimately. She could feel him, hard and hot. He was big and swollen. She had no idea how he would ever fit in her slender frame, but the feel of him rubbing against her, teasing her folds, was making her crazy.

  His mouth switched to her other breast. She dug her fingers into his scalp, urging him closer.

  "Please…"

  "Not yet." In a quick move, he rose up, snapped his hands around her wrists and pinned her hands above her head. She writhed helplessly, wanting to hold him against her, wanting his body deep within hers. "I want to know you, Tamara. I want to know everything."

  He ducked his head down. He nuzzled her throat again, rubbing his smooth cheek against her like a purring cat and making her smile. Then he was licking her throat, and the delicious tingles made her giggle and squirm, then giggle some more because it had been so long since she'd last giggled. He mouthed her shoulder like a toothless old man, then switched back to a hot, searing kiss that made her moan, breathless and fierce as her hips arched against him once more.

  He drifted lower. Even in the dark, his lips found her scars, the long, smooth lines of snaking tissue that divided and separated the soft flesh of her belly. She felt him pause. She turned her face into the mattress, understanding that she wasn't pretty, she wasn't beautiful. She was a woman with too many scars, too many reminders of a night she could never quite leave behind her. And even now, in the shadowed darkness of this room, in the protective embrace of this man, she mourned.

  He whispered his lips over the first scar, then the second. He kissed them softly. He kissed them reverently, as if he would heal them for her if he could. If she would ever let him.

  He rose up. She parted her legs wordlessly and immediately. She wanted him. For one moment, she wanted something beautiful.

  Her legs wrapped around his flanks. He planted his hands on each side of her head. He positioned himself against her, and she sucked in her breath.

  Slowly, he eased into her, her damp, silky skin stretching, easing, folding around him tightly and drawing him in. Then he was sheathed fully inside her and she arched her hips helplessly, striving for some respite from the tingling, hungry restlessness shooting through her belly.

  She was acutely aware of hi
m inside her. The feel of his flesh, stretching hers. The unique sensation of being conquered, of being taken. The power of him. The size of him. The pleasure.

  He moved. Her eyes opened wide. Sweat bloomed across her skin. Desire flooded her veins. Her limbs grew heavy, her thoughts spun away. Her universe narrowed down to his body impaled in hers, his body moving inside her, his voice whispering her name.

  She needed… Oh, God, she needed.

  She could feel the hunger building. Foreign and mysterious and exotic. She gasped, her hips writhing. She struggled against him, seeking something she couldn't name and feeling his strong body shudder.

  She was so close, so unbelievably close.

  "Take it, Tamara. Take it."

  And then suddenly she couldn't. She was afraid. Terrified. The need was bigger than her, out of her control. She couldn't lose that much control. She couldn't give that much of herself away.

  The fear washed through her like a cold wave, dousing the passion, leaving her still.

  "Tamara…" C.J. growled.

  She turned her head against the mattress and squeezed her eyes shut with her shame. She dug her fingers into his flanks. She arched her hips.

  "It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay."

  "Dammit," he muttered. "Dammit." But then it was too much for him. His body vowed, his neck arched. He groaned again, his body suspended above hers as if in agony. But when she looked at his face, she saw only a pleasure she'd never known.

  He collapsed on top of her, his body still shuddering with the aftermath. She stroked his shoulders and did her best to hold back her tears.

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Tamara. C.J. felt her breathing finally ease. Wordlessly, he rolled to the side, then cradled her slender body against him, her head pillowed on his arm, her naked back curved against his torso. She didn't say anything.

  "Are you all right?" he asked at last. He felt awkward. He didn't remember the last time he'd felt awkward in bed with a woman. Of course, he didn't remember the last time he hadn't satisfied his partner.

  "I'm tired," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse.

  He stroked her hair for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Finally, he simply held her. And as minute turned into minute, he felt the last bit of tension drain from her body. A few minutes more and he could tell that she'd drifted to sleep.

  Tamara. He stroked the thick silk of her hair, he stroked the long, slender line of her arm. He'd fantasized about her since the first night he'd met her. He'd hungered for her, imagined making love to her. Certainly, he'd imagined it ending a little differently than it had. When she was rested, he had every intention of discussing it, too.

  Odd how life worked. This morning, after receiving the phone call, sex had been the farthest thing from his mind. He'd been prepared to hate her. Prepared to fight with her. Hell, prepared to tie her up and wrest every last bit of knowledge from her.

  Instead, he'd fallen faster and louder than a three-hundred-year-old oak. He'd wound up taking her to bed and… And realizing once more that she was an incredibly complex woman. A woman who'd been through a lot. A woman who was still making the journey from that dark place where you lived after losing the people you loved.

  He should've been slower with her. He should've taken more time, helped her relax more.

  The air-conditioning became too cold. He found the edges of the comforter and wrapped it around them, spooning his body against hers. Beneath the covers, he splayed his fingers over her belly and found her scars.

  There were so many scars, varying in size and length. This one along the side of her hip. This one cutting across. This one small and slender, almost like a delicate web. They bore mute testimony to her story and convinced him once and for all that she had finally told him the truth.

  What had it been like for her, driving along with her family one minute, waking up in a hospital the next and hearing that her family was gone? Had there been anyone to hold her? Friends or distant family? A kind nurse?

  If something ever happened to Maggie, he, Brandon and Lydia would move heaven and earth to be at her side. No one should have to go through that kind of trauma alone. Just … no one.

  Suddenly, he was angry. Deeply, darkly, intensely angry. Tamara had been robbed of something precious. Worse, she'd been forced to deal with it alone. It wasn't right. She should've had a Lydia. She should've had Maggie and Brandon. God knows, Maggie would offer comfort to a granite statue—and probably get the marble to finally break down and cry.

  C.J. pressed Tamara more tightly against him, as if on this late date it would make a difference. Of course it didn't. She had suffered the accident alone and survived alone. And judging by the car she drove and the clothes she wore, she'd built a very successful life. She'd just had to repress most of her anger and grief to do it.

  Had anyone ever spoken to her about post-traumatic stress disorder? He was hardly an expert, but she'd certainly gone through a major trauma, and her insomnia, flashes of rage, even her drinking at his bar, could all be symptoms. Had she undergone any counseling? Would she ever admit she needed that kind of help?

  His lips thinned in the dark. If there was one thing he knew about Tamara, it was that she made his stubborn streak look mild. She would probably admit she needed help with about the same graciousness Brandon would. Which meant not at all.

  God, he was crazy about her.

  How do I get you to trust me, Tamara?

  And what does your car accident have to do with my father?

  Frustrated and slightly fearful, C.J. gave up on finding immediate answers. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

  * * *

  Tamara woke up groggy and disoriented. It had been so long since she'd slept, truly and deeply slept, that a part of her fought waking. She wanted to remain in the black abyss, where the world was peaceful and a strong, comforting form held her in a cradling embrace. She'd dreamt of being held. In her dreams, she stopped fighting the pain of her shattered pelvis and her shattered leg. In her dreams, her broken body floated away and Shawn was with her again, young and earnest. This time, he didn't let her go. This time, nobody left her alone.

  Tamara woke up. And she stilled.

  "Don't," C.J. MacNamara whispered against the top of her head.

  "What?" she murmured weakly. The words were shrill with uncertainty and panic.

  He rolled her onto her back and regarded her steadily. "Don't run. Don't pretend we didn't make love."

  She couldn't produce a reply. She wanted to tell him he didn't know her that well, but that would've proved her a fool. He did know her that well. There was no one on earth who knew her better. And yes, at this precise moment, she wanted to run.

  She shut her eyes. She wasn't a child. She refused to act like one. She was a scared adult and, well, adulthood was scary.

  She finally released her breath. C.J. still wasn't wearing any clothes. She could feel the crisp hair on his legs brushing the backs of her thighs. His groin nestled her hip. She could feel him against her, soft but beginning to grow and lengthen with that first swell of desire. For a moment, she wanted to push against him, throw her leg over his flanks and nestle him more tightly into her.

  And then what?

  And then what?

  She turned away, shamed by her own inadequacy.

  "We should talk about it," C.J. said quietly.

  "There's nothing to talk about. It wasn't your fault. It's just … it's just the way I am. How long did I sleep?"

  "Only forty-five minutes. You look like you could still use some sleep."

  "I'm fine. I feel much better."

  "Mule-headed idiot." He caught her chin and turned her toward him until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His blond hair was rumpled, waving over his forehead the way it should. His blue eyes were serious, but the corners crinkled. He had pillow creases on his cheek.

  He looked unbelievably sexy, and that made her feel worse.

  "Ta
mara, I want to help you—"

  "I'm not one of your special little projects."

  "Of course not. They're all a lot more gracious than you. Sweetheart, I care about you. And so help me God, I've wanted to make love to you since the first time I saw you driving. And I wanted you to enjoy it as much as I did. I wanted it to be about us."

  "It's not your fault—"

  "Has anyone ever spoken to you about post-traumatic stress disorder?"

  "What?"

  "Look at you, sweetheart. You have shadows under your eyes thicker than a black velvet Elvis painting, and it's obvious you've lost weight."

  Her hand curled over her protruding pelvis bone automatically. C.J. drew it back.

  "I think you're very beautiful, Tamara. It's obvious I'm attracted to you. And not just your body. I like your intelligence, I like your strength. Hell, I even like the fact that you're stubborn, though that probably makes me insane. But I'm also very worried about you."

  "Don't. I don't need you to be—"

  "Tell me about it, Tamara. Tell me all about what happened ten years ago. I need to hear it, and, honey, you need to talk about it. You really do."

  "I don't like to talk about it."

  "I know. Do it, anyway."

  Tamara appeared troubled. When they'd been making love, her eyes had burned gold, like a tiger's. Now they were a deep, luminescent brown, the fire burnt out and leaving them dull. He pulled her closer against him. He tucked the covers around her to make her feel warm and safe. And he willed her to speak to him because he hadn't been lying. He needed to know, and she needed to tell.

  Finally, she said, "We were coming back from dinner. My parents, my boyfriend, Shawn, and myself. It was my parents' nineteenth wedding anniversary, so we'd gone to Guardo's to celebrate. My mother was wearing a new silk dress in deep bronze. She looked so beautiful…" Her voice trailed off. She swallowed. "My father was driving, of course—he always drove. Shawn and I sat in the back."