Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “Mommy!”

  Perfect timing, Tate thought. Then she raised a hand to greet the familiar duo heading toward them.

  THE excited voice brought his head around, and Clay noticed a small, dark-haired boy running in his direction, followed at some distance by an attractive older woman possessed of silvery hair and a tired smile. He peered over his shoulder, gauging whether the pair was perhaps bearing down on someone behind them, but a quick glance at Tate Hennessey’s wry smile put any doubts aside. And if that hadn’t done it, the resemblance between mother and son was unmistakable.

  The boy was beautiful. A beautiful, happy, living little boy.

  Against his will, Clay felt himself shutting down, the ghost of his failure rising up to haunt him.

  “Mommy, Grandma let me have two scoops of ice cream, instead of just one like you said.” Flush with the excitement of his secret, he was too young to keep it to himself. “I had a scoop of ‘nilla and a scoop of the pink one with all of those colored thingies in it.”

  “Cotton candy?” Tate suggested as she wiped her thumb across his chin, which still bore the evidence of his coup.

  “Uh-huh. It was yummy, but I wish they wouldn’t make it pink. Pink’s a girl color. Who are you?” He turned his inquisitive green-eyed gaze on Clay.

  “I’m Clay,” he explained, hating his sudden stiffness. “Pink’s not such a bad color, but you might not want to let any of your friends see you wearing it on your face.”

  The boy giggled as his mother wiped the sticky mess off his chin.

  “Max, this is Dr. Copeland. Clay, this is my son, Max. The second and most important reason I can’t meet you tonight,” she informed him under her breath.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Max.” Clay extended his hand, and the little boy eyed it for a second before slapping it with the traditional five.

  “Ouch. That was more like ten.” Max giggled and Clay felt something inside him breaking, a small fissure he wasn’t quite sure how to repair.

  The little boy in Topeka had had dark hair.

  He opened his mouth to excuse himself, feeling panic begin to well through that fissure, but the arrival of the older woman stopped him.

  “I take it the little heathen ratted me out.”

  “If he hadn’t, the evidence on his chin would have done the job.” Sending Clay an awkward glance, Tate made the introductions. “Mom, this is Clay Copeland. Clay, my mother, Maggie Hennessey.”

  Clay stood, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Hennessey beamed approval. And catching the spark that lit her mother’s eyes, he saw Tate roll her own.

  “And how do you two know each other?”

  “We don’t,” Tate informed her.

  “Sunscreen,” Clay said at the same time, trying not to notice the boy’s undivided stare.

  Seeing the confusion on her mother’s face, Tate hurried to explain. “Dr. Copeland happened by when I was applying my sunscreen. He was kind enough to offer to assist me in rubbing some on my back.”

  Despite his discomfiture, Clay had to smile at that little bit of whitewashing.

  “Oh. So you’ve just met,” Maggie surmised. “Are you from around here, Dr. Copeland?” The spark in her eyes burned brighter.

  “Clay. And no, I live in Virginia.”

  “Oh.” The subtext of that single syllable reeked of frustrated maternal machinations.

  “I think we’ve taken up enough of Clay’s time,” Tate said as she started to rise, and using her hand to block the sun from her eyes, turned to address him. “Thank you again for your… assistance.”

  Clay smirked at the blatant dismissal, but figured all things considered, it was for the best. “No problem.” His shaded eyes drilled into hers one moment longer than was strictly polite, before turning toward her mother.

  “Mrs. Hennessy, it was a pleasure. And Max.” Somewhat reluctantly, he stuck out his hand again, but then jerked it away at the last second. “Oh. Too slow. You’ll have to practice that with your mama.”

  The boy laughed and Clay barely repressed a flinch as he lifted his hand in farewell.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CLAY pulled on a white T-shirt over his freshly showered torso, wincing slightly as the fabric settled onto his shoulders. He’d overdone it a little today, staying out just long enough to make himself uncomfortable. After he and the lovely Tate Hennessey had parted company, sun awareness hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. Ironic, really, considering that had been a predominant part of their conversation.

  As for ironic, how about the fact that he’d driven eight hours through the night to escape the recurring image of the dark-haired little boy he’d failed to save, only to have another one thrown virtually into his lap.

  The psychological gods were obviously having a good laugh at his expense.

  Winding a belt around his waist, he decided to put off analyzing the situation and his reaction to it for a couple more days.

  After all, he was Clay Copeland, beach bum, and he was here to have a good time.

  “Are you ready?” Justin inquired after a cursory rap on the bedroom door, dark hair glistening from his shower.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Clay stuffed his wallet into his back pocket.

  They headed toward a bar in nearby Charleston that Justin swore had the best happy hour in town. Pinks and vivid oranges had just begun to paint the sky with the colors of the approaching sunset, and as they fought their way through the tourist-laden streets, he cranked down his window to allow the heavy smell of history to permeate his senses. It was tough to remain melancholy about his own trials when surrounded by the indisputable evidence that no matter what he had or hadn’t accomplished, time continued to march on.

  Murphy’s Irish Pub was nestled between an old-fashioned pharmacy and a private historic home cum bed and breakfast establishment, and Justin explained the arrangement was strategic: the folks at the bed and breakfast recommended Murphy’s for dinner and liquid refreshments; the staff at Murphy’s recommended the pharmacy for analgesics to ward off the next morning’s hangover, and the pharmacist recommended that inebriated patrons book a night at the bed and breakfast to sleep it off.

  The atmosphere inside the pub was festive, an interesting mix of traditional Irish camaraderie and southern hospitality. High tables clustered thick as barnacles along the scarred and stained wooden floor, which bore the marks of almost two hundred years of patrons. An angular staircase led to the dining room which occupied the historic building’s second floor.

  In one corner, a live band kept the crowd entertained with some rather bawdy Celtic music, and everyone of legal age had a pint or bottle tucked into their suntanned hands. The bar itself was shiny as a new penny from frequent passes of the polishing cloth, and behind it stood three strapping men doing their level best to keep up with the demands of the thirsty crowd.

  Justin signaled to the oldest of the trio – Mr. Murphy himself – indicating that he and Clay were going to be taking over one of the tables toward the front of the bar. The man acknowledged him with a lifted chin, and turned to speak with one of the waitresses as he finished pulling a fresh pint. Within minutes a peppy brunette in a green Murphy’s T- shirt and short black skirt appeared to take their order.

  “I think it’s been almost as long since I’ve been inside a bar as it has since I’ve been inside a woman,” Justin remarked wryly, after she’d left.

  Clay chuckled and slapped the other man on the shoulder. “The night’s young, my friend, and ripe with opportunity.” He cast his gaze around and noted the comfortingly high female to male ratio. For the most part, the women were young, tan, and unencumbered by masculine companions, their body language suggesting that they were here to have a good time.

  “If we can’t drum up some female companionship in this crowd, we might as well hang it up.”

  Justin cocked an inquiring brow toward Clay. “Speaking of female companionship,
you never did tell me what happened with the yellow bikini. I gather you struck out.”

  A glib retort trembled on the tip of his tongue, but the truth tasted bitter, so he spit it out instead. “It turned out she has a kid.”

  “So she was married?”

  “I don’t think so. She wasn’t wearing a ring, and she didn’t give off any matrimonial vibes.”

  Their drinks arrived, and after they’d thanked the waitress, Justin lifted his glass. “Okay, I’m sure you get sick of people asking how it is that you do what you do, but I have to know. What in the hell is a matrimonial vibe?”

  Clay grinned, taking a pull on his beer. “Behavior is unspoken language,” he explained. “You determine a person’s baseline – or normal – behavior in a given situation. How they deviate from that baseline shows their instinctive reaction to the situation’s stimuli. If she had been married, she most likely would have reacted in one of two ways when I approached her. She would have been dismissive – either politely or aggressively, depending on her personality and the kind of relationship she might have with her husband – or she would have been receptive in a… guiltily excited way. Kind of like a kid offered a second cookie that she knows she’s not supposed to have.” He shrugged. “She was cautious but not strongly dismissive, and she showed no signs of guilt when I finally managed to pique her interest. She acted very much like a single woman who was weighing her options about an unknown man. Eventually, she turned me down on the basis of her obligations to her son, but even if she hadn’t, I probably would have begged off after I’d seen him. It sounds shallow, but I didn’t come here to be around little boys.”

  “That’s understandable. But I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about that tonight. Not a kid in sight.”

  Clay smiled, looked over the crowd, and homed in on a point of interest. “Now speaking of behavioral language, that pretty little blonde over there is practically oozing nonverbal leakage. She keeps trying to make eye contact with you, and she’s playing with her hair, which is a definite sign of interest.”

  Justin looked at the woman, who almost immediately looked away. “You’re full of shit, man.”

  “No, no.” Clay took another swig of beer. “Trust me on this, Justin. It’s what I do for a living. You see how she’s laughing a little louder than the other women at the table?”

  Justin rolled his eyes before cutting them toward the blonde. “Yeah. So what? Maybe she’s just obnoxious.”

  “No. She’s only become louder in the past few minutes. Ever since she looked over here and saw you. She’s trying to draw your attention away from the others by making herself stand out. Sort of like a male peacock lifts his feathers to make himself appear larger when he’s attempting to entice a mate.”

  Justin flicked his gaze at the table of girls. Flipping her hair when she caught him looking, the blonde offered up a smile. Justin turned and studied Clay.

  “See? Peacock.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Would I make something like that up?” When he saw Justin’s raised brow he held up a hand. “Okay. I might. Yes, it’s entirely possible that would be something I might do. But believe me when I say that I’m shitting you not. That lovely lady has shown numerous behavioral indications that she’s hot for you. If you’re looking to pull yourself out of your sexual rut, she’s your best bet.” Eying the dubious look on Justin’s face, he grinned and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “Ten bucks says she comes over here within the next twenty minutes.”

  Justin looked at the money lying on the table with a great deal of skepticism, but put his own President Hamilton on top of Clay’s. “You’re on.”

  Eighteen minutes later, Clay left the table ten dollars richer. They’d no sooner polished off their shrimp and ordered a second round of Killian’s when the blonde made her move. It turned out she was a pediatric nurse who worked at MUSC and had seen Justin around the hospital. Palming the money, shooting Justin a superior smirk, Clay excused himself to go mingle.

  The crowd had grown thick as evening gave way to night, and he wound his way through it to find a spot closer to the band. Smoke rose in a thin blue cloud, dispelled occasionally by the salty breeze drifting in from the open windows. Patrons wandered in and out from the patio to the bar, and well-fed diners descended the worn stairs to mix with the crowd. Clay leaned against a rough-hewn support beam and watched them come and go, amazed, as always, at the way body language spoke volumes.

  And his own body started screaming in his ear when a pair of long, tanned legs became visible as they descended from the second floor. The staircase was angled in such a way that he got an up close and personal view of those mile-long beauties before a torso or head came into view. Black sandals encased slim feet, a short black skirt hit deliciously at mid-thigh. The legs paused, one resting a step higher than the other, and Clay felt his body stir. If the rest of the package lived up to the preview, he was going to be on this particular woman like a flea on a junkyard dog. He had the overwhelming urge to just wade over and take a bite.

  He took a sip of beer, instead, and waited for the follow through.

  A green Murphy’s shirt made an appearance, followed by a hand holding an empty tray.

  Staff, Clay assessed. He wondered what time she got off.

  Her other hand rubbed down a thigh as she seemed to be responding to a comment from someone on the stairs above her. The overwhelming jolt of lust he felt caused Clay to choke on his beer.

  Wait for it, wait for it…

  After another nail-biting moment, the legs made their final descent.

  Clay blinked twice, to assure himself he wasn’t seeing things. Then he began to curse the psychological gods again, for messing with his head.

  “Nice tan,” he murmured as Tate nearly passed him by.

  It was loud so close to the band, but Tate heard him and wheeled around. “Clay,” she said, his name falling naturally from her lips. Then she assimilated his comment, and blasted him with a frown. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Never,” he assured her companionably. Her rich ebony hair hung thick and loose, making him want to wrap it around his fist while he plundered her mouth. Mother of a young boy or not, she stirred his juices in a way that no one had for quite a while. The green shirt brought out the intensity of her eyes, which right now were shooting irritated little darts right through him. “It’s obviously important to you for some reason I can’t quite fathom, so I thought I would acknowledge your rather dramatic change in coloration. How did you accomplish that, by the way? You were creamy and a little pink the last time I saw you. Like a double scoop of vanilla and cotton candy in a cone.”

  Tate bristled, tucking the empty tray under her arm. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it came out of a bottle. I felt guilty after you so thoughtfully reminded me of the damage the sun can do.” She took in his own red face. “I see that you obviously don’t make it a habit of heeding your own advice, Dr. Copeland.”

  “Clay,” he corrected, because he’d never been comfortable when addressed by his title. It made him feel like he should be wearing a sweater vest and an unfortunate tie. “And you caught me. We psychologists are notorious for doling out advice and then ignoring it. The profession is rife with hypocrisy.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. So what brings you here tonight?”

  “My friend Justin’s pickup.” He grinned when she rolled her eyes. “Beer and shrimp,” he amended, hoisting his glass into the air. “Along with half the city’s population, it would seem. Busy place. How long have you worked here?”

  “Since I was old enough to walk.” She finally smiled when she saw his raised brow. “Patrick Murphy is my uncle,” she explained. “My grandmother lived next door, and whenever we visited in the summertime, Uncle Patrick would put us to work. Now I just help out in the evenings during the high season, when I’m not helping my mom with guests.”

  Clay quickly did th
e math. “You run the bed and breakfast next door.”

  “Guilty. I keep the books and handle the business end of it; my mom cooks and charms the guests. We turned the house into a B and B after Grandma died, because it was the only way we could afford the taxes and the upkeep.”

  “It’s quite an operation you have.” Clay thought about what Justin had told him. “Do any of your family members by chance own the pharmacy next door?”

  Tate blinked, and then added her lyrical laugh to the music dancing through the air. “My oldest cousin, Maureen, is the pharmacist,” she admitted. “And that’s Declan and Rogan, two more cousins, behind the bar with my uncle. I take it our fine reputation for business acumen precedes us?”

  “You could say that. My friend spent a night with you all several years ago, when he was still a rube.”

  Tate turned to look where Clay indicated Justin was sitting. “Hmm. I can’t say I remember him. But then I was either pregnant or dealing with a toddler at the time, so that’s really not surprising.” With that not-so-subtle reminder she offered him a stiff smile, and an even less flexible platitude. “Well, it was nice seeing you again, Clay. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  His hand shot out to grasp her wrist before she could move away. “The only way I’m going to enjoy the rest of my evening is if I spend it with you.” It sounded like a line, but God, he hated the fact that it was true. Seeing Tate again made him wonder how he’d ever let her get away from him without securing another meeting. Whatever baggage she might have regarding her son, and whatever effect the boy might have on him, seemed suddenly insignificant.

  “Be with me tonight.”

  TATE’S warning sonar went on red alert, screaming at her to dive, dive, dive! She was pretty sure Clay Copeland had a torpedo he was looking to use. And as attractive as she found him – and dear Lord, was he attractive, with those melted chocolate eyes – she’d already decided that was a bad idea. “I’m working.”

  He nodded to the sign over the bar. “That says the dining room closed at ten.”