Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  Lifting her head, she flipped down her visor so that she could check her makeup in the little lighted mirror. Most of the war paint was still in place, but she’d worn off all of her lipstick. Pulling a tube of Kiss-Me Red from the cup-holder between the seats, she hastily performed a repair job.

  Although really, she might as well not have bothered. No one ever looked at her face.

  Without the multiple layers of make-up and the shockingly red wig, her face wasn’t much to speak of. Plain hazel eyes surrounded by stubby lashes topped off a button nose and nondescript lips. Her cheeks were too full, her face too round, and though she was spared the ignominy of freckles, her features were so aw-shucks bland and uninteresting that she could only be described as average. She’d heard cute a few times, and more often, wholesome.

  Which was why it was some kind of great, cosmic joke that that face was attached to her body. Because her body was blatant sin.

  Double-D breasts, a narrow waist and legs that seemed to go on forever. True, her hips might show the evidence of a few too many candy bars here lately, but there was no question that overall Sam was built like one of Hugh Hefner’s wet dreams.

  Trying not to resent the fact that she was going to have to use that body in a way that made her sick, Sam put the key in the ignition of her ancient Ford, and listened as the engine turned over.

  How the hell she was going to take off her clothes in front of a room full of men, she honestly had no idea.