The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  The Southern Comfort Series

  A Five Book Box Set

  Lisa Clark O’Neill

  Table of Contents

  Serendipity

  Book One in the Southern Comfort Series

  Forbidden

  Book Two in the Southern Comfort Series

  Deception

  Book Three in the Southern Comfort Series

  Nemesis

  Book Four in the Southern Comfort Series

  Obsession

  Book Five in the Southern Comfort Series

  Serendipity

  Book One in the Southern Comfort Series

  CHAPTER ONE

  AVA Martinez tried everything short of setting the unconscious man’s pants on fire to get him to wake up.

  It was a damn shame she didn’t have a match.

  Shaking him hadn’t worked. Nor had slapping, poking, hair-yanking, begging or kissing him on his very fine mouth. Fighting panic, she looked at the cup in her hand with desperation. The frigid water from the bottom of the ice machine appeared to be her last hope.

  She knew he wasn’t dead – yet – because his broad chest rose and fell beneath his torn oxford-cloth shirt. But dishabille was the least of his problems. When she’d pulled the hair-yanking thing out of her bag of tricks, she’d felt the sticky, golf ball-sized lump erupting from his disordered mop of dark curls.

  At least the bleeding appeared to have stopped, which meant he probably wasn’t in danger of dying before she got him out of the stupid trunk.

  If she got him out. With all the luck she was having, the sucker’s chances weren’t looking too good.

  Frustrated, Ava wiped her damp palm on her linen pants before remembering it was covered in blood.

  “Buddy.” She glared at the inert form stuffed like a sausage into the Impala’s casing. “No offense, but I’m starting to wish I’d stayed home tonight.”

  She shuddered to think of why she hadn’t. Summoned to her uncle’s club – a dressed-up titty bar that called itself a “gentleman’s club,” though judging from what went on in those back rooms, she figured it was anything but – Ava had been reaching for the back door handle when she overheard the club’s manager, Ricardo, cursing out a pair of Uncle Carlos’s goons. His voice rose over the nocturnal din of frogs and the cheesy music pulsing through the blackened window, explaining how the goons were idiots because they’d somehow kidnapped the wrong man.

  Ava couldn’t say she blamed him. U.S. attorney Stephen Finch – the man they were apparently supposed to have shanghaied – was about five-eight, one hundred and fifty pounds, and the color of an espresso bean.

  The man bleeding all over the trunk of the goons’ car was a six feet plus Caucasian, and pushing two hundred pounds if he was an ounce. Ava had the backache to prove it. But wrong man or not, she knew for a fact what was going to happen if she didn’t get him moving.

  Her uncle’s men were going to kill him anyway.

  It was difficult to believe Carlos had attempted to kidnap the prosecutor in charge of her father’s case. The sonofabitch thought he was untouchable, but this was ballsy, even for him.

  But then what was a little kidnapping and murder when you already operated one of the biggest crime syndicates in the South?

  Shoving aside her angry thoughts, Ava glanced back at the unconscious stranger. Regardless of who he was, he was dead if she didn’t move him. So she picked up the cup, tossed the icy water in his face, mentally saying a prayer as she held her breath.

  Relief jellied her legs when his wet lashes fluttered. He squinted against the light and certain pain – not to mention the freezing water – before shifting his gaze toward her.

  And Ava felt like she was the one who’d been doused. Even in the dim light, the guy’s eyes were stunning. The color of those blue flowers – what the hell were they called? – that grew alongside the road in summer.

  She found herself staring, fascinated, until common sense kicked in.

  The frogs had grown louder.

  The frogs had grown louder, because the angry voices from inside the club had quieted down. Figuring it was only a matter of time before the goons spilled back out like deranged monkeys from a barrel, Ava forgot about his eyes, wrapping her hands around his arms to urge the bulk of him up.

  “Come on, buddy.” Frustration gave way to urgency. “You’ve got to help me out a little. I can’t move you all by myself. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  He sat up, hit his head, and fell flat on his back.

  “Oh no, you don’t.” Ava jerked his arm. “You’ve already ruined my best pair of pants and just about put me in traction. The least you can do is haul your butt out of this damn trunk.”

  She threw a worried glance over her shoulder. “Sit up, and watch your head. If you knock yourself out again, I’m leaving you on your own.”

  “Sure. Fine,” he slurred. “Do you think you could stop clawing me now?”

  He moved like wet cement, but Ava lessened her hold. “Now how about trying to stand? You can lean on me if you have to.” Though if he stumbled, they were both going down. Seeing as how he was built like a water buffalo, gravity wasn’t working in their favor.

  “Your nails are too long.”

  “What?”

  “I said your nails are too long. You scratched my arm.” He hefted his limb to show her three red gouges beneath his rolled sleeve.

  “Yeah well, that’s the least of your worries. If you don’t get yourself out of that trunk soon, something a hell of a lot sharper is going to be scratching you. The goons in there have a penchant for blades, and you’ve got plenty of square footage to carve on. This is the last time I’m going to tell you. You need to haul ass.”

  “Where’s my shoe?”

  “What?”

  “My shoe,” he repeated, pointing toward the huge sock-clad foot dangling against the license plate’s chain holder.

  Ava didn’t waste the time to tell him it wasn’t important. She simply looked through the fat curls of fog creeping like fingers over the asphalt, finally spotting it lying drunkenly against the vintage Chevy’s back tire. “Here.” She scooped it up. “It must have come off when I tried to drag you out of there.”

  “You tried to drag me out of here?”

  Her patience with his lack of comprehension was all used up. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes? Now pay attention.” She clapped her hands, hating the fact that they’d started to shake. “Either you get out of that trunk and into my car, or the men who hit you over the head and roughed you up are going to come back here and finish the job. And believe me, you’ll wish they hit you hard enough to kill you the first time. So please.” She swallowed, hard. “Hurry.”

  Ava wedged herself under his shoulder to help ease him to his feet, and he draped himself around her. They wobbled, Ava cursing the vanity that consistently provoked her into wearing three-inch heels, but managed to shamble forward.

  Until he touched the knot on his head, drawing them both to a stop. “I’m bleeding.”

  “No kidding.” She used her hip to shove him forward, not unlike a large and unwieldy chest of drawers. He half climbed, half fell through the open passenger door, and she crammed his right leg in.

  “Ouch!” He shot her some irritation when she slid quickly into the driver’s seat. “What’s going on?”

  Ava didn’t bother answering him. She was entirely too focused on putting as much distance between them and that parking lot as humanly possible. Luckily, the music coming from inside the club was loud, so Ricardo and the goons probably hadn’t heard her peal out.

  Probably.

  “Was there an ac
cident?”

  “You could say that.” Ava flicked a glance at her rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed. No goons running out of the building, no Impala on her tail. When she caught the guy staring at her she shook her dark hair to form a curtain, not wanting him to get a good look at her face. Temporarily stymied, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

  And proceeded to bleed all over the headrest.

  “Did you see what happened to my car?”

  Resigned to spending the next day cleaning the evidence from her passenger seat, Ava shook her head. She had no idea where his car was, or what condition it might be in, so she kept her gaze focused on the climb over the bridge. The lights of Savannah shimmered through the veil of mist shrouding the river, the gold dome of City Hall the shining crown of the Hostess City.

  Her city. And she’d be damned if she let her uncle ruin this one for her, too.

  “Is it totaled?” Her passenger managed to stir himself to ask. “Damn it, the thing’s brand new.”

  He sounded miserable, but Ava wasn’t about to correct his misinterpretation. The less he knew, the better. She detoured off the interstate, taking a circuitous route to the hospital. If they were caught it would spell a heap of trouble for her, and certain death for him.

  Ava slid a glance his direction. It appeared he’d passed out again, which truth be told was fine by her. Better if he didn’t remember one thing about the night’s misadventure.

  In a quick blink, he opened his truly amazing eyes. Remembering that she didn’t want him to get a good look at her face, she turned her attention back to the road.

  “You’re not injured, are you?”

  “What?”

  “In the accident,” he explained. “You weren’t injured, were you? Did I hit your car?”

  She wanted to point out that they were driving her car, but the poor guy obviously wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “I’m fine.”

  “That’s good.”

  Since he was no longer looking at her, Ava snuck another glance. The man was damn easy on the eyes. His wife would certainly be happy that she’d saved him. She took a hasty peek at his ring finger. No wedding band. Well, his girlfriend would be happy. Or boyfriend, for that matter.

  “Where are we going?”

  Jerking her eyes away from his hand, Ava returned her focus to the darkened street. Gas flame streetlights pushed back the worst of the fog to boil in the shadows of time-worn buildings, and Spanish moss dripped like loose skin from the gnarled limbs of ancient oaks.

  A pair of headlights appeared in her rearview mirror, making her nerves jump like Mexican beans.

  Controlling a shiver, she cast another quick glance at her passenger. “I’m taking you to the hospital. Someone needs to take a look at your head.” Given his slurred speech, the way he’d moved like he was walking through molasses, she was fairly certain he had a concussion.

  “I think I might get sick.”

  Concussion symptom three. “Not in my car, you won’t.” She reached into the back seat, grabbing the paper sack of fruit she’d bought from a roadside stand. “Here.”

  He peered at a melon. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Use the bag.” And her tone added moron before she had a chance to think how unfair that was. “If you feel like you’re going to be sick, dump the fruit out and use the bag.”

  He clutched it between his large hands, then subsided against the headrest. The car behind her turned off, and Ava’s jittering nerves flashed back to anger. It wasn’t like her uncle hadn’t done similar shit before. But she’d made it pretty clear to her father that she wanted no part of that life.

  He’d understood completely, which was why she was so surprised when she heeded Ricardo’s call, inadvertently stumbling into her current mess. Either her father had lied to her, or he didn’t know what his brother was up to. Both thoughts infuriated her. How was she supposed to lead a normal life, when her family conspired against her? But this was it, Ava assured herself. No more.

  Once she got this man out of her car, she was through playing her uncle’s games.

  The emergency room appeared like a glowing beehive through the fog, buzzing with people and activity, and relief crumpled her shoulders. She turned to her passenger and nudged him. “Okay, Blue Eyes. Ride’s over.”

  She pulled as close as possible without being seen – God help her if someone identified her to the police – and then leaned across his lap to release the handle. She didn’t dare get out of the car. There was bound to be an investigation, and she wanted no part of that. As her uncle once coldly informed her, “The only good witness is a dead one.” It wouldn’t matter that she happened to be his niece.

  He’d never had much use for her or her mother anyway.

  “You need to move.” Ava pushed the door open, and when he didn’t go fast enough to suit her, put her heels to his hip and shoved. A couple of peaches tumbled out right along with him, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She needed to get out of there, swing by her place and change, and then hightail it back to the club. Ricardo would be waiting. Even though he was her father’s friend, he still worked for her uncle, and that was a relationship not to be trusted.

  One last conversation to cover her butt, and then she was through with her uncle for good.

  Noticing the man’s shoe sitting forlornly on the passenger seat, she tossed it from the car.

  “Sorry,” she barked when it smacked him in the chest, and he lifted his head to glare.

  Well, she’d done what she could. And really, did it matter if he thought her a crazy bitch? It wasn’t like she’d ever see the man again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTERNOON sun poured into the room, brightening the institutional green walls to an almost tolerable shade of mint. Jordan Wellington squinted, watching dust motes stirred to life by the AC unit humming beneath the window.

  “He lives.”

  Jordan turned toward the familiar voice. Wiping the haze of drug-induced sleep from his eyes, he located his brother’s long form sprawled in a bedside chair. Jesse’s bark brown hair stuck up at random intervals where he’d been running his fingers through it, and summer blue eyes – their mother’s eyes – peered over horn-rimmed glasses.

  Jesse tossed aside an old issue of Newsweek. “How’s your head?”

  Jordan raised a hand to his scalp. The shaved, raised lump wasn’t nearly as off-putting as the stitches. The thought of a needle flashing through his skin made his stomach do a short, hard roll. “Just super.”

  “And that hairdo sure is pretty. Adds just the right touch to your backless gown.”

  “Makes it easier for you to kiss my ass.”

  “Now, now. That’s no way to talk to the sibling who spared you the Wrath of Mom.”

  “Oh, hell.” Jordan’s queasy stomach sank straight to his toes. “Tell me they didn’t call her cell phone.”

  “Well, at least that bump didn’t ruin your deductive reasoning.” Jesse sat up, stretched, and brushed his knuckles against the Savannah Sand Gnats logo on his T-shirt. “You can thank my incomparable negotiation skills for the fact that she’s still in Florida.”

  Their parents were visiting Disney with their brother Jack and his family, and that’s where Jordan wanted them to stay. The accident, the hospital, the damn backless gown – all of that was bad enough without ruining his family’s vacation. He might not remember much of what happened, but he knew it wasn’t pretty. “Was anyone else injured last night?”

  Jesse’s brow shot up. “Not that I know of.”

  “Thank God for that.” Jordan let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “What about my car?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is it totaled?”

  “No.” The dark brows crept lower until they gathered just above his glasses. “Your car’s fine, Jordan. What exactly do you think happened?”

  “Honest to God, Jesse, I don’t know. I don’t even remember getting be
hind the wheel. I just… what do you mean, my car’s fine?”

  “You think you were in an accident?”

  Jordan hesitated. “Maybe you should tell me.”

  Jesse took a moment to study his hands, and when they bunched Jordan’s stomach churned again. He hid it well, but his brother was angry. “Well, from what the police have been able to gather, someone used your head for a whipping post, took you for a little joy ride, then dropped you off for a visit. A couple of EMTs found you lying outside the ER.”

  “What?”

  “Just telling you what I heard. I know you ADAs have regular fan clubs, but you piss off any particular defendants recently? Maybe prosecute a gang member?”

  “I…” Jordan scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to think. “Hell, Jesse. I piss off defendants every day. And besides, you know I’ve been wrapped up in the Fuller case for the past couple months. A media shitstorm like that is bound to bring out the crazies.”

  Elijah Fuller was the man indicted for the brutal murders of three Savannah women. When the lead prosecutor had been forced to step down due to health concerns, Jordan was tapped to take over. Professionally, his career went into overdrive, but on a personal level Jordan seemed to be stuck in neutral. Not only did he hate the limelight, but he’d grown uncomfortable with the whole case. The evidence, though more circumstantial than concrete, seemed to prove they’d indicted the right man, but as Jordan delved deeper into trial preparations, he unearthed more doubt than assurance.

  However, this wasn’t the time or the place to get into that with his brother. He had more immediate concerns.

  “Do you remember anything from last night at all?” Jesse asked.

  Jordan tried to clear his head. Bits and fragments of memories floated around like flotsam from a shipwreck. “Only pieces,” he admitted. Absently scratching at the tape holding his IV – he tried not to think of the needle – Jordan looked down when he felt the welts.

  He remembered the rake of long nails, a flash of dark hair. “I… hell. I think there was a woman.”

  “There usually is.”

  “Ha. I mean during the… if I say assault now I’m going to feel like a douche. But yeah, I think a woman was involved. See? She scratched my arm with her nails.”