The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  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 the 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.”

  “Yes, well, I still need to close out.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Truly, his gall was amazing. “Look, I have responsibilities to attend to, and you’ve no claim on my time. If you’re looking for a little vacation fling, you’ll have to try someone else.” She motioned expansively toward the crowd. “Take your pick.”

  “Well, since you offered…”

  Clay left her gaping as he strode over to the bar.

  She watched him carry on a brief but animated conversation with her uncle – which also consisted of several glances from both parties directed her way – concluded by Uncle Patrick writing something on a piece of paper. Then he clapped Clay on the back like a long lost friend. Pulling out his cell phone, Clay consulted the paper, tucking a finger into his free ear.

  Moments later he was by her side again, retrieving the tray she still held under her arm.

  “I pick you,” he informed her casually, setting the tray aside. “Your uncle says you’re good to go, and your mom says Max has been asleep for hours, since he wore himself out at the beach. She told me to tell you not to worry about anything, and to have a good time.” He grinned wickedly and Tate felt the jolt of it all the way to her toes. “It just so happens that Good Time is my middle name.”

  Because he’d already drug her to his friend’s table by the time she’d gathered her wits, Tate declined to cause an unnecessary scene. But for someone who was supposedly schooled in the workings of the human mind, he had an awfully strange way of winning friends and influencing people.

  “Justin, Mandy – this is Tate. Tate, meet Justin and Mandy.” Cursory introductions complete, Clay informed his friend that he was leaving. He said not to worry about the ride, he’d find his own way home.

  Uncle Patrick waved at her as she was hauled out the front door.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “I have no earthly idea.”

  “Great plan.” She swam through the sticky night air in his wake. “Are you really so desperate that you have to kidnap a woman to get a date?”

  “You’re disparaging yourself when you say that, sugar. If I’m so desperate, then what does that say about you? What I am is selective. I could have made a move on any number of those women in there tonight, but I prefer to wait for the cream to rise to the top.” He pulled their joined hands to his lips, and to her surprise, kissed her fingers.

  Because her legs felt a littl
e like Jello, her tone was purposefully bored. “You have a real obsession with cream, don’t you? You must have been a cat in a former life.”

  Clay merely chuckled. “Given the other barnyard animals I’ve been compared to, I can hardly take offense.”

  “Barnyard animals?” Tate said as he gently propelled her forward again. “Let me guess. The last woman you abducted called you a –”

  Alarm was a nasty surprise when he cut her off midstream, jerking her hard against him and covering her mouth with his big hand. Then he shoved her into an alcove. The bite of the doorknob he pressed her against had her struggling like a wild thing.

  “Shhh.” Breathing shallow and quick, every muscle in his body tensed, Clay molded his fingers against her lips, his attention focused behind him. Tate smelled the lingering traces of Old Bay and shellfish that clung to his skin, and tasted fear, acrid and bitter.

  But when she jerked her head away from his hand she realized the threat didn’t come from him.

  The man who emerged from the nearby alley was all angles: jutting cheekbones, blades of dirty hair. He muttered to himself as he flipped through a wallet, pulling out the ready cash. Tate watched in horror as he tossed it aside, wiping something on the leg of his threadbare jeans. And couldn’t stop the small squeal that emerged when she realized it was a bloody knife.

  Hearing the noise, wild eyes whipping their way, the precariousness of the man’s mental state became apparent. Instead of running, he chose to attack.

  “Shit,” Clay muttered.

  Then in a series of rapid moves, he shoved Tate out of the way, blocked the assailant’s forward momentum with his arm, and rammed two knuckles into the man’s throat with enough force to send him staggering. But immune as he was to the realities of physical pain, the junkie regained his footing, charging Clay with renewed vigor.

  “Run!” Clay ordered, and the moment’s inattention caused him to catch an elbow in the gut. “Go back to the bar and call the police!”

  Torn between not wanting to leave him alone with a knife-wielding maniac and knowing that he was right, Tate hesitated for only a second before shooting from the protective cover of the doorway. He’d dragged her out of the pub so fast that she didn’t have either her purse or her cell phone. A scream for help clawed its way from her throat as she flew toward the safety of the crowd.

  Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Clay execute a well-placed kick that brought the junkie to his knees, just as she stumbled into the bar.

  Her cousin Rogan was already at the door.

  “What happened?”

  “There was a man… with a knife.” Terror had robbed her of breath. She sucked it in, pointing in the right direction. “Clay’s fighting him. We need to call the police; I think the man killed someone.”

  By that time, a small crowd had gathered to hear what she had to say. Several people whipped out their cell phones to dial 911 while Rogan shot out the door. Clay’s friend Justin, who’d heard the end of her statement, followed on Rogan’s heels.

  Shaking off the well-meaning hand of a concerned stranger, Tate chased after the men, pushing through the crowd that had formed on the sidewalk in order to head back toward Clay.

  She could only pray that he was alright.

  The rapid approach of sirens cleaved the thick night air, and by the time she made it back the first patrol car arrived on the scene. Relief mixed with concern as she saw Clay, battered and bloodied, but basically in one piece.

  Glancing at Tate as she approached – a silent acknowledgement that all was well – he straddled the unconscious junkie’s back until an officer stepped in to cuff the man.

  From the bowels of the alley, Justin’s voice rang out the cry for an ambulance. Apparently the man who’d fallen victim to the mugging was still alive.

  Rogan stepped close enough to sling a supporting arm around her shoulders, and Tate leaned into his familiar warmth. Despite the heat, she found herself shivering.

  More police cruisers arrived on the scene in a deluge of wailing sirens and blinking lights. An officer began to question Clay.

  Somewhat reluctantly, Clay pulled a wallet from his pocket, offering his identification.

  Surprise flickered over the cop’s dark features, and then he handed the ID back to Clay.

  “What do you know?” the cop called to his partner, tone bordering on irritation. “Our Good Samaritan here works for the FBI.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bentonville, South Carolina

  “WHAT the hell are you looking at?”

  JR Walker looked up from his plate in reaction to the question, which his companion obviously hadn’t directed at him. An unruly trio of teenage boys huddled at the all-night diner’s bar, snickering and casting furtive glances toward JR’s table.

  JR sighed over the all too familiar altercation. Unless disguised, his cousin’s astounding size and stark albino coloring tended to draw attention.

  And attention was something they didn’t need.

  “Simmer down, Billy Wayne,” JR hissed between his teeth. “You start a fight, and it’s going to draw heat. You know how small town cops operate – they’ve got nothing better to do, so a brawl at the local diner would be the high point of their evening. Unless you want to land your white ass in the county jail, ignore the snot-nosed brats and finish your food.”

  Billy Wayne’s near colorless eyes slid back toward JR’s, discharging hostility like a live electrical current.

  “Don’t look at me like that. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be worrying about heat, now would we?” JR picked up his glass of sweet tea and stared over the rim, knowing that his cool rebuke annoyed the hell out of Billy Wayne. But it wasn’t like the man didn’t deserve it. He’d crossed the line back in Atlanta a few months ago, killing one of the girls they went to so much trouble to acquire.

  “It wasn’t that girl’s fault you couldn’t perform. I’ve been telling you for years that those ‘roids were going to catch up with you one day.”

  Billy Wayne’s thick fist closed around his fork as he stabbed a piece of sausage. “I don’t need any of your lectures.” He shoved the meat into his mouth, taking pains to be extra crude.

  JR’s chuckle had less to do with amusement than condescension. “Just try to keep yourself in check for a while. At least until we get the lay of the new land.” Like their hometown of Atlanta, Charleston and its environs were undergoing a rapid population explosion, which meant that police departments and child welfare services were having a difficult time keeping up.

  All the better for him and Billy Wayne to sweep up the sweet young things who fell through the societal cracks.

  Human trafficking was a dirty business, but somebody had to do it.

  Bored of poking at his cousin, he turned his own gaze toward the teenagers. Like overgrown sticks with hair, the lot of them. And they’d been just young enough, just stupid enough to disregard Billy Wayne’s size.

  He singled out the most obnoxious of the teens, and stared until the kid grew uncomfortable and turned back around.

  Lucky for them he’d been there to talk sense into Billy Wayne.

  The Inn at Calhoun, Charleston

  “OUCH!”

  Clay complained as Tate dabbed the antiseptic against his busted lip. He sat on the closed toilet lid in her bathroom – shirtless, bloody, and grumpy – while she straddled his legs and went about the tricky business of protecting his wounds from the threat of germs.

  Tricky because every time she went near him with something medicinal, he snarled like a wounded animal. “Guess that barnyard comparison wasn’t too far off.”

  “What?”

  “You’re growling.”

  “You’d growl too if someone poured liquid fire in your open wound.”

  Tate bit her own lip as she resisted the urge to laugh. Not that his injuries were amusing, but the fact that he’d so completely lost his unflappable arrogance pleased her greatly. He was acting like a petulant l
ittle boy, and that put them on more even footing. She was much more adept at warding off temper tantrums than slick seductions. “Hush. You’ll wake up Max.”

  Clay merely scowled at her when she smiled.

  Tate doubted that his various bumps and bruises hurt that badly. No, she suspected his bad mood was due more to the beating his plans for the night had taken.

  It was tough to woo a woman when you were ignobly perched on her toilet.

  “I thought Charleston was supposed to be a safe city,” he complained, battered face giving him the look of a boxer who’d gone one too many rounds.

  “You know, for an FBI agent, you’re an awfully big whiner.”

  The glance he shot her was filled with chagrin. “I was wondering when you would get around to mentioning that. I hope you don’t think I was yanking your chain earlier. I really am a psychologist. I just happen to be an agent, also.”

  Tate stopped dabbing the cotton swab against his lip and considered. He clearly hadn’t wanted to divulge what he did for a living, and she couldn’t help but wonder why. “Are you undercover or something?”

  “Nothing that exciting.” He leaned back, wincing as if his bruised ribs objected to the movement. “I’m just a guy on vacation trying to pretend that his real life doesn’t exist.”

  Unsure whether the aggrieved tone of his voice was from embarrassment or discomfort, Tate furrowed her brow in concern. Maybe he was hurt worse than she thought. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room? I can handle a busted lip, but I don’t know anything about bones. You might have cracked one of your ribs or something.”

  “I’m fine,” he assured her. “Justin looked me over and said that nothing appeared to be broken. I’ll just be sore for a couple of days.” He shook his head, then turned a mocking look her way, voice lowered to a sexy murmur. “I know you had big plans, sugar, but the kinky stuff will just have to wait.”