The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  Max’s small chest deflated with disappointment. “Why can’t I go with you? I could be your deputy agent.”

  Clay’s heart swelled yet again, just like the damn Grinch on Christmas morning. But he didn’t want Max tagging along, because he was afraid of what they might find. “You are my deputy agent, Max. And the assignment I’m giving you is to stay here and look after your mama. It’s a really important assignment, because your mother is very special.” And because he knew a little bit about child psychology, he pulled out the standard reverse. “But if you don’t think you can handle it, I can give the job to someone else.”

  Max straightened his shoulders. “Nobody can take care of Mommy better than me.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Clay said solemnly. And then he gave Tate’s hand a final squeeze before heading off with the distraught mother.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TWENTY minutes later, Clay returned with a tearful Lola – that was the mother’s name – after they’d dropped Amber off with some friends. Tate waited on the picnic table near the funnel cake trailer, Deputy Max asleep on her lap.

  “No luck?” she asked as they approached.

  Lola moved blindly toward the trailer, and Clay shook his head as he sat. “No one that we talked to had seen her. Normally, I wouldn’t be all that worried because teenagers pull this kind of thing all the time, but I get the impression that this Casey is a pretty responsible kid. Responsible kids do stupid things, too, but factor in the vibes I got from that man earlier today and I don’t like how it adds up. I convinced the mother to call in the local police, because I didn’t want to waste any more time canvassing the area when there’s a chance he took her out of here.”

  Tate drew in a shaky breath. “You think he abducted her.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Clay glanced toward the trailer to make sure Lola couldn’t overhear. She was walking a fine line between holding it together and losing it, and he didn’t want to push her over the edge. “I don’t have enough information to make that call.” He started to leave it at that. No need to upset Tate any more than he had to, either. But recalling the story she’d told him that morning, he realized that platitudes weren’t enough. So he put aside professional circumspection, and said what he thought. “It’s certainly plausible. There was something entirely wrong with the guy’s behavior. I noticed him when we were in the picnic area earlier. I think he was selecting his quarry.”

  Tate flinched at the harsh analogy. But it was, he knew, how this type of perpetrator thought. “What happens next?” she asked carefully.

  “We wait for the cops. You’ll have to give them a statement. Luckily, the mother and I both got a good look at him earlier, so they won’t have to rely totally on your description. But just to warn you, if she doesn’t turn up in the next twenty-four hours, you may have to look through some mug-shots.”

  “Do you think she’s going to turn up?”

  Clay sighed and rubbed the tension from the back of his neck. “Unless she’s simply off somewhere in a teenage pout, or went with that guy of her own free will, I’d say that possibility’s unlikely. He allowed several people, including the girl, to get a good look at him. That means he’s not concerned about being caught. If he’s not concerned about being caught, he either wasn’t contemplating committing any crime, or he feels sure he can’t be tied to one.” He reflected on the man’s demeanor and suspected he’d been planning the abduction all day. “If he took that girl, you can almost bet she’ll never be found.”

  Tate looked at the trailer, where the girl’s mother was locking up, and clutched her own sleeping child. “Isn’t there anything else that can be done?”

  Clay felt the weight of that question settle like lead. “If the police ask me, I can offer them a personality assessment of the suspected offender. Combine that with eyewitness descriptions, put out some flyers, do some canvassing, and there’s a chance someone will recognize him and turn him in. I can also suggest several techniques for drawing him out.” He blew out a breath full of frustration. “But in cases like this, the first twenty-four hours are critical. If she’s not located by then, there’s less than a fifty percent chance of recovering her alive. The problem, of course, is that the local authorities are often reluctant to consider a person missing until twenty-four hours have passed. Children are a different story, but the fact that Casey is a teen doesn’t weigh in her favor – they’re notorious for exercising their own will.”

  “But you’re here,” Tate protested. “Can’t you tell them that she didn’t just run off?”

  “I don’t know that for sure,” he reminded her gently. “I wasn’t able to observe the girl personally, so I’m not really at liberty to offer an opinion about what she might be likely to do. I can only take her mother’s word for that, and a mother’s word isn’t always reliable. However,” he reached out and stroked her arm when he recognized her frustration, “I can offer an educated opinion that the man you saw her speaking with was not… on the up and up. Again, it’s just an opinion, as we have no solid evidence of wrongdoing. Hopefully that opinion will hold enough water to prompt them into launching a full-fledged investigation. But that’s their call to make, not mine.”

  Tate sank back against the picnic table. “It must be very difficult for you, doing what you do.”

  Clay looked at the sleeping child in her arms and thought of another little boy, now dead. “Sometimes more than others.”

  Two sheriff’s deputies arrived, and Clay and Tate spent the next forty-five minutes giving statements and discussing what they’d seen. Then if the night hadn’t already turned crappy, the arrival of a local news crew sent it right into the toilet. They’d been filming a human interest piece on the carnival and caught wind that something was going down. Lola, who was growing desperate to find her daughter, let it slip that Clay worked for the FBI. That particular piece of information had sent the ambitious reporter into a frenzy. But Clay calmly informed her that he was not at liberty to discuss anything because it wasn’t his case, and that the FBI had no official role in the investigation. He suggested, quite equably, that she should direct any questions she might have toward the local sheriff. He wasn’t inclined to have his face plastered all over the news.

  “Are you ready?” he asked Tate softly, when they’d done all they could for the time being.

  Tate nodded, and after offering a last word of support to Casey’s mother, he shepherded his date and her sleeping child back to his car.

  THE quiet ride home was a far cry from their trip out that afternoon.

  Max had fallen asleep even before they’d left the parking lot, and the closed look on Clay’s face kept Tate from peppering him with questions. She had a million, born of concern and frustration, but she knew they’d done all they could for now. And like he said, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Casey had gone off of her own free will. She wanted to ask what the statistics were for teenagers getting grounded until they reached adulthood for scaring their parents to death, but she thought it was better to leave it alone. Her cousin Kathleen was a homicide detective, and Tate understood that there were times when they just had to shut everything out.

  Poor Clay.

  Considering this was supposed to have been a no-stress trip to the beach, he’d spent more time embroiled in crises than lying on the sand.

  “You know, for a man who’s on vacation you sure haven’t had much time to relax.”

  Clay’s tone was rueful as he pulled into the inn’s lot. “Well, I can’t say our dates have been boring.”

  Tate studied him in the shadows. The gas street lamp cast flickering patterns of light across his face, which still bore the insult of last night’s battle. The swelling in his lip was down but the bruise beneath his eye had bloomed a sickly violet. Added to that was the accumulated evidence of their day: His white T-shirt bled red from the grasp of ketchup-smeared little fingers, and his hair– stiff from sweat and dust – was more burnished now than golden.

>   There was a small piece of what looked to be a popcorn kernel caught between his two front teeth.

  “Actually,” she informed him to lighten the mood, and because she found his disarray ridiculously attractive. Perhaps because she’d learned that the shiniest things usually tarnished faster than most. “You can’t really consider them dates. Last night you kidnapped me from my place of employment, and my son invited you along today. If anything they’ve been more like… random encounters.”

  “Random encounters?” One side of his mouth drew up in amusement.

  “Uh-huh. Dates are when one person asks another to accompany them someplace. Usually involving a shared meal. Possibly some form of diversionary entertainment.”

  “I see.” Clay leaned against the window. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe we shared an ungodly amount of food today, as well as hours of various forms of entertainment.”

  “True.” The nod was acknowledgement. She was glad her teasing had drawn out his smile. “But you’re forgetting that crucial ‘date’ component. You never actually asked me out.”

  “I see,” he repeated, reaching out to stroke her fingers. She extended them to link with his. “Is this where you tell me that because I skipped a step I’m required to go back to the beginning? Do not pass go?” He kissed their joined fingers. “Do not collect two hundred dollars?”

  “I’m afraid those are the rules.”

  “Well,” he tightened his grip. “I’ve never been very good at following directions.”

  Dragging her over the console, Clay shot his other hand into her hair. Surprised, Tate could only blink as his mouth descended against hers. She’d been bantering with him, hoping to cheer him up… and possibly angling for another kiss like they’d shared beneath the Ferris wheel. A little sweetness to wash away the awful taste the last couple of hours had left in her mouth.

  But this was no innocent sampling. He angled his head, parted her lips, and went after her with his tongue.

  Some small, sane part of her brain whispered this is a bad idea. She’d lectured herself earlier about the dangers of playing with fire.

  But her blood heated. Her skin went damp beneath the hand that slid under her T-shirt. The muscles in her stomach quivered when his fingers blazed a trail.

  “God. You taste good.”

  As compliments went, it wasn’t the most poetic. But when he nipped at her lip, traced the tip of his finger around the edge of her bra, she considered that sweet talk was overrated.

  “That’s just the chocolate from that banana.”

  He groaned against her throat, and the thick shoulders beneath her hands shuddered. “I have a confession.”

  The husky rasp of the words made her shiver.

  “Oh?” She caught her breath. His finger dipped beneath the black lace.

  The lace rasped against her nipple as he drew the cup down. “When I watched the way you were using your mouth on that tasty little frozen confection, I’m afraid it caused… an involuntary reaction.”

  Tate was pretty sure he was reacting now.

  And as much as she wanted to be put off by that, the fact was her blood was sizzling. His fingers skimmed, then cupped her breast as if to weigh it. Circled her nipple, drawing a whimper from Tate’s throat. And when he pinched, ever so slightly at first, then just short of actual pain, it short-circuited whatever protests her brain might make.

  She tugged his hair to get his mouth back on hers.

  CLAY had hoped to throw her off guard with that first kiss, shake her up a little. Not allow her the time to think it through. But since she wasn’t the only one who’d been shaken, he fought to wrestle his desire under control.

  Tate was sweet, so devoid of artifice, and she’d gone utterly willing under his hands.

  Not that he wasn’t delighted about that. But she deserved the time and space to do this right. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up taking her in the back seat.

  Shit.

  The back seat.

  Opening one heavy lid Clay caught sight of the sleeping Max, still clutching that purple bear to his chest. They definitely needed to move this inside. The boy could wake up any minute, and Clay didn’t want to invite any more observations about his penis.

  “Tate,” he said against her mouth. Her arms twined around his neck. One hand slipped down to stroke his chest and he had to force the words out through his teeth. “We need… to go… in the house.”

  “What?” She squirmed a little closer, all but climbing onto his lap. He felt her breasts crush against his chest and beat his fist on the dash.

  “For God’s sake, Tate.” His voice was raw with desperation. One more minute of this and he was going to burst through his fly. “Let’s get Max put to bed and we can finish this inside.”

  The words were like a slap in the face. Tate shot back, looked guiltily toward her son, and then blinked at Clay in horror.

  “Oh, my God. You must think I’m awful.”

  “I can assure you,” Clay said on a pained laugh. “Thinking you’re awful never entered my mind.”

  The look she shot him was incredulous. “I just jumped you in front of my son.”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  Tate apparently failed to find that reassuring. “Well. As you were kind enough to remind me before I tossed myself bodily into your lap, I believe it’s time to put my son in bed.”

  “I’ll help you carry him up.”

  Clay slid out of the car with no grace whatsoever and hobbled around to open Tate’s door. And when he lifted Max from his car seat, barely controlled a wince.

  Tate’s eyes flew to his crotch. Recognizing the cause of his discomfort had heat creeping back into her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said helplessly as she attempted to open the back door. She fumbled the key, dropping it before finally wrestling the door open with a squeal of hinges.

  They entered a large and cozy kitchen, gleaming with commercial grade appliances. The two coloring book pages attached to the huge Sub-zero refrigerator gave Clay a jolt that faded into pleasure.

  The picture of Peter Parker was his.

  Mossy green walls formed a quiet well of shadows, the light over the range guiding their passage. Tate moved past its thin yellow glow and showed Clay toward the back stairs.

  He’d been doctored in her bathroom the previous night, so he was familiar with the third floor layout. He turned left at the head of the stairs and walked to Max’s door. Tate rushed ahead of him to push it open, brushing a small army of toys from her son’s bed. When she turned down the Thomas the Tank Engine sheets, Clay laid Max between them.

  Max rolled over, clutching his bear.

  Tate pulled off Max’s shoes before covering him up, grimacing at his dusty feet. The kid would need a bath first thing in the morning. Then she straightened, offering Clay a grateful smile as he reached out to shut off the light. He put a finger to her lips, grasping her hand.

  And then drew her toward her bedroom.

  PULSE pounding an erratic beat, Tate recalled her earlier conversation with herself, which had focused on why sleeping with Clay was a Bad Idea. She just didn’t do that sort of thing.

  And besides, he would be leaving in a few days. There were simply too many factors to consider. And after weighing them – again – she knew what she had to do.

  “Clay.” She pulled back on his hand to stop him from crossing the threshold. He lingered there, arching a brow. He looked so handsome, even in his disheveled state, and so utterly capable of fulfilling her every fantasy, that telling him “no” seemed like shooting herself in the foot.

  She didn’t want to do it.

  “I…” God, now he was going to think she was a tease. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can do this.”

  “Sure we can,” he said in a low voice, cognizant of the nearby presence of her mother and her son. “Tab ‘A’ goes into slot ‘B’. Trust me; people do it all the time.”

  Tate knew he was trying to make her relax, but
this was one time humor wasn’t going to work. “It’s not that simple for me, Clay. I’m not the type of woman who thinks purely in terms of the physical.”

  Clay cupped his hand under her chin. “Is that what you think this is?”

  Tate shrugged, a gesture of futility. “How can it be anything else?”

  She had him there, but Clay didn’t like it. “It can be whatever we make it.”

  Tate hesitated a moment, wanting desperately to believe, but it didn’t change the fact that he was leaving. She already cared enough that she would feel his loss when he was gone.

  How much more significant that loss if she made love with him?

  She cupped her own hand over his, which had moved to stroke her cheek. “I’m sorry.” And she was, truly. “I can’t. Even if I understand why you have to leave, I’m not sure that Max would, and I don’t want to set us both up for disappointment.”

  THAT statement hit Clay like a blow. He hadn’t even considered Max. And it both pleased and horrified him to realize he could have that kind of impact on the child’s feelings.

  And Tate was a conscientious mother to keep that at the forefront of her mind, because he had absolutely no doubt that she wanted him.

  And God, he wanted her.

  So he purposely stepped back, allowing her some distance. “It’s okay.” Although it wasn’t. “In the grand scheme of things, I respect your decision. I might not like it.” His smile was wry. “But I respect it.”

  Because there was nothing left to say, because if he didn’t get out of there he’d forget his good intentions, he leaned forward, dropping a regretful kiss on her cheek. “Good night, Tate Hennessy. Tell Max that I said goodbye.”

  Clay cursed himself on the way to Justin’s for making a royal mess of his vacation. How the hell, in two days, mind you, had he managed to form – what the hell was this? An attachment? An obsession? God help him, an actual relationship? – with a woman he met on the beach? And not just any woman, either.