And for the past several hours, he hadn’t even been trying to herd her in that direction.
After that attack of guilt at lunchtime, he’d simply been playing the whole thing straight.
And now that she was offering…
Well hell, he just couldn’t do it.
He liked this woman too much to take her to bed.
Uncharted territory, to be sure.
And now came the tricky part. Did he fudge the truth, say that he had some calls to make, that he was tired, busy, or otherwise occupied in some legitimate way?
Past experience – both on the giving and the receiving end – led him to believe that such bullshit could be smelled from a mile away. And because he liked Tate too much to sleep with her, it should follow that he liked her too much to bullshit her. Therefore, he played the honesty card, laying it face up between them.
“I want to come in,” he admitted, looking her squarely in the eye. “And while dinner sounds nice, it’s secondary to the fact that I want to be inside you. Crude, but it’s the truth. And while you’ve done the whole resistance thing very well, I’m sensing that that particular little wall might be crumbling.”
He reached over, took her hand. “I’m not going to lie to you, Tate. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than spend the next, oh, say… twelve hours making love until neither one of us can walk. But crazy as it may seem, I think you were right in what you said last night. Taking this any further is too much like skating on thin ice – chances are one or both of us would end up falling through. You…” He looked out the window, sought the right words, “deserve a lot better than what I’d be able to give you. Not in bed,” he clarified, lightening the moment with a wicked grin. “You and me together… well, let’s just say we’d set a whole new standard for copulation.”
Tate laughed, a small sound that faded quickly. “So what you’re saying is that you’re taking the high road and turning me down?”
Ignoring his penis as a navigational tool, Clay nodded, taking the high-road’s first available on-ramp. “I like you, Tate. Very much. You’re beautiful and special and good. And I don’t want to be the next blond to let you down. Yeah, I remember what you said – I’m the latest in a line. You know, you might want to consider dating brunettes.”
Tate’s smile was both wry and a little sad. “At the risk of sounding trite, and turning this into a stereotypical ‘I think we should just be friends’ speech, I’d like to say that I would like that. You know, being friends. Because you’re honestly the most amazing man I’ve ever met.”
Clay winced, but she continued.
“I mean, I’d like you to call me, if you ever need to talk. Or want to talk. Or don’t particularly feel like talking but are inclined to listen. Whatever. And whenever you’re in town you’ll always have a place to stay.”
For some reason that made him feel worse.
“Thank you,” he said, regardless. “And now, before I ruin this whole amazing man thing I have going by grabbing you and tossing you into the back seat, I think we’d better say good night.”
Tate leaned toward him, hesitating, before planting a quick kiss on his cheek. For once, Clay didn’t open her door, as that was just one step closer to following her inside. In fact, he moved his gearshift into drive and sat with his foot on the brake.
“You’ll, uh, let me know how the case is going? If they find Casey. Either way?”
“I’ll call you,” Clay promised, taking the punch to the gut as she walked away.
When had he gotten so damn… pathetic?
This entire vacation was doing a number on his head.
He started to head back to Justin’s, but as he passed Murphy’s he pulled to the curb. If he wasn’t going to spend the rest of the night with Tate, he saw no reason to spend the night sober.
HE hadn’t raped her.
Casey repeated that to herself as she lay shivering in the middle of the bed. It was probably an easy ninety degrees inside, but she couldn’t stop the chills that racked her. Turning, she pressed her chattering teeth against a pillow gone wet with tears.
But he hadn’t raped her.
It was that thought alone that kept her from throwing up.
The man – he’d said his name was William – had actually been almost… nice.
Creepily, unbearably nice.
He’d put a bandage on her wrist to keep the handcuff from doing more damage, chiding her for hurting herself. He’d brought water, some food – which now sat uneasily in her stomach – and had un-cuffed her long enough for a desperately needed bathroom visit. Taking the opportunity to study the window over the tub, Casey had noted the layers of old paint with a sinking stomach. Sealed shut, she thought, and looked out for any neighbors, anyone who could help her.
But William – God help her, he looked like a fish’s belly; he was so white – had known what she was up to. “There’s no one around to hear you, Casey.” And stood in the doorway, grinning.
Startled, Casey slipped from the bathtub ledge, where she’d been peering at an empty field.
“If you’re a good girl,” he held out one huge white hand “I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”
Like that was supposed to make the whole thing better?
But figuring it best not to tick him off, Casey allowed herself to be led back to the bedroom.
Where he’d cuffed her, once more, to the bed.
Then stripped off the shorts he was wearing and laid, just laid, beside her.
But he hadn’t raped her.
She reminded herself of that again.
He’d stroked her hair, touched her breasts – just once – and chatted as if they were friends. As if by smiling, simply smiling at him, she’d given the impression that’s what she wanted.
Casey heard her mother’s voice in her head, warning her not to encourage strange men.
Oh, Mama, she thought, throat constricting. I’m so sorry I didn’t listen.
But the noise from downstairs had her eyes snapping open. The other man must be back.
The man who’d come into the room, seen William in the bed, and gone quietly, coldly ballistic. He’d told William that he couldn’t mess with the merchandise, that the deal they had required a virgin. Somewhere in the midst of the men’s argument, Casey’d come to realize they were talking about her.
And Casey knew enough to know that merchandise meant that they were actually planning to sell her.
Tears rolled again, hot this time, as anger mixed with fear. She’d find a way out. She had to find a way out. Before the creeps could make their first dollar.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROGAN Murphy watched the FBI agent enter the bar, looking tired as hell and twice as grim. His blond hair bore channels from frustrated fingers, and dirt and sweat marred the shirt which had been virginal just that morning. He’d lost that freeze-dried Men in Black appearance, presumably shed while digging for God knows what in the dirt. The tie was gone, too, his sleeves pushed back above tanned forearms. All in all, the dude was definitely not looking his company best.
Whatever he and Tate had done today, it obviously hadn’t been barrels of fun. The man appeared to be in dire need of a drink.
Rogan, with that sixth sense that seemed to come along with the liquor license, guessed that part of J. Edgar’s problem came from a snafu with his lovely cousin.
So Tate had turned him down, eh?
The flag-planting expedition Rogan witnessed that morning apparently had been for naught.
Rogan topped off the pilsner he’d been filling, passing it and a tray full of shots to one of the waitresses. After drying his hands on a bar towel, he slapped it over his shoulder, watching Clay belly up to the bar. Declan took his order for Killian’s in a bottle. But Rogan overrode the call, tapping his brother on the back.
“Let me get this one.”
Declan cast a long glance over his shoulder. “Isn’t that Tate’s new man?”
“I believe he�
�s applied for the position.” Rogan poured a shot of whiskey, then dropped the glass in the middle of a highball, filling it with Guinness from the tap.
“You plan on blowing him up?” Declan motioned toward the Irish Car Bomb Rogan had prepared.
“Testing his mettle,” Rogan clarified, smirking into identical blue eyes. “As should be expected of any man who wants a piece of this family.”
Declan tipped his head toward Copeland. “And why might you be thinking he wants a piece of this family, might I ask?”
Rogan inspected the drink, satisfied with its contents. “He got all proprietary this morning, not only with Tate, but with Max. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so… refreshing. None of the losers Tate’s dated before have been man enough to take on the kid.” It was a sore point, as Rogan was devoted to them both. “This guy looked able, and willing.”
Declan’s brow shot skyward. “Yet here he sits, drinking alone.”
“He and Tate were working on some kind of FBI thing today – missing girl, I think, but I didn’t get the whole story. But I suspect that hang-dog expression has as much to do with our fair cousin as it does with his sucky job.”
“Well, whatever. But just to clarify, I thought FBI was here for a limited time frame.”
“Yeah. Tate said he was out of here at the end of the week.”
“And so you’re fretting about this because…?”
“I don’t fret,” Rogan protested. “I may, occasionally, express reservations, but I don’t fret. That’s physiologically impossible for a man.”
Dec snorted. His brother, who could care less what their friends and relatives did in their private lives, claimed Rogan had the tendency to channel the Love Boat’s Captain Steubing.
And Tate was his little Vicky.
“Have at it.” Declan shrugged, moving off toward the opposite end of the bar. He sang low under his breath as he walked by, just loud enough for his brother to hear him.
“Set a course for adventure, your mind on a new romance –”
Rogan sent a well-placed elbow to Declan’s ribs. Then he snagged Copeland’s drink from the bar.
THE glass that was placed in front of him definitely contained alcohol, but it sure as hell wasn’t what he’d ordered. Clay lifted his head from the hand he’d dropped it into to find Rogan Murphy staring back at him.
Perfect.
Exactly who he wanted to see. Maybe he should just call Josh Harding over, too, so that he could make this night a total suck-fest. They could play The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, challenge each other to a couple of duels. Or maybe Murphy could simply mediate while he and Harding shot each other, since his interest in Tate was platonic and the guy didn’t carry a gun.
“What’s this?” He was annoyed by the sullen tone of voice, but couldn’t find pleasant in his current repertoire.
“Irish cure-all.” Murphy nodded at the glass. “Looks like you could use one.”
Clay studied the drink, studied the man. Tate’s cousin had his hair tied back in a tail, and he’d decided to put on a shirt. Irritation spurted. Clay decided it had been a colossally poor decision to patronize this particular establishment.
Dozens of bars, he mused, sliding his hand toward the drink. And he plants his butt in the middle of the Irish Inquisition.
“Is this some sort of test, Murphy?”
Rogan offered a smile that was little more than a show of teeth. “I don’t know, Agent Copeland. Should it be?”
Absurd to have to prove a point this way, but Clay figured when in Rome. And so figuring, downed the elaborate concoction in one fell swoop.
He turned it over, empty, on the bar.
About to make a comment regarding pissing contests and the like, the fire of that combination roared through him. Tears welled, flames licked, and his stomach exploded into a ball of burning embers. “Holy shit,” he choked, relieved that his voice box hadn’t been cremated. “What are you trying to do, man? Kill me?”
Rogan slapped a companionable hand on Clay’s shoulder. “A moment or two of agony, and then you feel no pain.”
Clay wiped at the moisture leaking from his eyes. “Well, I haven’t quite reached the no pain part. Apparently that involves a side trip through Hell.”
Rogan reached down, chuckling, and slid Clay a bottle of Killian’s with practiced flourish. “So would you like to start a tab? Easier, all around, if you’re planning to stay awhile.”
Yet a little unsteady, Clay eyed the man to gauge his agenda. This was obviously a recon mission. Or maybe an all-out assault, complete with dirty bombs.
“I’d like to stay awhile.” There was a double meaning there, and from the look on the other man’s face, they both knew it. “But unfortunately my schedule doesn’t allow for indulging in more than a couple drinks.” And though his stomach rebelled, for principle’s sake, he lifted the beer to his mouth.
Flipping the towel off his shoulder, Rogan wiped the ring from the bar. “It’s always been my philosophy that if you have no intention of getting sotted, you’re better off not visiting the bar.”
Tongue tucked firmly in his cheek, Clay contemplated the analogy. Decided Murphy’s position was admirable, in an utterly obnoxious way.
“You’re close to Tate?” he asked, simply cutting through the crap. They could dance around this issue for the next three hours, but Clay had left his blue suede shoes in the car.
“Very.” Murphy’s arms crossed. “Tate’s a sweetheart. The only time we’ve ever locked horns was over the situation with Max’s father. I wanted to kill him. The man was a piece of shit.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.” Clay tipped his bottle, pleased the contents went down easy. “And this is the part where you tell me that if I hurt her, you’ll have to kill me.”
“I wouldn’t have put it in so many words, because that might be construed as threatening a federal agent.”
Clay smiled. “So do you go through this little dog and pony show with everybody who takes Tate out?”
Murphy’s eyes went hard. “I saw how you were today, both of you, with each other. And the way Max went right to you, as well. Call it premature, but I’m good at reading situations. You’re either going to be very good, or very bad, for Tate. Now I figure which way that goes depends upon whether or not you’re a total asshole. If you’re just hanging around her for kicks – a little side note to your vacation – then you make real sure you’re clear about that up front. What she does with that is up to her, but at least she’ll know where she stands. Goes the way you want it, you make damn sure your protection’s reliable.”
Clay almost choked on his beer. “You’re kidding me, right? Because I’m pretty sure I’m older than you. That makes it biologically impossible for you to be my dad.”
Rogan’s glare only hardened.
Raising a conciliatory hand, Clay shook his head over the absurdity of the conversation. “Look, Fido. There’s no need to bare the teeth. I appreciate the fact that you’re trying to look out for Tate in a way that you weren’t able to five years ago, but this is getting out of hand. Your cousin is… great, okay? I really, really like her. And I like the kid almost as much as I like his mom. But bottom lining it for you, man, I’m out of here in a few more days. And I have no intention of needing protection, reliable or otherwise.”
“So you’re not interested in her sexually?”
Jeez. Who was this guy, the procreation police? “I’m not dead, Murphy. Nor am I a saint. I am however, a good little Boy Scout. Tonight I’m working on my Leaving the Incredibly Hot Woman Alone Even Though I Really Want To Do Her merit badge. So bring me another beer and then shut the fuck up.”
Thoughtful now, Rogan sucked a hollow into his cheek. “You’re here because you’re trying to keep your hands off Tate?”
“Ding, ding, ding! Give the man a bone. Apparently, you’re the type that learns through repetition.”
“You know, if you were really trying to stay away from Tate,
you might have decided to tie one on in a bar that wasn’t next door. Did you plan to get so drunk you couldn’t drive, maybe take a room at the B&B? You’re either stupid, or in complete and total denial.”
Clay blinked, and then sighed in disgust.
“You’re right, you know. I am stupid. In denial. And I apologize for coming into your bar and fouling up the air with my load of crap. It’s been… a rough couple of weeks. Not that that’s a justification. But you know, human nature dictates I have a ready excuse for my shitty behavior.”
Rogan smiled. “Any of that crap you want to shovel out? Maybe clear the air a bit?”
“Bar psychology 101? I appreciate it, but…no. I’ll just finish my beer and be on my merry way. There’s a parade I need to rain on before I go home.”
This time Rogan laughed. “Why don’t you stay and have another drink,” he suggested. “This one’s on me. Have you had dinner yet? No? Well, I’ll serve you right here at the bar. And leave it to me to see you get where you should be going at the end of the night.”
Clay leaned back, considered, and figured what the hell.
Tate’s guard dog surely wouldn’t let him get near her.
TATE took a towel to her hair, grateful to have washed away the last vestiges of the day’s filth. She’d soaped up twice because every time she closed her eyes she kept picturing that wooded gravesite.
The girl hadn’t been Casey. Thank God, it hadn’t been Casey. But it had been somebody – somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister… somebody.
And a monster had taken her away.
Clay had been pretty closemouthed about what was happening, and he made sure she was far enough away that she hadn’t seen more than the cloud of flies. But that had been enough.
And the smell…
Even from a distance, it had been overwhelming.
How on earth did Clay do that sort of thing day in, day out? No wonder he was here, trying to pretend his real life didn’t exist. What a depressing reality it was.
The Southern Comfort Series Box Set Page 42