The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  His hand slid up her back, unhooking her bra as it went, slipping into her hair to cup her head, bring it up so that she faced him.

  His lips were wet, his hair tousled from her hands.

  “No,” he said, stilling her when she reached to slide the straps of her bra from her shoulders. “Let me. Let me take you, Kathleen.”

  The liquid heat that had her clenching her thighs surprised her. She wasn’t the type of woman who romanticized being swept away by a big, strong man.

  But this was Justin. And she sensed his request had little to do with dominance, with a need to take, and everything to do with his desire to give.

  Swamped by him, she allowed her hands to fall to her sides. Acquiescent.

  The quiet heat in his eyes leapt into flame.

  In a quick and careless show of strength, he came to his feet, sweeping her up in his arms. As his mouth fastened to hers, Kathleen thought: Okay. Maybe now she understood the appeal.

  Using his shoulder to nudge open the door to her bedroom, he then kicked it shut behind him, all the while feathering kisses over her face, her neck. His teeth nipped gently at her ear.

  He laid her on the bed and then stood beside it for a moment, looking. Just looking.

  “You are,” he murmured “the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  A flush colored her skin, surprise mingled with pleasure.

  One corner of his mouth lifted in the barest of smiles before he grasped the waistband of her pants, slid them down her legs. Kathleen felt like she should be doing something, saying something – some sort of wisecrack to break the spell that he was weaving around them. But the words stuck in her throat.

  He pulled off his own clothes – undoing buttons, lowering zippers – efficiently but without haste. It was as if time had slowed, become liquid so that it ebbed and flowed as lazily as a summer stream.

  He was beautiful, too, but she didn’t know how to tell him without sounding like an idiot. Kathleen felt like a blushing virgin, and that appalled her so much that she almost demanded they start over. Keep this casual and fun, the way it started that morning.

  When he joined her on the bed, his eyes said all the things her mouth held silent.

  This was more than casual.

  More than fun.

  As those eyes dreamed into hers, so full of tender warmth, of heated promise, Kathleen felt herself fall.

  He entered her then, a long, slow slide that left her gasping. “Don’t close your eyes,” he whispered in her ear, and Kathleen pried them back open, though her lids felt weighted as if by lead.

  The intimacy, the connection was almost more than she could bear.

  His mouth covered hers, tenderly coaxing, and her breath began to come in short spurts. The air around them heated, adding a subtle sheen to their skin. Rhythm quickened, need rising until she felt coiled, spring-tight.

  “Let go,” he urged, riding her as the tension finally broke.

  It wasn’t until she lay spent, limp as a noodle beneath him that he allowed himself his own release.

  She had no words. Before, they’d seemed to stick in her throat. Now, it was as if her mind had simply been wiped clean.

  Justin kissed her – softly, tenderly – before lowering himself onto his side, and gathering her against him. The tenderness, more so than any passionate encounter she’d ever shared – left her feeling bruised.

  They lay, quiet and for her at least, overwhelmed, until Justin leaned up on his elbow.

  “It’s snowing.” His tone held surprise, and Kathleen pushed herself up to look out the window.

  “Well, what do you know. I didn’t think we’d actually get any.”

  Although really, it wasn’t much more than a scattering of flurries that had little chance of sticking to the ground.

  He pressed a kiss to her shoulder as they sat, snuggled warm in their nest, and watched the tiny flakes drift past the window. Kathleen wasn’t quite as given to hyperbole as Sadie, but she had to admit it was sort of nice.

  “All we need is a fire,” she said.

  “Mmmm. That would be cozy,” he agreed, sliding his hand over her hip. “I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, because you know some fool will find a way to grievously injure himself because of it, but I can’t help it. It’s like an unexpected gift.”

  An unexpected gift.

  As she settled back against him, Kathleen could only think that that made two of them in one night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JUSTIN grunted as the sound of a phone vibrating pierced his consciousness. He shifted, brushing up against warm, soft woman, temporarily forgetting the phone until it started vibrating again.

  He wanted to pull the warm, soft woman closer, but figured it was a bad idea, because the vibrating phone likely meant that one of them would shortly be leaving. “Mine or yours?” he finally asked.

  Issuing her own grunt, Kathleen pushed back the covers and leaned over to examine the phones which sat side by side on the nightstand.

  “Mine.” She yawned, then checked the incoming text. “Crap.”

  Justin looked at the clock, saw that it was still shy of five a.m. “I take it you have to go to work.”

  “Sadly.” Pushing her tangled hair from her face, she turned sleepy eyes on him. “I’m just going to take a quick shower. Why don’t you go back to sleep.”

  It was tempting, but he suspected he’d be unable to. Especially when his stomach rumbled.

  “Actually, do you mind if I make some toast or something? I seem to have missed dinner.”

  A feline smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “If you’ll recall, I tried to feed you earlier in the evening.”

  “I got distracted.”

  And remembering the nature of that distraction tempted him to get distracted again.

  But Kathleen had to get ready. And he really was hungry.

  “Why don’t you get your shower,” he suggested “before I start nibbling on something close by.”

  When he lifted his hand, wrapped his fingers around her breast, Kathleen laughed and slapped his hand away. “Control yourself,” she told him, heading for the bathroom door.

  Justin sighed as it closed behind her. When it came to her that was easier said than done.

  Snagging his jeans from the floor, he hitched them on, padded toward the kitchen. The remains of the buffalo chicken dip still sat on the counter, wilted celery sticks strewn around it, and he frowned at it with distaste.

  Crossing to the fridge, he pulled open the door, and could only shake his head. If it weren’t for Murphy’s and various other takeout establishments, he was reasonably sure that Kathleen would starve to death.

  Pushing aside an assortment of foam cartons, he discovered a loaf of bread at the back of the fridge. And – would wonders never cease? – a container of all fruit jam and a jar of raw almond butter that had never been opened. Judging by the packaging, Justin suspected it had been part of a set given as a Christmas gift. Probably from Kathleen’s sister.

  Pleased with his find, Justin sat the sandwich makings on the counter next to the toaster. Sliding two pieces of bread into the slots, he glanced out the window while it was toasting.

  Surprise lifted his brow. The streets appeared clear, but a light dusting of snow had actually accumulated on roofs and walkways. If he turned on the TV, he was sure he’d find the meteorologists beside themselves. Not to mention that all of the schools would be closed for the day, so kids all over the city would soon be whooping with joy. For Charleston, this was the equivalent of a major weather event.

  Leaning closer to the glass, he checked Kathleen’s balcony and steps, concerned that they might be icy. If they were, they’d have to take the inside stairs and exit through the pharmacy.

  Frowning, Justin noticed some darker depressions in the faint accumulation of white. The light from the streetlamp didn’t fully reach this far, but he thought they looked like footprints.

  Grabbing his coat from
the back of the barstool where he’d tossed it last night, Justin pulled it on over his bare chest. Flicking on the outside light, he opened the door and stepped out.

  Footprints. Likely male, given the size. And, if he were to judge by the tread, they’d been made by an athletic shoe.

  Staying on the mat, because the overhang had kept it free of snow and his own feet were bare, Justin squatted down, examined them closer.

  “Hey,” Kathleen said, pulling the door open behind him. “Your toast is ready. You can play in the snow after you eat.”

  When she saw what he was looking at, she fell silent for a moment. “Looks like we had a visitor.”

  Under normal circumstances, evidence that someone had climbed her stairs, peered in her window, wouldn’t be that big of a deal. They were, after all, in the heart of the city, and a tourist city at that. People often wandered into places where they didn’t belong.

  But these weren’t normal circumstances.

  “Do you have your phone on you?” he asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Can you take some photos of these prints?”

  “I’m led to believe you have a specific reason for asking.”

  Justin stood, and faced her. “The night I had the breakin. When the shower curtain was destroyed?”

  “The fact that you have to distinguish which breakin you’re referring to is alarming, but okay. Go on.”

  Justin was uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t been as forthcoming as possible with Kathleen about his situation.

  But that was about to change.

  “There were footprints, that night. In the house, and in the garage. The ones in the house were sort of indistinct, because they’d been made mostly with water, but the one in the garage. Whoever was there kicked over a paint can as they were fleeing. The lid hadn’t been put back on tightly enough and some of it spilled. That footprint is still there.”

  He looked at the tracks under Kathleen’s window, and his eyes when he met hers were grim. “I can’t be one hundred percent certain without a direct visual comparison. But unless I’m mistaken, those shoe treads are the same.”

  KATHLEEN pulled her scarf more tightly against her neck as she walked toward the apartment building in the pre-dawn chill. A near-pristine layer of snow dusted the sidewalk and the cars parked along the street, except where one smartass had written: SORRY ABOUT MY DANDRUFF – GOD on the windshield of a SUV.

  But as she drew closer, blue and red flashing lights lent a carnival atmosphere, transforming the blanket of white into something lurid and artificial – like a snow cone from Hell – as it was crushed underfoot.

  Humans, she thought, had a special gift for tainting whatever was good and pure.

  She stopped for a moment, concerned about her maudlin state of mind. Not that she was ever cheerful about attending a crime scene. But she’d learned how to keep perspective. If she hadn’t, she’d have been crushed by the weight of despair long ago.

  It was this thing with Justin, she was forced to admit. Last night had been… okay, she hated to borrow Sadie’s word, but last night had been magical. It had been right, in a way she’d never experienced or even understood before.

  It had been lovemaking. And wow, was there a world of difference between lovemaking and sex.

  And it pissed her off that someone – and wasn’t that a mystery who? – had tarnished that experience with their intrusion.

  Right now, she had a job to do, but boy howdy, after she did that job, she and Justin were going to talk. Because there was something going on here that seemed to present a threat to them both.

  And that threat was untenable.

  Pushing her personal crisis aside, Kathleen entered the lobby of the building, and approached the uniform that was waiting. “Michaels,” she said in greeting. “What do we have?”

  “Third floor, first apartment to the right of the elevator. The, uh, people in the apartment below her called the super when water started to leak through the ceiling in their bedroom. The victim is in the tub, and the water wasn’t shut off all the way.”

  When he hesitated, Kathleen sensed there was more. “And?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “The scene is… odd.”

  “In what way?”

  He hesitated again. “I don’t want to influence your impression.”

  Curious. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Oh, Detective?” he added as she started to walk off. “Your partner just got here about five minutes ago.”

  Kathleen nodded, then headed toward the elevator. An odd scene. That could mean just about any damn thing.

  When the car arrived on the third floor, she had no problem locating the apartment. There was a veritable party happening in the hall.

  What had to be the downstairs neighbors were standing outside the door, wearing robes and pajamas, looking distraught while talking to another uniform. Kathleen indicated that she’d be back to talk to them later, and entered the apartment.

  The living area was large, comfortably and very femininely furnished, and open to the kitchen. Kathleen glanced around, saw the open bottle of wine on the counter. More than half of it was gone. Pulling on gloves, she checked the sink for glasses, found it empty and scrupulously clean. The dishwasher likewise, except for a single spoon.

  In the trash was an empty quart of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, a number of used tissues – some smeared with what appeared to be mascara. There was also an assortment of gift bags. Hot pink. The tag indicated it was from someone named Cynthia. Something in sparkly red had been a present from Julie. The last one was a tall, thin silver bag with glittery tissue paper. Kathleen pulled it out, but the attached tag appeared to have been ripped off. Only one tiny corner of it remained.

  A pity party for one, Kathleen thought, but the presence of the gift bags and the tidiness of the kitchen gave her pause. Literally nothing was out of place. Extremely despondent people often didn’t have the energy or the motivation to scrub their living area to a shine. But the occupant could have a cleaning service, could have been OCD.

  Could have been expecting someone. The people who brought her the presents? Then why had she been eating ice cream, by all appearances, alone?

  She left the bags for the crime scene techs, who should be arriving any moment. They’d take the entire bag of trash to the lab after they’d dusted for prints.

  Cursory examination complete, Kathleen called out to Mac.

  “Back here.”

  She followed the sound of his deep voice into the bedroom. He was talking to another man, short and stocky, who was mopping at his face with a handkerchief.

  “John Koch. He’s the superintendent of the building,” Mac explained. “My partner, Detective Murphy.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the man said, the pleasantries automatic. From his greenish pallor and shaking hands, Kathleen surmised that he’d rather be just about anywhere, doing anything else. “I was just telling the detective here that the only things I touched were the doorknobs. When I let myself in, and the bathroom there. The door was shut when I came in. I knocked, but didn’t get any answer, and I could hear the water. Not running full blast, but trickling out. Like it hadn’t quite been shut off all the way. I opened the door, and it came flooding out. It overflowed the tub, and was mostly going down the vent, which is how it started leaking through to the apartment below, but some of it was standing, trapped-like, on the floor, and when I opened the door, it came on out and soaked into the carpet. Got my shoes wet. Then of course, I had to walk through it to turn the faucet off. But I didn’t… I didn’t touch… her. I’m sorry.”

  With a trembling hand, he lifted his handkerchief to his mouth. “It’s just that that’s my first dead body. Me, my age, and all the years I’ve worked here, never had anything like this. She was a pretty lady. And young, yet. Such a shame.”

  Because the old man seemed to be finished babbling – not an uncommon reaction – for the moment, Mac gestured with his hea
d, indicating that Kathleen should check out the bathroom.

  “I’m going to take Mr. Koch out, get his prints. So that we can distinguish them from any other prints we might find,” he told the man when he grew visibly alarmed.

  “Oh. Sure, sure,” he said, and let Mac escort him out.

  Frowning at the water that squished out of the carpet to soak her shoes, Kathleen walked gingerly into the bathroom. It matched the bedroom, which, she’d noted as Mr. Koch had been spilling his guts, was even more feminine than the living room. Lots of flowery fabrics and what Kathleen thought of as little-girl lace on the neatly made bed. Not her cup of tea, but then she didn’t have to live here.

  An assortment of jars and powders and brushes and other tools of the feminine trade were arranged on the double vanity in decorative little clusters, along with a delicate glass bowl of potpourri and a jar candle that was surely responsible for the hint of vanilla in the air.

  Kathleen touched it with a gloved finger. The glass was still warm.

  But it was the I’M SORRY; SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SUCH A BITCH, written in what appeared to be red lipstick, that really drew the eye.

  Kathleen looked up, frowning at her own reflection, which was obscured by the message. It was separated into two lines, the I’m sorry considerably larger than the rest of the oddly phrased sentence beneath it. The first person pronoun suggested that it had been written by the deceased, but she found it a rather strange suicide note – if indeed that was how it was intended.

  Generally, people that took their own lives pointed an accusing finger at whatever or whomever they deemed had done them so wrong that suicide was the only resort. Those that did ask for forgiveness tended to do so in such a way that it absolved them of blame. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t take it anymore.

  She’d never seen anyone, pushed to that emotional point of no return, deride themselves in such a manner. It made for a pretty negative epitaph.

  If she had to guess, she’d wager that’s what Michaels had been referring to when he described the scene as odd.

  Turning, Kathleen squished along the tile – also scrupulously clean, although that could have been due to the fact that it had recently been standing with water – and approached the tub.