The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  Even as she was still trembling with little shocks, he lifted her, manipulating her clothing and his so that they were disheveled enough to allow for joining. Then he pushed inside her, a smooth, firm thrust that buried him to the hilt.

  “Kathleen.” Her name escaped his lips on a little groan. Then he began to move, quick and as deep as their confined quarters would allow. The fingers of one hand dug into her hips, while he yanked her head up with the other. Looking into his eyes, she was surprised to find herself spiraling closer again.

  The need – desperate and raw and unguarded – that shone there, made her feel as if she were riding a wave that was swelling beyond her control.

  When it broke, they both went tumbling into the shore.

  For long moments they simply sat there, winded and spent. One of Justin’s hands stretched up to stroke down her back.

  “I’m not going to apologize,” he finally said.

  “Who asked you to?”

  Though she did uncouple from him and began trying to put herself back together. “Rough couple days?” she guessed.

  He grunted. “You could say that. I feel… responsible.”

  He would. Because he was the type to accept responsibility, whether it was his to accept or not.

  “I’ll have some answers for you soon. But Justin.” She waited until he looked at her. “Individuals make their own choices. Whatever those choices, the ultimate responsibility rests with them.”

  “Yeah.” But he didn’t sound convinced. “I know.”

  “Um, not to change the subject but… you don’t happen to have any tissues, do you?”

  Justin frowned, then sat up a little straighter. “Shit, I’m sorry. This is James’ truck, so I don’t know. Let me look.” He rifled through various compartments. “I guess I’m apologizing after all.”

  Coming up empty-handed, he reached into the backseat, pulled up his coat. “There might be one in my pocket.” The outer ones were empty, but when he reached into the inner one, he pulled out a scrap of bright blue lace.

  “Well, at least you’re color coordinated,” Kathleen said after a moment, indicating the blue of Justin’s scrubs. “Though I’d think that lace would be itchy for a man.”

  Justin stared at the underwear as though it were an alien species. “What the hell?”

  “Good question.”

  “Kathleen,” he said, as he registered the expression on her face. “These aren’t mine.”

  “I didn’t actually think they were.”

  “What I meant,” he said as he dropped them onto the seat between them, frowning “is that I don’t know how they got there. Or whose they are.”

  “Maybe you could ask the brunette from the coffee shop.”

  He looked at her, his expression blank. “What?”

  Tamping down the jealousy that wanted to rise, Kathleen forced herself to draw a breath. “It’s nothing,” she finally said. “Just… two of the nurses I interviewed. Mandy’s friends. They said they’d seen you having… coffee. With someone. With whom you were quite friendly.”

  Brow beetled, Justin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. After a moment or two of looking like a large mouth bass, his face finally cleared.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, shaking his head. “After the past couple days I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by the lengths those two minions will go to in order to make me look bad, but…” He shook his head again. “I ran into Anne Griffin – Natasha’s sister – at The Grind. She was upset. About her sister. She cried on me for a couple of minutes. I guess they had me, what, dry humping her in the corner because I’m such a dog?”

  “Well,” Kathleen said after a moment. “Maybe not quite that bad.”

  “And you believed them?”

  “No.” On this point, Kathleen was sure. “I was irritated, but… Justin.” She tilted her head. “I know you. In fact, I was just thinking about this right before you kidnapped me.” Her lips twitched. “And kidnapping notwithstanding, you are probably the most… scrupulous,” she decided “man that I know. Integrity, loyalty – they are as much a part of your genetic code as dark hair and gray eyes. So, while I was irritated that some woman was no doubt coming onto you, I wasn’t worried about your response.” She reached for his hand. “I trust you.” Then she swallowed, and decided that now was as good a time as any. “I love you.”

  His head whipped up at that.

  “Really?” he said, searching her eyes.

  “Really.”

  A slow grin took over his face. “Good. Because it just so happens that I love you, too. I have… forever, it seems.” He raised their joined hands and kissed hers. “And I have no intention of doing anything to mess that up.”

  A little lump formed in her throat, but her own grin answered his. “Except maybe get yourself tossed in jail for kidnapping a cop.”

  “Well,” he agreed after a moment. “There is that. Although I would absolutely do it again.”

  “Premeditation,” she murmured. “That’ll get you a stiffer sentence.”

  “It’s already getting pretty stiff.”

  Kathleen laughed, and pushed against his chest before he could act on the intent she saw in his eyes. “We are not having sex again in this alley. I can’t believe I let you get away with it the first time. As I keep reminding you, I’m an officer of the law. I have standards to uphold.”

  Then she caught sight of the scrap of blue lace.

  Justin followed her gaze, and frowned. “I seriously have no idea how those got there. Maybe… hell, I don’t know. Maybe James borrowed my coat when he went to the bar last night. He, uh, tends to be a little less, uh, scrupulous than I am.”

  “A dog, huh?” Although she could have guessed that from the time she’d spent with him. The man was too damn charming – and too good looking – for his own good.

  But something about the blue lace panties – at least that’s what she thought they were, though there seemed to be some pertinent parts missing – tugged at her memory.

  “What?”

  Kathleen shook her head. “It’s nothing. These just look familiar for some reason.”

  Justin carefully held them up between the tips of two fingers, saw that they were crotchless.

  He looked at her with a single arched brow. “Do you have some like this?”

  She laughed. “No. The stockings were about as risqué as my lingerie gets.”

  “Would you like some?”

  “Those? Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  “Not these, dummy.” But he looked at them with interest. “Maybe some similar, though. In black.”

  “You like that idea, do you?” And for some reason, Kathleen didn’t find herself snorting in derision.

  “I like you in anything. Or out. But… yeah.”

  The interior of the SUV, which had rapidly cooled, started to get a little warmer.

  “Give me a couple days,” she said “to wrap everything up. Then we can… negotiate.”

  He stared at her, his gray eyes smoky hot. “Works for me.”

  Kathleen leaned forward and kissed him. It worked for her as well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  JAMES Wellington pulled the cap lower on his head as he eased around to the back of the apartment building. The ‘cougar’ who managed the place was out of town for the week – something about a sick mother in Florida – so James was forced to resort to Plan B.

  Joe Palmer, adulterer, possible accomplice to murder and all-around asshole, had at least been considerate enough to rent a unit on the ground floor. James figured there were all kinds of excuses – lost cat, for example – he could use for skulking around these patios, whereas if he’d had to climb a balcony, it would be a lot more difficult to explain away his presence.

  He bypassed the first two patios, which were empty except for some miscellaneous outdoor furniture, one covered charcoal grill, and on the second patio, a disturbing collection of garden gnomes.

  James
frowned, wondering who in their right mind sat small plaster bearded men in pointy hats around the edge of their patio like miniature sentries. He shook his head. Luckily the weather was still cold and damp, making bumping into anyone enjoying their view of the small, weedy patch of lawn and the adjoining neighborhood’s eight foot privacy fence unlikely.

  Anyone besides gnomes, that is.

  Locating the third unit, James paused, listening for any activity from within. Hearing no TV, no voices, he crept onto the square of concrete. The only light shining through the sliders – which were only partially covered by vertical blinds – seemed to come from the small bulb over the stove. Easing closer, he peered through the glass, noted the general disarray. Wherever Joe Palmer had gone, he’d apparently left in something of a hurry. Dirty dishes formed a crockery tower in the sink, a bottle of some kind of alcohol sat uncapped on the counter, its contents mostly consumed. The pages of a newspaper were spread on the table in front of the couch.

  Since Palmer clearly hadn’t bothered to clean up, James was hoping that the man had left at least a few articles of clothing behind. Like shoes. A pair of flip-flops would do. James just wanted to see what size the man wore, so that he could make a comparison.

  Reaching into his pocket, he extracted the lock pick he’d gotten from his brother Jack over a decade ago. James had been thirteen, and Jack – his eldest brother and the previously uncontested hellion of the family – was just embarking on his career as a criminal defense attorney. Jack, claiming that he recognized trouble when he saw it, since he had so much experience with it himself, had passed on the tool that had saved his ass on numerous occasions when he’d come home after curfew. The doors to the Wellington household had been locked at the appointed hour, and woe to the son who got caught on the other side of those doors come morning.

  Feeling sentimental, James kissed the little tool. They had a long history, he and the lock pick. Some would call it sordid, but James liked to think of it as character-building. After all, it was the foibles of youth that gave people wisdom in their old age.

  James expected to be up there with Confucius by the time he hit fifty.

  He looked through the glass, noted with satisfaction that there was no security bar – or broomstick handle – locked in the track. That meant it was just his tool against the lock. After examining it a moment, he carefully eased the pick into place, finagling it until he heard a soft snick.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing Wellington?”

  The sound of the harsh whisper behind him nearly sent James’ stomach crashing to his toes. He turned, flipping through his mental list of excuses like the song selections on a juke box, but when he recognized the owner of the voice, he frowned.

  “I could ask you the same thing, Corelli.”

  Head snapping back, the older man squinted into the shadows, then clicked on a pen light and shone it full in James’ face.

  “Do you mind?” James shielded his eyes.

  “You’re not Justin.”

  “Thank you for that newsflash.” The light clicked off, and James blinked to clear his vision of dancing gray dots, then turned a distrustful gaze on the private detective. Leaning over a little, he checked out the man’s shoes.

  “What?” Corelli said, following James’ gaze.

  He couldn’t be sure, but the man’s foot looked smaller than his own. “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “What size…” Corelli frowned at James. “Look, I don’t know what you’re up to here, but whatever it is, you need to exit the premises, pronto.”

  James considered. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  The other man stared at him for a few moments, and then finally shook his head. “Come on. You need to get out of here. Now.”

  When he moved closer, obviously intending to back up his suggestion with physical force, James lifted a hand. “Fair warning. My brother may be averse to hitting, but if you touch me, I’ll knock you flat.”

  A touch of amusement colored his tone. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “Well. Okay then.” The man lifted his hand, and James blocked it with his forearm, shifted his weight. But before James could make good on his promise, Corelli moved, his other hand striking out quick as a snake, and James found himself on his knees.

  “Je… sus,” he said, gasping, as the pain emanating from the grip the other man had on his shoulder made it nearly impossible for him to talk. “What… the hell.”

  “Pressure point,” Corelli said cheerfully, curling his fingers deeper behind James’ collar bone, causing tears to spring involuntarily to James’ eyes. “Now, when I let go, I want you to follow behind me. No questions. Just go where I go.”

  “Fuck… that.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll just leave you here so that you can explain to the cops – who are on their way – what exactly you’re doing breaking into Joe Palmer’s apartment.”

  “You called… the cops?”

  “No. That would be Mrs. Busby in 2A. The gnomes? She’s been keeping an eye out ever since the cops asked her about her neighbor, Mr. Palmer. According to the scanner, she’s pretty sure she saw him trying to sneak back into his apartment by the back door.”

  He released his grip, and stepped back. The pain ceased, and James blinked a few times to clear the moisture from his eyes.

  “Come on.”

  James climbed to his feet. Corelli was moving behind some bushes, headed toward the privacy fence.

  Let him go. Asshole.

  But then next door, James thought that he heard the slow squeal of a slider easing along the tracks. The gnome lady. His luck being what it was tonight, she probably had a gun.

  Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor in this case, James hustled after Corelli, found him standing on the other side of a hole in the fence. The man motioned with his head, and – silent – James followed him through a couple of back yards then into an alley where his SUV was parked.

  “Get in,” he said, and James hesitated. He heard the wail of sirens.

  Rolling his eyes, Corelli climbed into the driver’s side and started the engine. When he shifted into drive, James muttered “Screw it” and climbed in beside him.

  The other man drove sedately, turning off the police scanner in favor of the radio, which he cranked up. He turned onto the main street, singing along with The Doors as a patrol car sped toward them.

  When it passed, the man glanced in the rearview mirror, then made a couple of quick turns, until they ended up in the parking lot of a convenience store. Shutting off the engine – and Jim Morrison – he shifted his body toward James and said: “Talk.”

  James blinked. Reluctantly, he found himself impressed. “I thought you used to be a cop.”

  “I was.”

  “So why were you dodging them like that.”

  “Because I don’t feel like wasting the rest of my evening answering uncomfortable questions. Now.” He tilted his head. “What were you doing trying to break into Joe Palmer’s apartment?”

  James considered. He still wasn’t sure he trusted this man. “First, let me see your shoes.”

  “What is it with you and my footwear?” Blowing out a breath, he lifted one booted foot. “Here, knock yourself out.”

  James tilted his head. “What are you, about an eleven?”

  “Yes. Do you have a fetish? Or is this a quest of some sort, like searching for the six-fingered man? Should I call you Inigo Montoya?”

  James studied the night dark eyes of Kathleen Murphy’s ex-boyfriend. Other than a trace of exasperation, they appeared inscrutable. “People generally don’t get past my guard,” he said, still miffed that the man had been able to bring him – literally – to his knees.

  Corelli shrugged. “You’re a big guy, so you’re used to using your size to your advantage. I anticipated, and had to use my speed to mine.”

  “The pressure point thing. Is that martial arts?”

  “It�
�s called Dim Mak.”

  “Huh. My brother – not Justin, but the next oldest, Jordan. He’s a black belt. I guess I should have paid more attention when he tried to show me stuff. I was more interested in football.”

  “Like I said, you’re a big guy. Big guys often forget they’re not invincible. I was fairly small growing up – didn’t hit my growth spurt until I was about eighteen – so I had to learn how to take the big guys down before they could knock me flat. Came in handy when I was a cop. Now.” He glanced in the mirrors, seemed satisfied by what he saw, then turned back to James. “If we’re all done getting to know each other, how about you tell me what you’re up to.”

  After another moment’s consideration, James nodded. “Okay. I was trying to see if Joe Palmer left any shoes behind when he skipped town.”

  “Shoes again. What’s that all about?”

  Figuring at least the first bit was a matter of police record – which Anthony could probably find out – James told him about the breakin, the shower curtain, the shoeprint in the paint.

  Anthony scratched his chin. “What makes you think that Joe Palmer would want to break into your brother’s house?”

  “I don’t know. This is more of a process of elimination.” He hesitated, then figured he might as well mention the other. Corelli’s reaction might say a lot. “There were identical shoeprints – the same size, same tread – outside Kathleen’s apartment the other morning. In the snow beneath the window. Justin found them when he woke up.”

  Corelli’s hand stilled. Then he shot a sardonic look at James. “If you’re waiting for me to be shocked by the fact that Kathleen and your brother are having sleepovers, or to fly into a rage, you’ll be sitting there a long time. But now the interest in my shoe size begins to make sense.”

  “Justin stole your woman.”

  Corelli laughed. “Kathleen would love that particular description of events. Look.” He smiled, although it was more of a look of pity. “Kathleen is fantastic. I hold her dear to my heart. But if I had considered her my woman, rather than just a great woman with whom I happened to be involved, then your brother would be a smear on the pavement, as opposed to simply sporting a black eye. And I sure as hell wouldn’t sneak into his house and play mind games with him, or loiter on Kathleen’s doorstep in the freaking snow. Do I look like a pussy to you?”