Forbidden (Southern Comfort) Read online

  Stepping quietly into the kitchen, Clay discovered it was pretty much more of what the house had offered from the front. At one time, a woman had lived here and left her mark.

  Unfortunately, that mark was singularly ugly.

  Taking in the lay of the land, Clay noted the slightly musty smell, the bumper crop of florals. He wandered into the living room, where the deep leather sofa, recliner and large screen plasma TV indicated the reassuring presence of a male.

  Clay followed the open doorway off to the right in hopes that it led to a bed.

  He encountered a linen closet, a room which housed some exercise equipment, a surprisingly updated bathroom – Justin had obviously gotten started on at least some of the home improvements – and a closed door which boasted a piece of paper attached to it with a strip of medical tape. A closer inspection revealed a scrawled message:

  I’ll eat the apple if you’ll stay away.

  It took Clay, in his sleep deprived state, a moment to make the connection. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” He grinned, suppressing the urge to barge into Justin’s room, just on principal. But he was too tired to mess with his friend. There’d be plenty of time for that later.

  By process of elimination, Clay determined that the door which faced the opposite direction from Justin’s must be the guest room. The wide plank floors had been refinished, the king bed attractively adorned with a simple blue quilt. Tasteful lamps topped washed pine nightstands, and white sailboats crossed a decorative pillow’s calm sea.

  Clearly, Mrs. Wellington had already paid a visit.

  Exhausted, Clay tossed his bag in a chair, toed off his sneakers, and didn’t even bother to pull the covers back before he collapsed on the bed.

  The smell of coffee drew him from sleep like a penitent to a revival. From the level of daylight seeping through the wood blinds he guessed it was sometime around noon. A glance at his watch confirmed he’d slept for four and a half hours without moving.

  And without dreaming of dead little boys.

  Shaking off that thought along with sleep’s vestiges, he swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. Despite the fact that he and caffeine had an uncertain relationship lately, he couldn’t deny the allure. Seeing as this was now vacation coffee as opposed to work coffee, maybe he’d have better luck.

  He shuffled toward the kitchen.

  A skivvy-clad Justin was hovering over the coffee pot, dark head resting on the nearest cabinet. Clay thought of several cruel and immature ways to gain his attention, but hell, he was crashing at the man’s house for the week, so common courtesy prevailed. “Hey,” he drawled by way of greeting.

  “Ah! Damn.” Justin cracked his head against the cabinet before turning bleary gray eyes on his friend. “God, Clay, you scared the piss out of me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Obviously. Nice reflexes there, son. An efficient burglar could have waltzed in and out of here and you wouldn’t have had a clue.”

  Justin’s shrug was tired, or maybe just indifferent. “Other than the TV, I can’t imagine what any self-respecting thief would want.” Moving to take two chipped but functional mugs down from the cabinet, he proceeded to fill the first with coffee. “Aside from that, I’m six-three, one-ninety, and I grew up with four brothers. Self-defense wasn’t a class in my house; it was how you survived until puberty.”

  Clay chuckled, accepting the steaming mug. He’d gone through Quantico with Justin’s brother Jesse, so knew whereof the other man spoke. “You can rest assured that you won’t be hearing any personal safety lectures from me this week.” He took a sip of the rich dark brew while Justin poured his own. “I’m just here for sun, surf and loose women.”

  Justin grinned and motioned Clay toward the table, unconcerned about the fact that he was entertaining in his underwear. “I wish I could help you out there, but I’ve been pretty well out of circulation for the past… God.” He scratched his head. “I don’t even want to think about how long. My little black book probably has moths.”

  “Now that’s just sad.”

  “Tell me about it.” Justin took a bolstering sip of coffee. “What about you? I understand you’ve been pretty busy as well.”

  “An unfortunate guarantee that comes with the job.” There never seemed to be a shortage of evil.

  Despite all his talk, the pain of the past week was still fresh. As a member of the Bureau’s Investigative Support Unit, he saw the very worst of human behavior, though for the most part, the victims he dealt with were beyond help. The best he could do was help overburdened law enforcement officials narrow in on the offender by understanding the behavior.

  Until last week. When the suspect to which Clay helped lead Topeka officials took his own family hostage. Clay’d been thrown into the role of negotiator, and even as he’d tried to talk the desperate man down, the man turned the gun on his wife and his son.

  A day hadn’t gone by that Clay hadn’t heard that little boy scream.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Justin said. “I know it’s not easy.”

  “No, it’s not.” As a trauma surgeon, Justin had almost certainly learned that loss was an unavoidable part of his work. Funny that he, with all of his psychological training, was having such a hard time accepting that. “But anyway, that’s the end of the shop talk. So what’s on your agenda? I want to make sure to stay out of your way. Just direct me to the beach and a couple of restaurants and pretend I’m not here.”

  “Actually, barring an unforeseen emergency, I have the rest of the day off. We can slap a couple of sandwiches together, head to the beach if you want.”

  “Sounds good.” Clay drained his coffee, felt the familiar kick. Things were starting to feel right with his world. “Let me grab my trunks, and I’ll help you with the sandwiches.”

  After lunch they threw a couple of towels over their shoulders and waded through air thick and sweet as molasses. “God, I’ve missed this.” Clay dropped down onto his towel, adjusting his shades as Justin stretched out beside him. Waves rolled in, a reassuring rhythm that dulled the senses and lulled the mind.

  Casting his gaze down the crowded beach, Clay automatically noted the various activities going on around him. Numerous sandcastles were being alternately constructed or destroyed, a wicked Frisbee toss took center stage in the open area off to his left, and a large man in an inadvisably small swimsuit read a novel under cover of a striped umbrella. He tried not to survey the crowd in anything but the most casual manner, but given his occupation, his natural inclination was to look for signs of trouble or otherwise worrisome behavior. Those little unconscious quirks that gave people away.

  Don’t think like a federal agent.

  As much as he disliked the notion of hearing voices, he didn’t try to push his boss’s advice out of his head. He wasn’t here to profile the populace, or look for the socially deviant. He was Clay Copeland, beach bum, and he was here to have a good time.

  He was perfectly content to just lie on his towel and do nothing. Maybe take a dip. There was nothing like fresh air and sunshine to…

  “Joseph, Mary and all the saints.”

  Behind his sunglasses, Justin popped open one sleepy eye. “Problem?”

  “None that I can see.”

  Justin leaned up on one elbow to follow the direction of Clay’s gaze. “Nice,” he agreed after a moment’s observation.

  The woman’s black hair formed an artless jumble atop her head, putting the curve of neck and shoulders on tantalizing display. Shapely legs ran up to… well, damn near to her earlobes. And her elegant hands smoothed sunscreen over skin delicate as fresh cream. He could only wonder if the front view was as impressive as the back.

  Both his and Justin’s indrawn breaths when she turned seemed to lay that question to rest.

  “She just undid the straps to her top,” Clay felt the need to point out. Of course, unless Justin had recently gone blind, he’d already picked that up.

  “Very nice,” Jus
tin amended his earlier observation. “Though with skin like that she should probably consider wearing a swimsuit with better coverage.”

  Clay turned, very slowly, to look at his friend with disbelief.

  Justin blinked. “I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth. I’ve been spending way too much time in the OR.”

  Clay’s shoulders heaved with amusement. “We need to find you a woman, son, before you forget how to get one horizontal without the benefit of sedation.”

  Justin looked toward the woman in the yellow bikini, but was very abruptly cut off.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Clay’s words weren’t harsh, but there was an edge to them all the same. He liked Justin, and he wouldn’t want to have to hurt him. “That one’s mine. I feel for your situation, man, but I’m not stupid.”

  Adjusting his sunglasses, he heaved himself off his towel.

  TATE Hennessey rubbed sunscreen into her calves, wishing the faint dusting of freckles over her skin would just darken and run together. Better than looking like some kind of deep sea dweller that had just recently ventured out of its cave. She knew that baking herself on the beach like this was asking for trouble, but sometimes her milk maid coloring made her curse her Irish genes.

  Loosening the thick ties to her bikini top, she stretched out on her stomach, wincing when something bit into her side. Reaching beneath the towel, she pulled out a small metal dump truck. “Max,” she sighed, shaking her head as she pictured her imp of a five-year-old son. At least it hadn’t been a Lego. She’d stepped on enough of those to have permanent nerve damage in her feet.

  Not that she was complaining, Tate mused as she closed her eyes. Max was her world, even if being a single parent had its drawbacks. Sure, her family was always there for her, and bless them for it. But it just wasn’t the same as having a mate to share the responsibility.

  Someone to help her decide whether time-out or withholding privileges was the most effective strategy for dealing with tantrums. Someone to explain to Max why it really is important to aim his urine stream toward the toilet, instead of trying to write his name on the wall. Someone to whisper into her ear at night that she is raising a beautiful and well-adjusted child. Someone who would then whisper other things in her ear, and then rub…

  “Oh!” The pressure on her back had Tate’s eyes popping open. Either her always vivid imagination was really getting away from her, or there was a flesh and blood man with his hand on her back.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You missed a spot.”

  The man’s eyes were hidden behind dark shades, but the rest of him was clearly visible. From his short, streaky blond hair to his long, muscular legs. And just enough red tinting his broad shoulders to suggest that this was his first day at the beach. A tourist, she concluded. Looking to score.

  And his hand was hovering dangerously close to her ass.

  Whipping herself over, Tate swatted at the offending appendage. “Do I look that gullible, Mister …”

  “Copeland.” He smiled, to devastating effect. “Clay Copeland. And what you look like is a bad case of sunburn waiting to happen.” Hoisting the bottle of sunscreen she’d tossed aside so recently, he waggled it around. “It’s kind of tough to spread this stuff on your own back. I’d be happy to help you with it. With skin as beautiful as yours, I’d sure hate to see you get burned.”

  Tate could hear the gears of seduction working like a finely-tuned machine. Five years ago, she might have been impressed.

  Come to think of it, five years ago she had been impressed, and that’s how she’d ended up with Max.

  She retrieved the bottle of sunscreen. “I’ll just lie on my back, thank you, and that should take care of the problem.”

  “You lying on your back might take care of both of our problems,” he murmured.

  Tate’s mouth formed a little “O” of surprise. “I don’t know who you think you are –”

  “Clay Copeland. I thought we’d already established that. However, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name. Ms…?”

  “Hennessey,” she contributed, before she could stop herself. “Tate Hennessey.”

  “Lovely name, Tate Hennessey.” He tested it on his tongue, like fine wine. “It fits you.”

  Tate snorted and sat up, spreading one hand over the straps of her top and raising the other like a stop sign. “Are you here on vacation?”

  “I am.”

  “Then let me save you some time. You’ll have better luck with your spiel somewhere else.”

  Clay settled himself on the edge of her blanket, propping one leg to support his arm. “Why?”

  Good lord. He looked like a page from a beefcake calendar. All that was missing was a tool belt, or perhaps a strategically placed fire hose…

  Tate jerked her eyes up to meet his expectant expression. “Because while there are many things for tourists to do in Charleston, I’m afraid I’m not one of them.”

  He grinned, clearly more entertained than offended.

  “I’ll be sure to mention to my buddy that he better take you off the brochure.” He motioned over his shoulder toward a very large dark-haired man who looked suspiciously like he’d passed out. They were probably a couple of drunks. She leaned a little closer to the man sitting beside her, detecting the salty sting of sweat, the unique muskiness that was man. But nothing that gave any indication that he’d been drinking.

  He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Do local men smell different?”

  “What?”

  “You’ll have to forgive me; I was unaware of my pervasive ‘tourist’ B.O. If you’d like, I can head back, take a shower before I ask you out.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she demurred automatically, wondering how this conversation had gotten so far off track.

  “Great, Tate Hennessey, since you’re apparently” – he leaned in and sniffed – “a local, I’ll let you choose the spot. I’d be happy to pick you up at let’s say... seven.” He consulted his watch. “Unless you’d be more comfortable meeting me. For a first date, that’s really the best idea.”

  Tate blinked twice, not quite believing her own ears. Had she inadvertently agreed to go out with him?

  She did a quick mental replay of the conversation, only to reaffirm that she’d made it perfectly clear she wasn’t interested in accepting the offer which he hadn’t actually put forth.

  “Okay.” She began to raise her hands in a gesture of dismissal, quickly aborted when her top started to slip. In a burst of impatience, she tied the straps together, leaving him looking disappointed. “I’ll give you points for being persistent, but that doesn’t change my answer. Now, why don’t you go bother that woman over there?” She pointed to an attractive blonde in a ridiculously small bikini.

  “Not interested.”

  Right. “You didn’t even look –”

  “Busty blonde, a little on the short side, almost wearing three black scraps of fabric. Looks like she’s waiting for the sun to come down and personally gild her ass.”

  Tate smothered a burst of laughter. It was a very accurate depiction. “How did you know who I was talking about? You didn’t turn around.”

  Clay shrugged. “I’m observant.”

  Her eyebrow arched in challenge. “Okay, Mr. Observant. Tell me about the sunbather lying next to her.” She wanted to see if his powers of observation extended to anyone other than the attractive females littering the beach.

  He rolled his shoulders, loosening himself up to meet the challenge. “Well now, Tate. I do believe you’re trying to throw me off. Because calling that man under the umbrella a sunbather is something of a misnomer. Since his skin is the approximate color of a fish’s underbelly, I doubt very seriously he’s trying to catch some rays. Unlike you, he’s probably comfortable with his complexion and doesn’t want to ruin it.”

  Tate drew back, unsettled by his perception. “What makes you think I’m uncomfortable with my complexion?”


  He gestured to her bottle of SPF 4. “You’re out during the hottest part of the day, with insufficient protection. In this day and age, everybody knows about skin cancer and premature aging, and you strike me as an intelligent woman. So what is an intelligent, fair-skinned woman doing lying in the afternoon sun with a lotion that does little more than lessen the severity of the burn? She’s asking for the burn, because she knows that with her coloring, it’s the quickest way to achieve the sought-after tan. Of course, she’ll probably just end up peeling anyway, but she’s young, and that’s a risk she’s willing to take.”

  Tate gasped, finding that more than a little bit creepy. It was like he’d sucked the thoughts right out of her head. “What are you, some kind of mind reader?”

  Clay smiled, looking rueful. “No, I’m actually… a psychologist. Behavior patterns and what they specify about the individual is sort of my specialty.”

  “So you’re a therapist?”

  “Not exactly,” he hedged. “I have a PhD, yes, but I’m not in practice.”

  Tate tried to assimilate this new information. Okay, so the man wasn’t a drunk, and he apparently had an education. But a couple of initials before or after his name didn’t mean he was a swell guy. He was still forward, and blatantly suggestive, and more than a little cocky.

  She narrowed her eyes. “So what’s my behavioral pattern telling you now?”

  “It’s difficult to say. Maybe if you loosened the straps to your top again, I could get a better reading.”

  Despite herself, Tate laughed, because it was clear he didn’t take himself too seriously. Shifting her weight back onto her hands, she studied the almost ridiculously sexy psychologist. He possessed the kind of humor and self-deprecation that transformed bravado into lethal charm. But since he was here for only a short while and she had more than her hormones to consider, she decided that she’d have to pass. “Although I can’t say I’m not intrigued, I’m afraid I can’t go out with you, Dr. Copeland.”

  “Clay,” he corrected. “And why is that?”

  “Well, for one thing, I have to work.”

  “Okay. Then how about I –”