Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (20 page)

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 close-mouthed 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.

Slipping into the nightgown blooming with daisies that Max had given her for Mother’s Day – along with a handmade card and a pretty rock – Tate flipped off the bathroom light and made her way into her bedroom.  Max and her mother were both long asleep, the last of their overnight guests checked in and settled.  But Tate was restless, edgy.

The air around her seemed expectant. Like the calm before a storm.

“Get a grip,” she told herself, rolling her eyes as she turned down the covers.  She’d become embroiled in a criminal investigation, all but witnessed the abduction of a young girl, and – ending a record drought – had met a man she liked well enough to take to bed.  A man who mere hours ago had given her an unqualified
no, thanks
.

Of course she was edgy.

But feeling the pinch of tension, she wandered down to check on Max.

So
innocent
, she thought, watching him sleep, purple bear tucked beneath one arm.  How could anyone ever look at a child, and want to strip that innocence away?  But she knew that there were those who did – she’d seen it firsthand.

She hated to think what that poor girl had gone through to wind up in a shallow grave in the woods.

And given that particular train of thought, jumped when she heard the doorbell.

Likely o
ne of Murphy’s patrons, she mused as she headed down the back stairs and through the kitchen.  She’d have to call a cab, because their guest rooms were totally booked.  

It was only when she had her hand on the knob that she realized she’d neglected to put on a robe.  Her nightgown was summer weight, and short.  She was considering going back to retrieve something a little more modest when the bell chimed insistently again.

“Alright already.”  She swung the door open. 

And came face to face with the last person she expected to see.

The man was gorgeous.  Blond.  Smelled an awful lot like a brewery.

And was clearly none too steady on his feet.

“I have no idea why I’m here,” Clay admitted, taking pains to enunciate each word. “I told myself this wasn’t going to happen, and I tried to stay away.  I really did.  And your cousin wasn’t supposed to let me come over here.  We had a deal.”

Narrowing
his eyes, he shot some irritation in the general direction of the bar.  “But I suspect some kind of set-up.”

Tate folded her arms across her chest.  “You mean
, like I
asked
one of the twins to get you drunk and send you over here?” 

“I’m not drunk. Precisely.”

Tate arched a single brow.

“You’re wearing your nightgown,” he pointed out, obviously figuring it was in his best interest to redirect the topic.  “You shouldn’t open the door to a stranger looking like that.  Hell, you shouldn’t open the door to
me
looking like that.  And I meant that Rogan set me up, not you.  Although to tell you the truth, it might have been Declan that sent me packing.  They look an
awful
lot alike when one’s been drinking.  Are you going to let me in?  Cause if not, I can just go sleep in my truck.  Or call a cab.  Because Justin’s at the hospital.  Poor guy needs to get a life.  You know…”

He
gestured grandly with his arm, and Tate pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from laughing.

“…that’s really very unhealthy.  It leads to burn out and all kinds of stress.  I should know because I’ve recently lost my mind.  God you’re pretty.  I just want to bury myself inside you until nothing else matters.”     

As propositions went, it was rambling and not all that cohesive.  He looked like something a cat had mauled and then left on Tate’s doorstep for inspection.

Still alive, but twitching and severely impaired.

And the really sad thing?

She
still
found the man absurdly appealing.  She was either crazy about him, or more hard-up than she cared to admit.

“Come in.” She sighed, pulling the door wider.  A cloud of late night heat and bar fumes entered behind her guest.  She’d have to get him cleaned up and then put him in her bed.  She could always sleep
with Max.

He scratched behind his ear, looked charmingly sheepish.  “I’m sorry.  I hope I didn’t get you out of bed.”

“I just got out of the shower.  Bed was next on the agenda.”

“You smell like peaches.”  He sniffed the air.

“I wish I could say the same.”

Grimacing, Clay looked down at his clothes.  “I, uh, bumped into something. There was spillage.” 

Amusement edging out irritation, she stroked a finger over a splotch on his chest.  “Best get you out of your clothes, then.”  Too late, she realized what she’d said.  “And boy, did that not come out right.”

“Oh, I think it did.”  His eyes went hot, desire burning off the chagrin.  His intention to kiss her was clear, and Tate t
ook a step back.

Clay stalked slowly forward.

There were so many reasons not to do this.  Hadn’t he turned her down just a few hours ago?  And now here he was in her entry, not precisely drunk.   

But when his hand
snapped forward, winding into her hair, she allowed herself to be drawn in.

“I need you.” He breathed it, smelling of the mints he must have grabbed at the bar.  The tempest she’d been expecting broke in a shower of electricity between them.  “It scares the hell out of me, Tate, because I’ve never needed anyone so much.”

And it was what she needed to hear.

Winding her own hands until they met at his nape, she pulled his head down to hers. 

He licked his way into her mouth with way more hunger than finesse. She tasted mint, the mellow grain of beer, the tang of something spicy.  And under, maybe through it all, the sweet punch of arousal.  It had been so long since she’d felt like this.

Maybe she’d never felt like this.

When he lifted the edge of her gown, drew her closer, she gave herself up to the storm.

Hands streaking under the cotton, Clay groaned when he encountered skin.  He plied the ins and outs of each of her curves, learning her with his fingers. 

Tate’s breath caught when he grazed the undersides of her breasts, brushed his callused palm over her nipples. 

And when he eased a finger down, slipped inside, she was already slick with wanting.

“Ah,
Tate
.”  He said it reverently, like a prayer.  And pushed another finger into her.

“Clay… we need…” The words stuttered out between searing kisses.  The response he made was i
ncoherent, and his muscles tightened beneath her hands when she grasped his arms. But she pushed him back with just enough force to let him know he needed to stop.

“Not here,” she gasped when he lifted his head, the warm chocolate of his eyes unfocused.  “I can’t make love to you in the hall.”

Clay pulled his hand from beneath the gown, slipped it around hers.  Tate was startled by the wetness there, and even more surprised that it heightened her arousal.

She started to move toward the stairs, but Clay caught sight of the sofa in the front parlor. 

“This is quicker.” He pulled her with him.

“Clay, we can’t –
”

But he moved with single-minded determination, leading her to
ward the Victorian settee.  It was an antique, hard and uncomfortable, and had been in Tate’s family for years.  Clay didn’t seem too concerned.  He closed the door behind them.

“Clay….mmmpf.”

Tate found herself pressed against the smooth wood of the door, much as she had the night he’d fought the mugger in the alley.  Only instead of his hand, his mouth covered hers, and instead of fear, her veins pulsed with excitement.

From somewhere beside her, she heard the lock turn with a soft snick.

His hand manacled her wrists, stretched her arms over her head so that she was well and truly pinned.  Hot
and hungry, he clamped his teeth against her neck.

“
Oh God,” she breathed, suspecting that if he wasn’t holding her up, she’d just slide right down the wall. When his other hand, impatient, pushed inside her panties again, Tate marveled that she didn’t simply dissolve.

“We… oh.” Suddenly her feet were off the ground, her legs wrapped around his hips.

“We what?”

“Huh?” she said as his teeth found her ear, his tongue the sensitive spot just behind it.

“You said we need to do something.”

She could feel him, the shockingly hard length of him, pressing against her center.  “We need to hurry.”

He made a noise, something guttural, then strode across the room.
Shoving aside the toss pillows, he dumped her on the settee.

An
d muffled her gasp of surprise by closing his mouth over hers.

The kiss exploded into frenzy.

Open-mouthed, hot, wet – it wasn’t the least bit polite.  Tate felt the rasp of beard stubble against her chin, and shivered at the rough thrill.  This was Clay, defenses down.  No more cool-eyed agent or charming player.

He was raw.  Open.

Hers.

For however long it lasted.     

“Clothes,” he breathed, when they had no choice but to come up for air.  Grasping the edge of her gown, he pulled it over her head.  “You’re wearing entirely too many.”