Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (free ebook reader txt) 📗

flustered over, but then everybody had their buttons.  Considering the negligent ass who’d fathered her son, Tate guessed that upstandingness was one of hers.

She gestured him in, the cool, dim interior of the back hall a welcome relief from the morning’s heat.

“Let me just get my purse.” She started to turn, but Clay whipped his glasses off and shifted to block her path.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she hedged, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

In a gesture that was becoming familiar, he brushed his thumb over her cheek.   “These shadows say otherwise.”

“Another curse of the fair-skinned.  And how kind of you to point them out.”

“Your skin is lovely.” He tapped her nose in a light reprimand. “I’m sorry.  Given what happened, I should have realized you’d have a rough night.”

“It’s nothing. Really,” she said when he gave her a dubious look.  “I’m okay.”

“Mr. Clay!”

Tate closed her eyes at the sound of her son’s voice, because she’d been hoping to avoid this particular scene. But Max was running down the hall, small bare feet slapping against the wood floor, an excited expression on his elfin face.

And a familiar purple bear tucked beneath his arm.

Clay’s frown melted into a warm grin as he held out his hand for Max to slap.

But Max pulled up short when he caught sight of Clay’s gun.  Eyes huge, he looked first at Clay and then at Tate.  “Are you and Mommy going to shoot the bad guy who took Amber’s sister?”

“Max,” Tate began, but Clay held up his hand to show that it was okay.  Then he hunkered down to Max’s level.

“Your mama and I are going to try to help the policemen find the bad guy we think took Amber’s sister. And if they find him, they’ll take the man to jail.  I’m not going to shoot anybody, and nobody’s going to shoot at me.  When I’m working, like I am today, I’m required to carry my sidearm.” He patted the weapon.  “But that doesn’t mean we’ll be in danger.  Your mama will be perfectly safe.”

A mixture of both relief and disappointment flickered across Max’s face.  Clearly he’d been envisioning something akin to the OK Corral. Clay smiled, ruffling her little boy’s hair, and Tate’s heart squeezed.  “So what lucky lady gets to stay with you while your mama’s gone?”

“That would be me,” came a deep voice from the end of the hall.

 

CLAY looked up to see Rogan Murphy leaning indolently against the doorway.  His thick, brown hair waved almost to the top of his broad shoulders, which were bare as the rest of the torso that rose out of a snug pair of jeans.  The lazy expression in his blue eyes didn’t fool Clay for a minute.   The man was clever and quick – he’d made the scene of the mugging with an impressive display of speed – and apparently a favorite with Max.

And he looked like a walking ad for Calvin Klein.

If it wasn’t for the fact that he was Tate’s blood relative, Clay would have hated him immensely.

As it was, he still felt inordinately… jealous.

Stupid and immature, but there it was.

Rogan raised a glass of amber liquid in Clay’s direction.  “It’s nice to see you again, Agent Copeland.”

“Same here,” Clay lied, gaze narrowing at the glass.  My God, was the man drinking beer at nine o’clock in the morning?  What was Tate thinking, leaving him alone with Max?

And then, to Clay’s horror, Mr. I’m Too Sexy For My Shirt passed off the drink to the child, who took a huge gulp before smacking his lips together.

Apparently, Tate’s cousin was teaching Max to do more than cuss.

“There’s nothing like a refreshing glass of apple juice to wet your whistle, is there Max?”

Clay looked up, and sure enough Murphy was smiling at him as if completely aware of what he’d been thinking.  Okay, so add perceptive to the list of reasons to dislike the man.

Then he chastised himself for behaving like a Full Blown Idiot.

If this was how he handled a completely innocuous situation with another male, imagine what he’d do if the man hadn’t been related.  He’d probably have strolled across the room and tossed the guy on his perceptive ass.

Just chalk it up to his complete and total mental breakdown.

He turned to Tate, still not liking the bruised look of her eyes.  And looking at mug shots all day wasn’t likely to make things better. “We should probably be leaving.”

“Okay.”  Tate grabbed her purse off the console table, then glanced at her cousin.  “Are you sure you don’t mind watching Max until Mom gets home?”

Rogan passed it off with a wave of his hand.  “Max and I are cool.”

“Okay, well…” she bent down to hug her son.  “Be a good boy, and listen to Rogan.”

Recalling what Max had told him about cussing and bottles of whiskey, Clay silently wondered if that was such a good idea.  But he swallowed that thought and his ridiculous bout of jealousy, because acting like a possessive asshole wasn’t going to win him any points with Tate.

He said goodbye to Max, nodded to Rogan and shepherded Tate out the door.

THE Bentonville sheriff’s office wasn’t much to look at, with its speckled gray linoleum and cinderblock walls in that hideous shade of green Clay thought of as institutional.  Why bureaucrats insisted on painting civic buildings a color that was sure to drive a bunch of armed people to depression was completely beyond his ken.  The frigid blast of air-conditioning that greeted them was welcome, though, as it had to be reaching toward ninety outside.  Just the walk from the parking lot to the station had caused his shirt to plaster itself to his back.  Tate’s hair – piled atop her head with some kind of clip – had loose, damp tendrils trailing down.  It was unbelievably sexy.

Clay peeled his eyes away and looked for Deputy Jones.

There was a small grouping of desks in the center of the room, separated into cubicles by a freestanding partition.  They stepped up to