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

good, or very bad, for Tate.  Now I figure which way that goes depends upon whether or not you’re a total asshole.  If you’re just hanging around her for kicks – a little side note to your vacation – then you make real sure you’re clear about that up front.  What she does with that is up to her, but at least she’ll know where she stands.  Goes the way you want it, you make damn sure your protection’s reliable.”

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 one 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