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

“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,” Justin 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