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

Justin flicked his gaze at the table of girls. Flipping her hair when she caught him looking, the blonde offered up a smile.  Justin turned and studied Clay.

“See? Peacock.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Would I make something like that up?”  When he saw Justin’s raised brow he held up a hand.  “Okay.  I might.  Yes, it’s entirely possible that would be something I might do.  But believe me when I say that I’m shitting you not.  That lovely lady has shown numerous behavioral indications that she’s hot for you.  If you’re looking to pull yourself out of your sexual rut, she’s your best bet.”  Eying the dubious look on Justin’s face, he grinned and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.  “Ten bucks says she comes over here within the next twenty minutes.”

Justin looked at the money lying on the table with a great deal of skepticism, but put his own President Hamilton on top of Clay’s.  “You’re on.”

Eighteen minutes later, Clay left the table ten dollars richer.  They’d no sooner polished off their shrimp and ordered a second round of Killian’s when the blonde made her move.  It turned out she was a pediatric nurse who worked at MUSC and had seen Justin around the hospital.  Palming the money, shooting Justin a superior smirk, Clay excused himself to go mingle.

The crowd had grown thick as evening gave way to night, and he wound his way through it to find a spot closer to the band.  Smoke rose in a thin blue cloud, dispelled occasionally by the salty breeze drifting in from the open windows.  Patrons wandered in and out from the patio to the bar, and well-fed diners descended the worn stairs to mix with the crowd.  Clay leaned against a rough-hewn support beam and watched them come and go, amazed, as always, at the way body language spoke volumes.

And his own body started screaming in his ear when a pair of long, tanned legs became visible as they descended from the second floor.  The staircase was angled in such a way that he got an up close and personal view of those mile-long beauties before a torso or head came into view.  Black sandals encased slim feet, a short black skirt hit deliciously at mid-thigh.  The legs paused, one resting a step higher than the other, and Clay felt his body stir.  If the rest of the package lived up to the preview, he was going to be on this particular woman like a flea on a junkyard dog.  He had the overwhelming urge to just wade over and take a bite.

He took a sip of beer, instead, and waited for the follow through.

A green Murphy’s shirt made an appearance, followed by a hand holding an empty tray.

Staff, Clay assessed.  He wondered what time she got off.

Her other hand rubbed down a thigh as she seemed to be responding to a comment from someone on the stairs above her. The overwhelming jolt of lust he felt caused Clay to choke on his beer.

Wait for it, wait for it…

After another nail-biting moment, the legs made their final descent.

Clay blinked twice, to assure himself he wasn’t seeing things.  Then he began to curse the psychological gods again, for messing with his head.

“Nice tan,” he murmured as Tate nearly passed him by.

It was loud so close to the band, but Tate heard him and wheeled around. “Clay,” she said, his name falling naturally from her lips.  Then she assimilated his comment, and blasted him with a frown.  “Are you making fun of me?”

“Never,” he assured her companionably. Her rich ebony hair hung thick and loose, making him want to wrap it around his fist while he plundered her mouth.  Mother of a young boy or not, she stirred his juices in a way that no one had for quite a while.  The green shirt brought out the intensity of her eyes, which right now were shooting irritated little darts right through him.  “It’s obviously important to you for some reason I can’t quite fathom, so I thought I would acknowledge your rather dramatic change in coloration.  How did you accomplish that, by the way?  You were creamy and a little pink the last time I saw you.  Like a double scoop of vanilla and cotton candy in a cone.”

Tate bristled, tucking the empty tray under her arm.  “Not that it’s any of your business, but it came out of a bottle.  I felt guilty after you so thoughtfully reminded me of the damage the sun can do.”  She took in his own red face.  “I see that you obviously don’t make it a habit of heeding your own advice, Dr. Copeland.”

“Clay,” he corrected, because he’d never been comfortable when addressed by his title.  It made him feel like he should be wearing a sweater vest and an unfortunate tie.  “And you caught me.  We psychologists are notorious for doling out advice and then ignoring it.  The profession is rife with hypocrisy.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. So what brings you here tonight?”

“My friend Justin’s pickup.”  He grinned when she rolled her eyes.  “Beer and shrimp,” he amended, hoisting his glass into the air.  “Along with half the city’s population, it would seem. Busy place.  How long have you worked here?”

“Since I was old enough to walk.”  She finally smiled when she saw his raised brow.  “Patrick Murphy is my uncle,” she explained.  “My grandmother lived next door, and whenever we visited in the summertime, Uncle Patrick would put us to work.  Now I just help out in the evenings during the high season, when I’m not helping my mom with guests.”

Clay quickly did the math.  “You run the bed and breakfast next door.”

“Guilty.  I keep the books and handle the business end of it; my mom cooks and charms the guests.  We turned the house into a B and B after Grandma died, because it was the only way we could