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

trying to talk me out of this, sugar?  Beall’s an ass, but it’s not something I can’t handle.  And there’s talk that he’ll be rotating up and out fairly soon.”  He gave her a dry look.  “Any more points you want to needle to death before you answer the most important question I’ve ever asked in my life?”

Tate laughed, then let the tears fall that she’d been holding.  “I just wanted to be sure,” she admitted, “that you knew what you were saying.  You just had a near death experience, you know.  And you’re on pain meds.”

Clay smiled, lopsidedly, because he thought those were good tears.  Happy tears.  He damn near cried himself.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”  She launched herself toward him.

“Easy there,” he smiled over the zinging in his arm, and the steady pounding of his swollen heart.  “No killing the groom-to-be before the wedding.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry.”  Tate laughed and tried to pull away, suddenly conscious of his injury, but he held her tight against him.  Even one-armed, his grip was like steel.  He was solid and steady and perfect.

And he was hers.

For the rest of their lives.

“I love you, you know.”  She pressed her lips against his neck.  “Pink boxers and all.”

“Smart ass.”  Clay laughed softly, and pressed his own lips into her hair.

By his way of thinking, he figured he had a good forty or fifty years to get even.

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And here’s a sneak peek at DECEPTION, book three in the series, featuring forensic artist Josh Harding…

CHAPTER ONE

SAMANTHA Martin pulled her car over on the side of Highway 17 for the sole purpose of throwing up.  And once she’d communed with the scraggly weeds and scattered litter and a strip of rubber from an eighteen wheeler’s blowout, she felt… no better at all.

She absolutely, positively could not believe that she was doing this.

She, who loathed the idea of being valued solely on the basis of her physical attributes – of any woman being judged by the way she filled out her shirt – was going to take off her clothes in order to turn a profit.  She was actually going to strip – as in naked – and somebody was going to pay her good money to do so.

Well… technically she wouldn’t be naked.  She’d eventually wind up in pasties and a G-string.  With little pink sequins decorating her crotch.  And tassels hanging off her nipples.

“Oh, God.”  Upchuck, take two.  And after she’d seen the very, very last of the chocolate milkshake she’d mistakenly assumed would calm her stomach, she still didn’t feel any better.  Clutching her middle, Sam stumbled around the front of her car.  Right at that moment another car blew by, and wouldn’t you know it?  It was filled with teenage boys.  The heat from their exhaust stirred the air, fluttering the edges of her trench coat.  The old London Fog concealed the worst of her get-up, but the go-go boots were decidedly visible.  The bright red wig was an eye-catcher, too.

Sure enough, as she made her way weakly to the door, the geniuses in the souped-up GTO hit the brakes.  And if that didn’t qualify as a sure-fire way to ensure they didn’t make it to their respective twenty-first birthdays, she wasn’t really certain what did.  What were the idiots thinking?  That the next car that came barreling up behind them was going to automatically stop for their stupidity?

Luckily for their parents’ sakes, the driver had the wherewithal to steer his teen dream machine over to the berm.

Unluckily for Sam, they decided to roll down the windows.

“Hey baby!” The front passenger hanged himself out the window.  Scrawny arms dangled from a ratty wife-beater, but Sam knew that scrawny didn’t always equal weak.  “Why don’t you come on over here a minute and we’ll have ourselves a little party.”

How to resist the temptation?  She should simply ignore the little turds, but letting men get away with bad behavior was a practice she’d abandoned long ago.

“I’m guessing little is the operative word,” she called over her shoulder as she yanked on her door handle. But the darn thing stuck and she couldn’t get it to budge.  From behind her she heard a burst of sophomoric laughter, followed by a barked order to “shut up!”  She wasn’t sure whether the kid was talking to her or to his friends, and really didn’t give a damn either way.

Pulling on the handle and swearing under her breath, Sam almost didn’t hear his approach.  But the scent of Obsession for men drifted in on the night breeze like a bad department store fog, and she rolled her eyes with impatience.  She didn’t have time for this shit.

She turned and – no big surprise – the kid walked toward her, backlit from his friend’s brake lights, cupping himself in some kind of challenge.  It was difficult to distinguish his features as he had a camouflage boonie hat pulled low over his head, but his swagger practically radiated testosterone-charged contention, a walking billboard of up-to-no-good.  As he moved even closer she caught the unmistakable scent of booze.  Great.  This kid was probably sixteen, seventeen at the outside, and walking along the dark highway half-cocked.  If the Halfwit of the Month Club was looking for October’s poster child, they needed to search no further.

“Look, son.” Yeah, he didn’t like her calling him that, but she wasn’t in the mood to placate his fragile ego. “I understand that at your age your social acceptability is directly proportional to your ability to exercise poor judgment, but I’m telling you right now that you need to turn around and walk away. I’m running late, I’m cranky, and this is a very busy highway.  If you’re not careful someone acting even more irresponsibly than you are is going to come along and run over your ass.  So do us both a favor and pretend you have some sense.”

Junior laughed, as she’d feared he would, and swaggered