Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (22 page)

“… get ready, then I’ll do you one better than meeting you.  Tell me where you’re staying, and I’ll pick you up.”  She did, and Clay plugged the address into his phone.  “Got it.  We’ll look the footage over with the locals, and then decide where to go from there.”    

Clay ended the call, splashed some water on his face and finger combed his hair.  He looked exactly what he was – hung-over, sleep deprived, and gluttonously sated – but as time was of the essence there wasn’t much he could do.

He went back to Tate’s room in search of the rest of his clothing.

He dressed – man he
really
couldn’t believe he’d had any success with Tate last night, because his clothes smelled truly awful – and then steeled himself for facing whatever scene he was going to walk into downstairs. 

Not only with regards to Tate’s mother, and Max, but also with Tate herself.  Things had been said and done and
implied
last night that he had no business saying or doing or implying.  As crazy as he was about this woman – and facing facts honestly, he was pretty much totally gone – it still didn’t change the fact that she lived here and he did not.

He’d do whatever it took to see her again, and work it out, but before everything was said and done he’d probably hurt her.  Not so much by
commission
as by
omission
. 

Such as
why haven’t you bothered to come see me for the past six weeks?

Yeah, he was pretty sure she might notice he was never around.  And that the weekends they planned got cut short when he had to fly out of town, and that he was spending her birthday in Santa Monica with Ted Bundy Junior, instead of her.

Yup.  He was prime relationship material, all right.

Grade A, USDA choice.

His presence in her life would be kind of like an F5 tornado: rare, and almost impossible to predict.

And it would probably do just as much damage.

He was chewing over that unhappy thought as he started down the stairs to the second floor.

And wouldn’t you know it?  He caught Mrs. H on the ascent.

She halted, mid-stride, but smiled before too much awkwardness ensued.  “Good morning, Clay.  I was actually on my way up to see if there was anything you needed.”

Like fresh towels,
Clay wondered. 
Maybe a smack upside the head…

“Uh…” Which was a brilliant comeback.  And no less mortifying than when she’d seen him naked the other morning.  “I’m, um, fine.  Thanks.”  He glanced down at his soiled clothes.  “I figured it would be easier if I showered when I got to Justin’s.  You know.  Since my, um, clean clothes are there.”

He was a highly respected FBI agent.  A PhD, for God’s sake.  And yet in the presence of Tate’s mother, he’d regressed to possibly seventh grade.

Maggie smiled.  “You’ll be working, then, again today?”

“Yes, ma’am.  I’ve a colleague coming into town.  I’ll be assisting with the investigation until she no longer needs me.”

“Very well, then.  I’d better not keep you.”  She moved aside so he could pass.  But when he drew even with her, she stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.  “You’re a fine man, Clay.”

Well, hell.  If that wasn’t the strangest compliment he’d ever received.  Not so much the sentiment, as the circumstances under which it was given.

He’d just been caught leaving her daughter’s bedroom, and Mrs. Hennessy called him fine.

Why couldn’t this kind of shit have happened to him when he was seventeen?  Adulthood really did have its notable benefits.

“Thank you, ma’am.”  But how much longer would she feel that way?  He found himself regretting things that hadn’t even happened.  “And just for the record, you’ve raised a really fine daughter.  I… Well, she’s really… very fine.”  He forced a smile.  “It’s important to me that you know that.”

Maggie patted the shoulder under her hand.  “I believe you’re right.  Now run along, dear, and grab a cup of coffee and a muffin on your way out the door.  Tate can pack you something for the road, since you’re in a hurry.”

He was no stranger to hospitality – it was the southern way – but this humbled him.  It had been a very long time since he’d been mothered.  “I’ll do that. Thank you.”  He watched Maggie go up the stairs.

And then continued down toward Tate.

She was in the kitchen, humming as she moved around, and he took a moment to simply appreciate that particular sight.  There was something ridiculously pleasing to a man about finding the woman you’d spent the night loving glowing with satisfaction
while she prepared food. 

God save him if any women of his acquaintance heard that particular thought, but it didn’t make it any less true. 

Tate pulled a fresh batch of the most delicious smelling blueberry muffins he’d ever had the pleasure to encounter out of the oven, and he was glad, after the initial insult of waking up, that his hangover hadn’t lent itself to nausea.

The noise of happily breakfasting guests drifted in from the dining area, and Tate glanced toward the door as if to listen for potential problems.

Then, sensing either his presence or his malodorous clothes, turned around as she set the muffins on a cooling rack.  “You’re awake.” And her eyes were all smiles.  “And not looking
too
worse for wear.”

“You’re either blind, or you’re lying.” 
Pulling himself away from the doorway, he moved close enough to stroke her hair.

“Maybe I have beer goggles – oh, wait!  That was you last night.”

He wrapped the sleek black strands around his fist, and pulling her close, kissed the teasing smile right off her lips.  “I may have been a little drunk,” he admitted, because there was no denying that fact.  “But I’m stone cold sober this morning.  And you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“
WELL
.
”
Feeling her knees turn liquid, Tate struggled to stay upright.  And just to keep things light, and maintain some perspective, patted his arm with an oven mitt.  “I’m glad to see that your hangover hasn’t made you grumpy.  A little vision-impaired, maybe.  But certainly pleasant.”

“No.”  He kissed her throat, nipped her ear.  “If I had more time, I’d prove to you how very desirable you are.” 
He cupped her butt to draw her closer.

“I do believe you made that point
quite a few times last night.”

“Yeah.  About that.  It was some kind of fluke of nature.  Like Haley’s Comet.  Or a blue moon.  I wouldn’t want you to get the impression that’s what you’ll have to put up with every time.  I’m not sure whether you’ll be disappointed or relieved.”

Actually, Tate was more struck by the fact that he’d spoken as if that was something they’d be doing again in the future.  She’d hoped, of course, but…

“Where’s Max?” he asked, drawing her attention away from their sex life, and focusing it on her son.  And she could tell that he wasn’t asking out of mere courtesy.  He looked around the kitchen, searching for signs of little boy life, and there was a flash of disappointment in his eyes when he found none.

“He’s in the back parlor, watching cartoons.”  She’d shut the door to the family room earlier, because she wasn’t sure of Clay’s reaction this morning. So she’d tried to make his passage easier on both of them by distracting Max. 

“Do you mind if I say good morning to him, or… do you not want him to know I spent the night?”

“He would love to see you,” she said, pointing toward the door which led off the back hall.  What had she done to deserve this turning out so well?  “But just to warn you, you’ll have to let him know up front that you have to run.  Or else he’ll be trying to talk you into another trip to the carnival.”

Groaning
, Clay backed toward the door.  “Well, the carnival’s out, but depending on what time I finish today, how about a little dinner?  The three of us.  My treat.”

T
ears pricked her eyes, but Tate blinked them back.  “We’d love that.”  Then, because she wasn’t sure she could keep the emotion from her face, turned away and started working on the muffins.  “How about I fix you up some breakfast to go?”

“That would be
great.” 

Tate thought the whole damn thing was great
.  

But unfortunately, the really great things in life were never easy.

“
I
thought you said the locals were friendly.” Kim’s blue eyes danced over him as she opened her hotel room door.  “Was that before or after they busted your lip?”

“Ha, ha.”  Touching his finger against the flesh in question, Clay moved past her into the room, noting that Kim had made the bed. And actually used the closet.  A row of neatly pressed business attire hung obediently along the rod, several pairs of shoes standing at attention beneath.

If she wasn’t so much fun, he’d probably be obliged to hate her.

“What?”  She turned from the mirror, tidying a
deep auburn curl that had dared spring loose from her efficient twist.

“Nothing.”

Clay moved from inspecting the closet to looking over Kim’s shoulder into the mirror.  He prodded his busted lip.  Kim’s hand flew to her nose.  “Good God, Copeland. Tell me that’s not you.”

Clay stopped messing with his lip and sent her mirror image a grimace.  “You can still smell it?  I was hoping the Febreze would work.  Apparently, I was overly optimistic.”

He’d been seriously unhappy when he’d gotten back to Justin’s only to discover that he’d packed no extra dress pants.  He hadn’t counted on needing even the one pair he’d brought.  And he sure as hell hadn’t anticipated sadistic bartenders and their lethal drinks.

“You smell like the barroom floor,” she informed him, getting close enough to sniff his shirt.  It was clean, nicely ironed, but his pants were another matter.  Motioning for him to turn around, she gave his backside a considering glance.  “You might want to consider emptying the whole bottle on your butt.  What did you do,
sit
in a keg of beer?”

“These are the only pants I brought with me.” Kim shooed him from the room, and as he looked down at the black trousers, he couldn’t quite keep the defensiveness out of his voice.  “It was either smelly pants or swim trunks, and I opted for malodorous as opposed to ridiculous.  But after seeing your reaction, I’m questioning my decision.”

Her room was on the fourth floor of the hotel, and by unspoken agreement they headed toward the stairs.   The smell was bad enough out in the open, let alone closed up in a moving box. On the landing of the second floor, she deployed the bottle of body spray she lifted from her purse.

He jumped back when she covered him in fine mist. “What the hell are you doing?”

Sniffing again, Kim nodded her approval before preceding him down the final flight and out the door.  And spotting Clay’s SUV in the relative shade of a palmetto, headed in that direction.  “Making it tolerable for me to ride with you,” she informed him over her shoulder.  “Now stop acting like a baby and unlock the door.” 

He stood, arms akimbo, and plotted vile things as he hit his keyless entry.  “At least the beer smell was something the folks at the sheriff’s department could relate to. Now I smell like a freaking Gerbera daisy.”

“I like daisies.”

Clay grimaced as he took a tentative
sniff, thinking of Josh Harding’s expertly groomed face.  The dude would probably laugh his ass off.

Ah, well. 
He
hadn’t spent the night in Tate’s bed, now had he?

Fancy after-shave-smelling son of a bitch.

Feeling entirely more amenable, Clay climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.  The air conditioning blasted with a satisfying whirr.  He caught the look on Kim’s face as he backed out.

“What?” he asked, because she was definitely smiling.  That smug little female smile that drove him
nuts.

“Despite your aromatic contribution, you’re giving off all kinds of interesting vibes.  You fell into more last night than a bottle of whiskey.”

It hadn’t been phrased as a question, but she obviously expected an answer.   So like any good game player, he executed evasive maneuvers.   “Oh yeah?  And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

I see your innuendo, and I raise you a question.

“Met any girls on your vacation?  Seen any action?  Gotten laid?”

He wasn’t ready to talk about Tate, not yet, and definitely not that way.  So he reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a bald-faced lie.

“Like I’ve had the time?”

When the phone vibrated in his pocket, he held up a finger to indicate a conversational pause.

And ruined his bald-faced lie by pulling out a condom.

A used condom, stuffed into his pocket after the couch episode last night.

And currently stuck, like dried glue, to his actively vibrating cell phone.

Having no prayer that Kim hadn’t seen it, he pried it off his phone’s face.  Then stuffed the damning prophylactic into the door’s side pocket while he took the call.