Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (3 page)

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 situatio
n, 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 was his first day at the beach.  A tourist, she concluded. Looking to score.

And his hand was hovering dangerously close to her ass.

Whipping herself over, Tate swatted at the offending appendage.  “Do I
look
that gullible, Mister …”

“Copeland.”  He smiled, to devastating effect.  “Clay Copeland.  And what you look like is a bad case of sunburn waiting to happen.”  Hoisting the bottle of sunscreen
she’d tossed aside so recently, he waggled it around.  “It’s kind of tough to spread this stuff on your own back.  I’d be happy to help you with it. With skin as beautiful as yours, I’d sure hate to see you get burned.”

Tate could hear the gears of seduction working like a finely-tuned machine.  Five years ago, she might have been impressed.

Come to think of it, five years ago she
had
been impressed, and that’s how she’d ended up with Max.

She r
etrieved the bottle of sunscreen.  “I’ll just lie on my back, thank you, and that should take care of the problem.”

“You lying on your back might ta
ke care of both of our problems,” he murmured.

Tate’s mouth formed a
little “O” of surprise. “I don’t know who you think you are –”

“Clay Copeland.  I thought we’d already established that.  However, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.  Ms…?”

“Hennessey,” she contributed, before she could stop herself.  “Tate Hennessey.”

“Lovely name,
Tate Hennessey.” He tested it on his tongue, like fine wine.  “It fits you.”

Tate snorted
and sat up, spreading one hand over the straps of her top and raising the other like a stop sign. “Are you here on vacation?”

“I am.”

“Then let me save you some time. You’ll have better luck with your spiel somewhere else.”

Clay settled himself on the edge of her blanket, propp
ing one leg to support his arm.  “Why?”

Good lord.
He looked like a page from a beefcake calendar.  All that was missing was a tool belt, or perhaps a strategically placed fire hose… 

Tate
jerked her eyes up to meet his expectant expression.  “Because while there are many things for tourists to do in Charleston, I’m afraid I’m not one of them.”

He grinned, clearly more entertained than offended.

“I’ll be sure to mention to my buddy that he better take you off the brochure.”  He motioned over his shoulder toward a very large dark-haired man who looked suspiciously like he’d passed out.  They were probably a couple of drunks.  She leaned a little closer to the man sitting beside her, detecting the salty sting of sweat, the unique muskiness that was man.  But nothing that gave any indication that he’d been drinking.

He
tucked his tongue in his cheek.  “Do local men smell different?”

“What?”

“You’ll have to forgive me; I was unaware of my pervasive ‘tourist’ B.O.  If you’d like, I can head back, take a shower before I ask you out.”

“That’s not necessary,” she demurred
automatically, wondering how this conversation had gotten so far off track.

“Great, Tate Hennessey, since you’re
apparently” – he leaned in and sniffed – “a local, I’ll let you choose the spot.  I’d be happy to pick you up at let’s say... seven.” He consulted his watch. “Unless you’d be more comfortable meeting me.  For a first date, that’s really the best idea.”

Tate blinked twice, not quite believing her own ears.  Had she inadvertently agreed to go out with him?

She did a quick mental replay of the conversation, only to reaffirm that she’d made it perfectly clear she wasn’t interested in accepting the offer which he hadn’t actually put forth. 

“Okay.” She began to raise her
hands in a gesture of dismissal, quickly aborted when her top started to slip.  In a burst of impatience, she tied the straps together, leaving him looking disappointed. “I’ll give you points for being persistent, but that doesn’t change my answer. Now, why don’t you go bother that woman over there?”  She pointed to an attractive blonde in a ridiculously small bikini.

“Not interested.”

Right. “You didn’t even look –”

“Busty blond
e, a little on the short side, almost wearing three black scraps of fabric. Looks like she’s waiting for the sun to come down and personally gild her ass.”

Tate smothered a burst
of laughter. It was a very accurate depiction. “How did you know who I was talking about?  You didn’t turn around.”

Clay shrugged.  “I’m observant.”

Her eyebrow arched in challenge.  “Okay, Mr. Observant.  Tell me about the sunbather lying next to her.”  She wanted to see if his powers of observation extended to anyone other than the attractive females littering the beach.

He
rolled his shoulders, loosening himself up to meet the challenge.  “Well now, Tate.  I do believe you’re trying to throw me off.  Because calling that man under the umbrella a sunbather is something of a misnomer.  Since his skin is the approximate color of a fish’s underbelly, I doubt very seriously he’s trying to catch some rays.  Unlike you, he’s probably comfortable with his complexion and doesn’t want to ruin it.”

Tate drew back, unsettled by his perception.  “
What makes you think I’m uncomfortable with my complexion?”

He gestured to her bottle of SPF 4.  “You’re out during the hottest part of the day, with insufficient protection.  In this day and age, everybody knows about skin cancer and premature aging, and you strike me as an intelligent woman.  So what is an intelligent, fair-skinned woman doing lying in the afternoon sun with a lotion that does little more than lessen the severity of the burn?  She’s asking for the burn, because she knows that with her coloring, it’s the quickest way to achieve the sought-after tan.  Of course, she’ll probably just end up peeling anyway, but she’s young, and that’s a risk she’s willing to take.”    

Tate gasped, finding that more than a little bit creepy.  It was like he’d sucked the thoughts right out of her head.  “What are you, some kind of mind reader?”

Clay smiled, looking rueful.  “No, I’m actually… a psychologist. Behavior patterns and what they specify about the individual is sort of my specialty.”

“So you’re a therapist?”

“
Not exactly,” he hedged. “I have a PhD, yes, but I’m not in practice.”

Tate tried to assimilate this new information
.  Okay, so the man wasn’t a drunk, and he apparently had an education.  But a couple of initials before or after his name didn’t mean he was a swell guy.  He was still forward, and blatantly suggestive, and more than a little cocky. 

She narrowed her eyes.
“So what’s my behavioral pattern telling you now?”

“It’s difficult to say.  Maybe if you loosened the straps to your top again, I could get a better reading.”

Despite herself, Tate laughed, because it was clear he didn’t take himself too seriously.  Shifting her weight back onto her hands, she studied the almost ridiculously sexy psychologist.  He possessed the kind of humor and self-deprecation that transformed bravado into lethal charm.  But since he was here for only a short while and she had more than her hormones to consider, she decided that she’d have to pass. “Although I can’t say I’m not intrigued, I’m afraid I can’t go out with you, Dr. Copeland.”

“Clay,” he correct
ed.  “And why is that?” 

“Well, for one thing, I have to work.”

“Okay. Then how about I –”

“Mommy!”

Perfect
timing
, Tate thought.  Then she raised a hand to greet the familiar duo heading toward them.

 
THE
excited voice brought his head around, and Clay noticed a small, dark-haired boy running in his direction, followed at some distance by an attractive older woman possessed of silvery hair and a tired smile.  He peered over his shoulder, gauging whether the pair was perhaps bearing down on someone behind them, but a quick glance at Tate Hennessey’s wry smile put any doubts aside.  And if that hadn’t done it, the resemblance between mother and son was unmistakable.

The boy was beautiful.  A beautiful, happy,
living
little boy.

Against his will, Clay felt himself shutting down, the ghost of his failure rising up to haunt him.

“Mommy, Grandma let me have
two
scoops of ice cream, instead of just one like you said.”  Flush with the excitement of his secret, he was too young to keep it to himself.  “I had a scoop of ‘nilla and a scoop of the pink one with all of those colored thingies in it.”

“Cotton candy?” Tate suggested as she wiped her thumb across his chin, which still bore the evidence of his coup.

“Uh-huh.  It was yummy, but I wish they wouldn’t make it pink.  Pink’s a girl color.  Who are you?”  He turned his inquisitive green-eyed gaze on Clay.

“I’m Clay,” he explained, hating his sudden stiffness.  “Pink’s not such a bad color, but you might not want to let any of your friends see you wearing it on your face.”

The boy giggled as his mother wiped the sticky mess off his chin.

“Max, this is Dr. Copeland.  Clay, this is my son, Max.  The second and most important reason I can’t meet you tonight,” she informed him under her breath.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Max.” Clay extended his hand, and the little boy eyed it for a second before slapping it with the traditional five.