Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (42 page)

For the next fifty or so years.

“Hi.”

Tate smiled at Clay’s expression, giving him a warm hello with her eyes.  He still looked a little battered, a little less than robust, but his appetite seemed to be coming back.  Of course it probably wasn’t the food he was eyeing so hungrily.  She set the tray on the nightstand and sat down.

“Sorry about Max waking you up again.  I’m afraid he’s a little bit… restless.”

Clay wiped his
I want to have sex
expression off his face and took her hand into his good one.

“It’s going to be tough for him, for a little while, to adjust to all that’s going on.  Even though he doesn’t remember anything, he knows something happened, and that it was bad.  Telling him truthfully about some of the dangers he faced was the right decision to make.”

Tate had agonized over that one.  When he’d awakened in the hospital, Max had so many questions, that she didn’t know how to answer.  How do you tell a little boy that there really are monsters in the world?  But Clay had encouraged her to be mostly honest.  It would give Max a greater sense of well-being if he understood a basic outline of what happened.  The truth usually wasn’t quite as fear-inspiring as what could fester in the imagination.

And given his own injuries, and those of both Clay and Rogan, it had been impossible to keep him from the truth.  When she’d connected what happened to him with the girl who’d gone missing from the carnival, it had allowed him a degree of understanding.  And when she’d told him how very, very hard Kathleen and Clay and the others had worked to find him, it helped restore his sense of security.  There might be monsters in the world, but there were good guys who helped put the monsters away.

One of the only things Tate hadn’t told him was about the “old lady” who’d stayed at the Inn.  He couldn’t remember anything about that, thank God, and she wasn’t about to tell him.  This was his home, after all. She didn’t want him to feel it wasn’t safe.

But she couldn’t help feeling that way herself.

It was the reason the inn remained closed.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but he’ll heal faster the quicker things seem normal.”  Clay stroked her fingers.  “Have you given any more thought to what you’re going to do?  When you might reopen?”

Tate sighed, feeling utterly defeated.  She and her mother had gone over this last night.  Maggie, horrified by what happened, by what they’d inadvertently brought into their home, was ready to shut the inn’s doors.  But there was no way she could afford to keep the house without the income, and it had been in her family for generations.  Tate could move out, find an apartment somewhere, but it would be difficult to make ends meet while shelling out rent.  It was pretty much a lose/lose situation.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” she admitted.  “Neither Mom nor I feel comfortable with the current arrangement, given what almost happened.  It’s either sell out or move out, and frankly, neither option holds appeal.”

Clay knew that money was an issue.  By living here together, sharing the income from the inn, they were both in a fairly comfortable position.  But if Tate had to move out…

“How about the carriage house?” he inquired, referring to the old structure behind the inn’s garden.  It had once been used, not surprisingly, to house carriages, and later functioned as a store-all and garage.  It was roomy enough to hold three cars, and boasted an attic of sorts with stairs, but lacked plumbing and all but the most rudimentary electrical wiring. 

“It’s a nice thought,” she said wistfully, “but it would take an unbelievable amount of work to make it livable.  Unfortunately, I don’t have that sort of cash lying around, nor am I given to carpentry.”

“How much do you think it would take,” Clay asked, “to make it workable?”

Tate shrugged her shoulders in a futile gesture.  “I honestly don’t know.  Probably at least a hundred thousand.”

Clay did a few rapid calculations.  The real estate market around the DC area had taken a hit recently, but he’d purchased his house several years ago, and had accrued a tidy little bit of equity.  If he sold out, his cash profit would probably just about cover it.  Maybe even allow for a little bit of room.  This close to the water, he’d want a boat.

“What if I told you I was good for it?”

Tate blinked, and looked at him in confusion.  “You mean, like a loan?”  She shook her head before he could even answer.  “That’s awfully generous of you, Clay, but…”  She gave a short burst of surprised laughter.  “There are enough complications to our relationship already without adding financial obligations to the mix.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, toying with her fingers, enjoying the anticipation of the moment.  He should have been pee-in-his-pants nervous, but maybe it was the drugs or an undiscovered brain tumor or something because he was feeling totally jazzed.  He’d given this thing a lot of consideration over the past few days, and was completely at ease with his decision.  “Because, I was thinking that we could work out a really creative reimbursement plan. Like you could marry me and give me more children.  I mean, Max is great, but he could probably stand a brother or a sister.   Help keep him in line.”

Her hand jerked beneath his.  The faint blush which tinted her cheeks disappeared.  And she looked at him with such a wide-eyed gape, that he realized he should have been nervous.  What the hell would he do if she said no?

No way was he going to let her say no.

He regrouped, and changed his tactic.  Maybe the casual, dropping-the-bomb-as-a-joke approach was not the way to go.  Tate was a romantic.  Okay.  He could do romantic.

He levered himself off his pillow, stifling his unromantic urge to shout out an obscenity over the stab of pain, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing?”  Tate demanded, finally finding her voice.  “Get back in bed!”

“No.”  He shook her off, because he was going to do this right.  He probably could have made a better impression dressed in something other than pink – yes, he’d mixed his whites with his colors – boxers, but hell, he’d just have to work with what he had.

He lowered himself to one knee.

“Tate.”  He took her hand, kissed her palm as his gaze never wavered.  “You are everything I’ve ever needed, and never knew that I was missing.  And Max is the son I never realized I already had.  When I look at you – at both of you – I see my life stretching out before me.  And it’s filled with happiness, and love, and a sense of… accomplishment and contentment that I never even knew existed.  You’re goodness and light and beauty.”  He remembered thinking that the first time they’d made love.  “And if you’ll have me, I’ll love and treasure you and our family for the rest of my days.  Marry me?”

And
Tate thought she was speechless before.  She hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t known how to respond to that half-joking proposal out of nowhere.  But this…

The look in Clay’s eyes took her breath away.

And she saw her future, there, too.

“Your work?”  It was a question that needed answering.  She wasn’t sure what he was offering, or sacrificing.

Clay held her penetrating look with his own.  “I can’t give it up entirely, sugar.  It’s… what I do, and I’m not ready, yet, to stop.”

“I didn’t mean –”

He held up a hand.  “Let me finish.  However, there is no way that I would have asked you to share your life with me if I felt that mine would be going along as it had before.  I’ve made some inquiries, and there’s a position that could be made available to me at the local RA, as a profiling coordinator.  I’d still work consults when invited, but primarily I’d function as a bridge between local law enforcement and the resources at Quantico.  I’d run a lot of workshops, that sort of thing.  There’d be some travel involved, but not a lot.  Bottom line, I’d be home most nights.  And I want to be home.  With you.”

“But that Agent in charge, Beall.  You hate him.  Are you sure you want to work with him?”

Clay huffed out an abrupt laugh, feeling that flutter of nerves again.  “Are you
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.