The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

  “Seems like. Or at least he worried that she did. I’m not holding out hope that we’ll find them. He likely burned them the first chance he got. But my guess is that she hung out with Johnson on the down low, used him to help her with photography since he was more experienced, but wouldn’t give him the time of day in public. Eventually, he tried to push their relationship to the next level, and when she wouldn’t go there, he snapped.”

  Cal didn’t think there was an appropriate response to that, so he didn’t make one.

  Ben sighed, and rubbed his forehead. “That sounds like I think she deserved what happened. She didn’t. No one does. No one.” His voice shook with vehemence. “And I’m going to make sure that Michael Johnson never sees the outside of a jail cell again.”

  Then he glanced up at Cal. “I wanted to thank you. Not only for what you’ve done for Ainsley, but for… taking over that night.”

  “You had the strength to walk away before you did something irreversible. In your place, I don’t know if I could have. Revenge…” Cal cleared his throat. “Let’s just say that I’ve learned that revenge isn’t a substitute for justice. And it becomes real easy to justify that sort of thing in your mind, when someone – or a group of someones – harms people you care about. That’s one of the reasons I got out of the service. The idea of retaliation became too acceptable to me. It takes a strong man to understand the difference.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said after a long moment. “Thank you. I… Shit, the nurse is signaling us. We’re going to have to let Sabrina rest. I just kicked my mom down to the cafeteria right before you got here. I wanted to let Ainsley and Bree have their reunion without the added stress.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Hopefully now that we know the truth about Carly, this will help my mom see reason. She’s…” Ben sighed. “Well, the whole situation hasn’t been fair to Ainsley over the years. Or to Uncle Thomas and Aunt Tyra. To say nothing of Grant. I’m going to do whatever I can to help rectify that.”

  “It may not be my place to say, but… well, I’m making it my place. Taking steps toward repairing her relationship with you has been a visible balm for her this past week. It’s overdue.”

  Ben studied him for a long moment. “You staying at a hotel downtown?”

  “At my mom’s place, actually. We dropped the dog off before we came here.” Cal grimaced. “Although it looks like I’ll be taking him back with me. Turns out the cold my mom couldn’t shake wasn’t actually a cold. She’s allergic to the damn dog.”

  “I’m too tired to make sufficient fun of you right now, but you can fully expect it at a future date.” Ben started to walk off, but hesitated before looking back over his shoulder. “I’m assuming that this thing you have going with Ainsley… you’re serious about it, right?”

  “Would I be voluntarily hanging around you if I wasn’t?”

  That earned a half smile.

  “We’ll talk about this later.”

  Ben strode into Sabrina’s cubicle, and a minute later Ainsley emerged, her face red and puffy.

  And beautiful.

  The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  “I am crazy about you,” he said when she stood before him.

  Ainsley froze in the act of mopping at her face. She glanced at the tissue he extended toward her before slowly lifting her gorgeous dark eyes to meet his gaze.

  “I’m just putting that out there,” he said as she continued to stare “so that you know where I stand. You fell in my creek. Twisted your ankle. I figure I can probably avoid a lawsuit if we’re a thing.”

  “A thing,” she managed to say.

  Cal shrugged. “A couple. Long distance, if we have to. Although I gotta confess that I have plans to eventually lure you to the mountains. Besides, I’ll never get another date, since women will take one look at Beaumont and assume that I’m gay. So really, you’re kind of stuck with me.”

  The smile only revealed itself in her eyes. “That was possibly the lamest, most unromantic reasoning I’ve ever heard.”

  “Did it work?”

  Ainsley shook her head, and then lifted a hand to rest against his cheek. “It worked. Apparently I’m a sucker for lame and unromantic.”

  “Good, because you’re going to get lots more of it.”

  He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

  “I can live with that.”

  So could he. And he intended to do so for a good, long time.

  Justice

  A Southern Comfort Prequel

  Book Three

  Lisa Clark O’Neill

  With special thanks to Brian Koch for his incredible graphic design work and for being a rock; to Sandra Clark for her eagle eye and too many other things to enumerate; to my Pigeons for the laughs and support which help keep me sane; to Kristina Costello and Catherine Hudson for their very helpful feedback; and finally to Dr. Colin Walters for not blinking when I asked him things like “Where’s the best place to stab someone if you want to make sure they die.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Other Novels by Lisa Clark O’Neill

  The Sweetwater Trilogy:

  Mr. Write

  Admit One

  Circumstantial Evidence

  The Southern Comfort Series:

  Serendipity

  Forbidden

  Deception

  Nemesis

  Obsession

  The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy:

  Malice

  Avarice

  Coming Soon

  Fall from Grace

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE explosion woke Caitlin.

  Okay, so it was only the trash truck outside, but it seemed equivalent to the decibel level of two trains colliding at high speed.

  She cracked open one eye, quickly shutting it again when bright sunlight nearly blinded her. The three square windows over her bed were set high on the wall, so she’d never bothered with blinds. Privacy wasn’t a concern, as her fenced backyard and an alley separated her townhouse from the neighbor’s behind her. They’d have to be on their roof with binoculars if they wanted to see into her bedroom. And Caitlin was an early riser, so she always woke long before the light could become a problem.

  Except, apparently, for today.

  Her head throbbed in time with the grinding, mechanical sounds of garbage cans being lifted and dumped into the truck. Caitlin raised a hand, pressed her fingers to her temple in a futile attempt to push the pain away.

  She must be getting sick.

  Even as she had the thought, her stomach roiled, the foul taste in the back of her mouth seeming to fill her nose as well. Caitlin held perfectly still in the hope that a total lack of movement would make the nausea subside, but as bile began to rise up her throat, she realized that she wasn’t going to escape that easily.

  Shit.

  It had been ages since she’d had a stomach virus. Apparently her luck had run out.

  Caitlin rolled to her side, intending to head to the bathroom for the inevitable misery of emptying her stomach, but as she sat up the room seemed to swoop around her. Gathering that her situation was direr than she’d thought, Caitlin kicked at the covers, managing only to tangle her legs and essentially fall out of the bed when they refused to cooperate. Her hair fell forward to block her view, forming a blonde curtain, but she didn’t take the time to push it out of her way. Instead, she crawled as fast as she was able on her shaking limbs, barely making it to the bathroom in time.

  Caitlin hugged the commode, thankful that she hadn’t eaten much last night. She’d been supposed to meet a friend of her future sister-in-law – and a bridesmaid in the upcoming wedding – for dinner. However, the other woman had texted her thirty minutes past the time they were supposed to meet, telling Caitlin she wasn’t going to be able to make it after all. Caitlin finished the wine she’d ordered
at the bar while waiting, and then headed home, thinking she’d just grab a sandwich. But she…

  Well, to be honest, she couldn’t remember exactly what she’d done when she’d gotten home. Had she eaten? Or had she started working on her current manuscript and forgotten to eat, which happened with more frequency than was probably healthy? Thinking about it too much made her head pound even harder, so she gave up for the moment.

  After her stomach was finally empty, Caitlin reached up to flush the toilet. She stared at her bare arm, realizing with a jolt of surprise that she was naked. She must have been too out of it last night to bother with pajamas. Although that didn’t explain the lack of underwear. Maybe she’d gotten hot? Taken them off without remembering?

  If she was this sick, she probably had a fever. People with fevers sometimes did and said unusual things in the grip of their delirium.

  Marshaling her energy, Caitlin crawled over to the vanity and pulled herself up, grabbing the hand towel to wipe her face. But that wasn’t enough. She had to brush her teeth. The taste in her mouth was atrocious.

  She pulled her toothbrush from the holder, loaded it up with minty paste. Bracing herself against the counter with her right hand, she vigorously scrubbed with the other. After leaning forward to spit, Caitlin rinsed the brush, laying it beside the sink. Then she finally pushed her hair from her face, straightening enough to look at herself in the mirror.

  “Holy hell, Cavanaugh.”

  Her voice sounded like sandpaper, and she looked positively awful. And she didn’t even need her glasses to see that.

  But were those… spots on her face? Crap, could she possibly have measles?

  But she’d been vaccinated. Of course, that wasn’t a guarantee. There’d been outbreaks of the disease recently, among the vaccinated population. And Savannah was a major tourist destination, so you had all sorts of people visiting the city from points around the globe, carrying their germs with them.

  She leaned closer to the mirror, trying to bring the spots into sharper focus. They didn’t appear to be raised. Weren’t measles bumps?

  Frowning, Caitlin lifted her fingers toward her face, brushing them lightly over the collection of spots on her right temple and cheek.

  Definitely not bumps.

  She turned on the faucet, ran her fingers under the water, and then wiped at her face again. The spots smeared.

  So, not measles. She glanced down at her fingers, noted the faint wash of color staining them. Caitlin stared.

  Slowly lifting her eyes back toward the mirror, Caitlin tilted her head and leaned in again. The spots were concentrated on the right side of her face. And upon further examination, she discovered them on her neck and her shoulder. Her stomach and legs.

  Her hair.

  Some were bigger than others. It looked more like paint splatter than a rash.

  Her breath began to saw in and out of her lungs, and Caitlin grabbed a washcloth from the vanity drawer and ran it under the water, making it as hot as she could. She pumped soap onto the cloth and then scrubbed it all over herself, her mind focusing solely on the task at hand.

  When she finished, she looked at the washcloth. The white cotton was a diluted, rusty brown.

  Caitlin dropped the cloth into the sink, and slowly backed away. Something wasn’t right. In fact, she thought something might be terribly wrong.

  Continuing to stare at the sink, where the water running over the washcloth swirled reddish as it flowed down, Caitlin backed toward the bedroom. When she bumped into the doorframe she leaned against it for several moments, trying to catch her breath. But the smell… maybe she’d been sick in the bed and hadn’t realized.

  Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut. Her stomach threatened to rebel again, so she pressed a hand to her abdomen, willing it to settle. Gathering her strength, she turned around, taking in the scene in the bedroom for the first time.

  Oh God…

  Had she taken a bottle of red wine to bed and spilled it?

  But her mind rejected that thought even though she wanted to believe it. Desperately. Because the alternative was far less palatable.

  Blood. That had to be blood staining the sheets, her white down comforter. Splatters and streaks.

  A handprint.

  Frantically, Caitlin looked down at her naked body, searching for some sort of injury to explain the mess. But she looked fine. Or at least uninjured, at any rate. Maybe she’d vomited blood, or…

  A pair of jeans lay on the floor at the end of the bed.

  They weren’t hers.

  That was her dress lying next to them, though. The one she’d worn last night.

  Caitlin froze, her heart pounding like an angry fist against her ribs. She stared at the jeans, both fascinated and horrified, like they were an alien life form which had materialized in her room. One corner of her mind started to work the pieces of this particular puzzle, but a far larger part of her brain was telling her to get out.

  Now.

  Moving on legs that didn’t want to hold her, Caitlin clutched at the wall, the dresser, anything that allowed her to stay on the outer perimeter of the bedroom as she edged toward the door.

  Oh God…

  A substance that could only be blood formed a puddle on the hardwood, emerging from beneath a foot. A male foot. Which was attached to a male leg, and the rest of a naked male body.

  A very bloody male body.

  Caitlin didn’t realize that she was screaming until she heard the doorbell, followed by frantic pounding on the door. Turning, she rushed out of the bedroom, feeling a sharp pain in her heel as she flew toward the stairs.

  She didn’t know who was at the door, didn’t even consider the fact that she was naked. All she knew was that she had to get help.

  Sweat coated her shaking hands, causing her to fumble with the deadbolt. Then she wrenched it back, threw open the door, launching herself into the arms of her very startled, elderly neighbor.

  “There now.” He patted her awkwardly. “What’s all this about?”

  “Call nine-one-one,” Caitlin rasped in between sobs. “There’s a dead man in my bedroom.”

  JACK Wellington stirred when the sound of chimes filled the room. He automatically reached for the phone on his nightstand, but his hand encountered only air.

  Jack cracked open an eye. Light filtered into the room through slits in the blinds, allowing him to survey his surroundings.

  No phone. No nightstand.

  Instead there was a brightly patterned butterfly chair, piled with even more brightly patterned women’s clothes.

  Ah, yes.

  The bartender from Parker’s.

  Jack rolled just enough to confirm that his memory of last evening was correct. Long dark hair spread across the pillow beside him, and a bare, caramel-colored shoulder rose above the fuchsia sheet. Her back was to him. Maxine, of the exotic brown eyes and the smile that went several adjectives past suggestive. Her martinis were dry as dust, but thankfully she… wasn’t.

  She also didn’t appear to be a light sleeper. Thank God. Because his phone started to chime again.

  Never a fan of morning-afters, especially when he hadn’t intended to stay the night, Jack eased from the bed and went in search of his clothes.

  Locating his suit jacket hanging on the door, Jack slid his phone from the inside pocket, checking the number before silencing the call. It wasn’t one he recognized. He’d return the call after he was safely out of Maxine’s apartment. He had the feeling she was the type that would invite him to stay for breakfast, and that wasn’t in his plans.

  Jack scooped first his boxers and then his pants off the floor, stepping into them. His shirt had somehow ended up draped over a blade of the ceiling fan – he recalled Maxine being very enthusiastic about helping him undress, tossing things over her shoulder – so Jack stretched his arm up to retrieve it. Luckily he was tall.

  He glanced at his watch as he shrugged into the shirt, unhappy to discover that it was almost eleven a.m
. He never slept that late. But then he hadn’t actually gone to sleep until close to dawn, first closing down Parker’s and then waiting for Maxine to finish the clean-up portion of her shift before giving her a ride back to her apartment. Followed by a ride of a more intimate nature.

  He wouldn’t have stayed, even despite the late hour, but he guessed his schedule finally caught up with him. He’d pulled several all-nighters recently, not unusual when he was in the midst of a high profile trial. But the trial was over – one of the reasons he was at Parker’s on the Park last night, to celebrate the fact that a proverbial axe no longer hung over his client’s neck. Coupled with the alcohol-fueled sex, his body must have finally reached its limit.

  Getting old, he thought, and then froze. He was only thirty-four. He had another decade at least before he could start thinking like that.

  Jack looked around the floor for his shoes before remembering that he’d left them by the front door. He’d taken them off when he came in – ingrained manners. His mother would be so proud – while Maxine mixed them both a drink.

  With one last glance toward the slumbering figure in the bed, Jack eased open the bedroom door.

  He was halfway through when he heard his name.

  Barely avoiding a wince, Jack looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Good morning,” he said. “I was trying not to wake you.”

  “So I gathered.”

  The sheet had fallen from her shoulder when she sat up, revealing the round globes of her breasts. She made no effort to cover herself. She wasn’t the shrinking violet type, as Jack had well learned last night.

  The smart thing to do would be to claim that he’d had a call from an important client and had to leave, but he wasn’t one to make excuses. And while he didn’t quibble about bending rules when he needed to, he tried not to lie.

  “You should go back to sleep,” he said.

  She dragged her gaze from his bare feet to the expanse of chest that still showed between the sides of unbuttoned shirt, lingering briefly, and then finally looked him in the eye. “Or you could come back to bed.”

  Jack’s body stirred at the idea, but the slight temptation wasn’t worth the hassle. It would be easier to leave now, with the boundaries clearly delineated.