A Night of Southern Comfort

by Covington, Robin

“You can come in now.” Dr. Talbot nodded to the sheriff in greeting as they all filed into the small space. A slim woman with auburn hair and green eyes, she didn’t bother to hide her irritation at having all these extra bodies in her domain. “Dr. Roarke is fine. No sign of a concussion but she needs to take it easy.” She leveled a stern look at them to emphasize her point. “You can ask her a few questions, but then I’m gonna kick you out and get her up to a room for tonight.”

  “No. I’m not staying here.” Kayla’s voice was firm but tinged with a hint of fear. The last part pissed him off. When he caught this guy he was going to make him hurt. “I’m going home.”

  “Kayla.” Jack stepped forward to the edge of the bed and stared her down. She was like most doctors he knew, lousy patients, but if she needed to stay here then he was going to make sure she did it.

  “I’m not staying.”

  At a stalemate, they both looked to Dr. Talbot to break the tie.

  She spoke directly to Michaela. “You aren’t in any medical danger but you need someone to stay with you. Just in case.”

  “Well, then I’m staying with you at your house,” Jack said. With a sputter, Kayla’s mouth opened and he knew it would be to protest his suggestion. So he made sure she understood he meant business. “Otherwise, I’m making a call to Richmond.”

  Jack hated to pull that card but he didn’t want to argue with her. She was in danger—he could feel it in his bones. He wasn’t going to waste time by worrying about preserving her sense of independence.

  Kayla gave him a look that said she thought he was only one evolutionary step above a knuckle dragger. “Bastard,” she muttered under her breath.

  “That’s what they all say,” he answered.

  She was furious, but he preferred her stony anger to the fear she’d worn like a cloak only minutes earlier.

  Sheriff Burke cleared his throat and interrupted the standoff. “Dr. Roarke, do you think you could identify your attacker?”

  She shook her head and winced. “It was too dark, he was wearing a hat…moving too fast.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” Sheriff Burke inquired.

  “Not that I remember.”

  Her look of worry made his chest clench in pain.

  “Do you think this is the same person?” she asked.

  Jack wanted to tell her that it was random, reassure her that her assumptions were right and her father had given up and gone away. But his gut told him that this guy was one and the same and that it was going to get worse before it got better. The only thing he could do to protect her was find the person responsible and make him go away. Permanently, if necessary.

  Sheriff Burke cleared his throat as he placed his notebook in his jacket pocket and motioned him over to talk. “Jackson. I don’t have the manpower to put an officer on Dr. Roarke twenty-four hours a day. Can you really take that on?”

  “Yeah. I can handle it.”

  “I’ll go ahead and sweep her place.” Lucky shrugged his jacket over his shoulder as he prepared to leave. “You’re staying here with her?”

  “Yeah. I’ll bring her home when she’s released.” He couldn’t stop from looking to where Kayla sat silently on the bed, enduring the ministrations of a nurse.

  “Are you okay with this?” Lucky whispered.

  Jack turned to his friend. “What do you mean?”

  Lucky shifted uneasily on his feet, his face showing his debate on whether to continue or just shut his mouth. “You’re involved with this woman.” Lucky held his hand up when Jack started to protest. “You may not be sleeping with her, but you’re into her in a big way. You don’t have the distance you think you do.”

  “Hey, Oprah? I’m fine. It was just sex.”

  “It’s never just sex.”

  “Now you’re really sounding like a woman.” Jack laughed uncomfortably. This conversation hit a little too close to the mark.

  “Fuck off.” Lucky’s voice was stony. “I forgot. You’re made of Teflon and nothing touches you.” He pointed a finger at Jack. “You need to keep your head in the game. This asshole is upping the ante. That tire thing was meant to cause an accident and hurt her. If you can’t see past what’s going on between the two of you, you won’t see him coming.”

  Jack and the sheriff stared as Lucky fished his keys out of his pocket and headed out of the room. His back was stiff with anger. He could count on one hand the number of times he and Lucky had really fought over the years. The fact that his cousin was angry with him gave him pause.

  He was serving two masters—Kayla and her father. One trusted him and the other trusted his ambition. Could he really do this without hurting the other? And could he keep his distance from Kayla? Living in the same house? Together twenty-four hours a day?

  The last time he’d blurred the lines between work and sex, it ended with blood on his hands. He looked at Kayla and felt the familiar tightening in his chest. Yeah, he cared about her and it was more than just sex. Or the phenomenal sex made him think it was more. Either way, the thought of her ending up hurt because he couldn’t do his job was enough to keep him on his toes and his head in the game.

  He’d use his weakness to his advantage.

  The nurse bustled out of the room and he walked over to Kayla’s bed and sat down, taking care not to jostle her. He picked up her hand—it was ice cold and trembling.

  “You okay?”

  She shrugged, staring at the pattern on the standard-issue blanket.

  “I promise you. I’m gonna catch this guy.”

  “Jackson. You can’t beat my father at this game.”

  She raised her head and instead of the expected fear or tears, there was resignation and defeat. Unexpectedly she lifted her hands and cradled his face, stroking his cheek gently in comfort. He sat there in stunned silence. Was she really soothing him when she was the one who needed it most?

  “If you get in his way, he’ll hurt you. I can’t let you do this.”

  Jack leaned in, kissing her forehead and pulling her close as he nuzzled her temple. Her hands fisted in his shirt, trying to push him away but he held on, wrapping his arms around her until she sagged against him.

  “Kayla. I’m not afraid of your father. He pressed a fierce kiss against her skin before making a promise he hoped to God he could keep. “You’ll have your life, I promise.”

  Chapter Seven

  The denim-covered ass bent over her dining table looked familiar.

  And really hot.

  Michaela stood in the doorway and blinked, adjusting to the bright light in her living space, and tried to remember what the hell was going on. The emergency room. Painkillers. Oblivion. Jackson.

  Jackson.

  She must have spoken out loud because he whipped around, his expression startled, then concerned. Damn, even tired and scruffy he looked good.

  “Hey! What are you doing up?”

  He took two long strides to cover the distance between them. Her heart did a little leap when they reached for each other, but he drew back and shoved his hands in his pockets, leaving her hanging in the awkward silence. Michaela swallowed her disappointment. Being held in his arms at the hospital felt safe, wanted—pretty damn good. And she wanted that again, wanted his arms around her, not just for comfort but for what they could have had if things had been different.

  “Hey.” Jackson furrowed his brows. “You okay? You need me to call the doctor?”

  “No. No. I’m okay. The nap did me a world of good.”

  Michaela scooted past him and headed to the kitchen, anxious to put the kitchen island between them. The main room was a long, rectangular space divided by architectural columns and furniture into the kitchen, living, and dining areas, but there was no way to completely get away from his presence unless she escaped to one of the adjoining two bedrooms.

  She opened the fridge to grab some juice. Even the barrier of a door didn’t lessen the impact of knowing he was here and so accessible. Or inaccessible.

&
nbsp; Jackson’s demeanor at the hospital had shifted from “caring man who wants to sleep with me again” to “caring police officer who’s here to do a job” the minute they’d left the building. Once they’d arrived home, he’d reverted into full-on work mode with Lucky, commandeering her dining table for his computer, and handing her off like a child to Theresa for a shower and bed.

  Clearly she was feeling better if her central disappointment was that Jackson hadn’t joined her in either of those places.

  “Did Theresa call?”

  “Yeah.” His face colored slightly and he returned his focus to the computer in front of him. “She said everything went fine at the office and for you to call her when you woke up.”

  “And?” Michaela’s stomach clenched. He wouldn’t look at her. He was deliberately leaving something unsaid.

  Seconds of silence ticked by before Jackson looked up, the tension in his shoulders betraying his dilemma. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether he should come clean or not.

  Ducking his head, he stared at the monitor once again. “She read me the riot act about making sure you were safe and then…she threatened me.”

  “She what?” Michaela choked on the sip of juice she’d just taken.

  “Yeah. She told me to keep my gun in my pants”—he looked up and she saw a smile teasing the edge of his mouth—“or she’d make sure that I never got to fire it again.”

  Michaela stood speechless, holding the juice glass in midair, touched by the misguided but heartfelt protection of her friend. Bursting into laughter, she placed the glass on the counter then gave herself over to uncontrolled peals and snorts. It was so damn good to feel something other than fear and the constant demand to live up to the Eastland standard of decorum.

  “Hey, it isn’t funny to threaten a guy’s…service weapon.” Jackson’s grumbling sent her careering back into a fit of giggles.

  He watched, probably waiting for her to either come unhinged or sink onto the floor in a puddle of tears. She didn’t feel like falling apart. Not today. And it didn’t look like it would be on the agenda tomorrow either—not if she could help it.

  She wasn’t ready to burst into verse one of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” but she felt pretty good for the here and now. She’d been sucked into discouragement and doubt at the hospital. But the governor forgot her greatest strength—she was his daughter. The drive that helped her get away and pursue her dreams would only keep her fighting. Besides, with Jackson on the case, she felt uncharacteristically hopeful that the odds were in her favor this time around.

  “Are you hungry? You want to eat?” she asked.

  “I could eat.”

  “That’s the universal male answer for ‘I’m starving please feed me before I gnaw off my own foot.’” She turned and pawed through the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients and placing them on the counter. “You like omelets?”

  “Yes, but I can call my mom and order something. You should be taking it easy.”

  She straightened and plopped smoked Gouda on the countertop. She grabbed the utensils necessary to make their dinner. “Nope. I feel like cooking. I want to do something normal.”

  She found herself smiling as she prepared the simple supper. It felt good to do something normal in the midst of all this drama. She switched on her iPod and music filled the air. Swaying her hips to the easy rhythm, she cooked the omelet and brewed the coffee.

  Jackson’s voice broke her reverie. “I don’t want this to come out wrong, but why are you in such a good mood?”

  “Why not? Right now, I’m safe here with you and I know that you won’t let anything happen to me.” Michaela bobbed her head in time with the music. She refused to let the bubble pop. “Just humor me, I’m in denial.”

  She felt Jackson’s silent scrutiny for the few moments it took her to finish up and slide the meal onto plates. Until she’d spoken her thoughts, she hadn’t realized how much they revealed. Glancing at the pile of papers and computers on her dining table, she chose to set two places on the island bar.

  “Come and get it.”

  “It smells delicious.” Jackson sat on the barstool alongside hers and took a sip of coffee before digging into the omelet. His eyelids closed briefly in ecstasy. “And it tastes amazing. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

  The praise spread warmth down to her toes. Michaela took a bite of her own omelet and savored the smoky taste of the Gouda and the beefy portobello before nodding toward his stacks of papers on her dining table. “Don’t you have that information somewhere over there?”

  Jackson shifted in his seat, his fork stalling in its journey. He placed it on his plate.

  She’d meant for her tone to be playful but it had been tinged with criticism that he’d clearly heard. She didn’t like the fact that he’d rooted through her life and unearthed all of the gory details of what it meant to be Jefferson Eastland’s daughter. She didn’t want him to judge her, or worse, pity her.

  Just once, she wanted a normal life.

  “Those files only give me dates, facts, raw data. Not everything,” he said, quietly.

  Ashamed at her ungrateful thoughts, she touched his arm, waiting until he looked up. “We had a housekeeper who got tired of me just moping around her kitchen, so she put me to work helping her prepare the meals. In the middle of my indentured servitude, I realized that I liked it. It grounds me when things get a little…out of control.”

  “Mrs. Adkins.” His voice was thoughtful.

  “How did you—?” Michaela was stunned.

  “An educated guess.” Jackson wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed back from the bar. “She stayed the longest, even after she fell out with your father. She cared about you and it makes sense that she developed the attachment after sharing a common interest.”

  “Oh, you’re good.” Underneath that cool exterior was a mind that took everything apart like a puzzle. She was a little afraid of the answer to her next question. “What else do you know about me?”

  “Everything.” Jackson considered her soberly before adding, with a wry twist of his sensual lips, “Everything that can be found on the Internet, in a public record, or by a simple phone call.”

  “I see.” He’d done what he had to do. But it would have been nice if he’d found out about her the usual way people got to know each other. “I know nothing about you and you know everything about me.”

  “Not everything.”

  “All the good stuff.” She could hear the pout in her voice but couldn’t stop it. Her disappointment at this development in their relationship cut deep. “The stuff you discover on the first few dates.”

  Jackson’s expression softened. He bent forward on the stool and tugged her closer until his long, muscular legs bracketed hers. Michaela leaned forward, unable to do anything but respond to his touch and the look that made her ache. She knew their chemistry wasn’t a fluke but it surprised her every time. Just for one moment, she wanted to forget everything and indulge in her denial—and in Jackson.

  His calloused hand cradled her face and his thumb traced lightly over her lips. She darted her tongue out to taste him, an electric shock placing her entire body on red alert. Jackson’s skin darkened with desire.

  Michaela shivered as he nuzzled his nose along her jaw. His voice was husky. “I don’t know your favorite color or where you like to go on vacation. I don’t know if you’re a cat or dog person or if you fought with your brother when you grew up.” His mouth blazed a trail of fire along her throat that ended in a soft kiss over the pulse point fluttering just under her skin. The combination made her light-headed. “I don’t know what you look like in the morning after a night of making love.”

  Michaela sighed. His words stirred her longing to know someone, to belong to someone, to build something that was greater than what you could have on your own.

  “Jackson.” She barely whispered his name before his mouth covered hers in a gentle kiss. His lips were soft and moist, his breat
h hot as he coaxed, caressed and lured her deeper into passion. Jackson wove his long fingers into her hair, tugging lightly until she lolled her head back and exposed her neck. The onslaught of his lips, tongue, and teeth caused a moan of desire to rumble low in her throat. His answering groan was lost in the rejoining of their mouths, now wet, open, and desperate to claim each other.

  Michaela slid off the stool and into the open cradle created by Jackson’s strong muscular thighs. She traced the denim of his jeans, fingernails raking over the hardness of his erection, cupping him as he thrust gently into her palm. Her body was hot and aching, the pressure of her building arousal overshadowing everything but the delicious sensation of pleasure mixed with pain.

  Jackson cupped her ass, pulling her roughly against him. He read her mind. She sought the friction they craved but were unable to find while seated precariously on the barstool.

  With a groan, Michaela dragged him backward, intent on finding a better place for them to kiss, suck, touch, and thrust until this crazy passion was finally spent.

  The ringing of his cell phone caused them both to jump—their breaths came in harsh pants as they hung onto each other.

  Damn.

  Jackson released her and took a step back and reached for the phone chirping away on the dining table. He looked like a cage fighter trying to get his head into the game as he walked on to the mat, shaking his head and rolling his shoulders. His hand clasping the phone shook with the aftereffects of their passion.

  He might not want this, they sure as hell didn’t need this complication, but at least she wasn’t in it alone.

  “I’ve gotta take this.” His voice was detached and even, in direct contrast with the hard-on still pressing against the fly of his jeans.

  Her fingers itched to lower the zipper and see how quickly she could make him forget the phone call. Instead, she nodded and stumbled into the kitchen to clean up the supper dishes. Maybe if she stuck her head in the freezer for a couple of minutes, it would soothe her lust-frayed nerves.

  The sound of his boots on the hardwood floor drew her attention to Jackson’s retreating form as he headed toward the relative privacy of her balcony. His shirt stretched across the broad, muscled expanse of his back and was tucked into his well-worn jeans—jeans that showcased his killer ass and long muscular legs.