A Night of Southern Comfort

by Covington, Robin

  Michaela walked over to the freezer, yanked the door open, and shoved her face inside.

  …

  “Cantrell.”

  Jack walked out onto the small balcony area and closed the door behind him. The air was nippy but he could handle the cold. If the caller was who he suspected, then things would be heating up pretty soon anyway.

  “What the hell are you doing, Cantrell?” Governor Eastland’s voice boomed through the air as Jack held the phone away from his ear.

  Bingo. It had only been a matter of time until Eastland called him to demand to know what was going on with his investigation.

  “Cantrell. Are you there?”

  “Governor. You never call. You never write. I was starting to think you didn’t care.” He was playing with the bull, but he couldn’t resist tugging on the horns just a little.

  “I’m not paying you to be a smart-ass.”

  “Actually, you aren’t paying me at all.”

  “I’ve bought you, Cantrell, and you know it.” Jack pictured Eastland’s face twisted into that nasty, feral grin of his. If only the voting public could see the little show. “And your price was pretty cheap by all accounts, so don’t act all high and mighty with me. Stop being a smart-ass and tell me why you didn’t stop my daughter from getting hurt today.”

  The double blow from the governor hit Jack square in the chest and he sucked in a harsh breath. Not only was he a cheap date, he’d failed Kayla. So much for performing well on the job.

  “It won’t happen again. I wasn’t sure until today that the threat was real.”

  “Oh. You finally figured it out today? You’re a genius, son.” Eastland’s laugh was brittle. “So, what have you found out so far?”

  This is where it was going to get tricky. Yeah, Jack could taunt him and refuse to be bullied—hell, the governor probably liked the little test of wills—but he still held the keys to Jack’s future in his hand and it wasn’t smart to push him too far.

  “I’m not discussing the details of my investigation with you. You’re still on my list of suspects.”

  He paused and waited for the fireworks. To his shock, the governor laughed into the line.

  “You’ve got balls, Cantrell, I’ll give you that.”

  Jack let out the breath he’d been holding. Then all humor left the governor’s tone. “You forget that I could make one call to the FBI and end any chance you have of getting your old job back. I could bury you any time I felt like it.”

  It was the truth. Jack glanced through the panes of the French doors. Kayla was cleaning up the supper dishes, her silky hair tumbling about her shoulders as she swayed to the music. Once again, his chest tightened and his body grew hard. It had been that way since the beginning and he didn’t think it would ever stop.

  Jack turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.

  “You do what you want, Governor, but hear this loud and clear. I do this my way. If you get in my way, I will move you.”

  Jack hung up. Fuck. He’d probably just ended his career. He leaned heavily on the balcony railing, breathing in harsh pants. Hell, he’d probably ended a chance at any career. But he wasn’t going to jeopardize the job in order to kiss the governor’s ass. He knew how to solve this and he’d do what he agreed to do. If the governor refused to help him after all this was over, then he’d contact Director Burris and see what he could do for him. And if Burris couldn’t make it happen? Well, he’d deal with that when the time came.

  The phone in his hand buzzed. He glanced at the screen name and accepted the call. “Lucky. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Jack. You okay? You sound funny.”

  Jack scrubbed his hand over his face. It had been a long fucking day. “I just got off the phone with the governor and he’s not happy with our progress so far. In fact, he’s pretty pissed about the whole thing.”

  “Was he more pissed after you talked to him?”

  He let the silence speak for itself. Lucky knew him well and could fill in the blanks just fine.

  “Shit, Jack,” Lucky grumbled. Jack pictured him slumped down on the front seat of the truck, his fingers tattooing an irritated cadence on the steering wheel. “Do you want any chance of getting back in the Bureau?”

  “I’ve got a Plan B,” Jack muttered.

  “Does Plan B involve telling Dr. Roarke you’re working for her daddy?”

  “No, it doesn’t.” What a colossally bad idea. “You saw them together. If she found out, she’d refuse to allow us anywhere near her. And after today, her safety is more important than the lie.”

  “I hope so.” Lucky paused and Jack knew what was coming. “You know, you could try telling her the truth.”

  “No.” Jack pushed aside any thought of doing what Lucky was suggesting. The job—his life on the job—was not conducive to a relationship with a woman like Kayla. She wanted things he couldn’t give her. Lying to her and staying close was the only way he could guarantee she got a chance to have that life—even if it was with someone else. “No. Not gonna happen.”

  “It’s a shame, because when she finds out, she’s going to kick you to the curb just like all the others.”

  “As long as it’s a curb in front of the FBI building then I can live with that.” Jack answered evenly in spite of the tug in his gut.

  “Uh-huh.” Lucky’s voice dripped with skepticism over the sound of his truck engine coming to life. “I’m off to get some shut-eye. No one’s approached the house and it’s quiet. Call me if you need me. I’ll stay at my folks so I can get here in a flash.”

  “See you at her office tomorrow morning.” Jack hesitated. He and Lucky’d been watching each other’s backs since they were kids and would do anything for each other, no questions asked. But Lucky had made enough money during his post-Marines life that he didn’t have to do this. “Thanks, man. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “No, you couldn’t.” Lucky laughed, then hung up.

  With a lighter mood, Jack headed back into the house. The lingering smells of their supper and the warmth seeping out of the gas fireplace cut the chill of the night. He shivered from the contrast.

  Kayla stood beside the dining table, flipping through his files and papers. She wore an expression of concern and slight confusion.

  She was beautiful, all long lines and delicate features and he could still taste her on his lips. He desperately wanted to pick up where they’d left off. Bad idea. Getting involved with Kayla—okay, let’s be honest here—getting more deeply involved with Kayla was the worst idea ever. He knew firsthand how distracting emotions could be on the job. While he’d probably risk his own hide, he wasn’t going to risk hers.

  With a couple of long strides, he closed the distance between them and leaned against the table’s edge, ready for whatever questions she had for him.

  “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble here.” Her voice was husky and she cleared her throat awkwardly. Kayla stared down at the folder in her hand, refusing to look at him. It was a striking contrast to the way she’d devoured him just a short while earlier.

  With a sigh, she closed the file, picked up another, and opened it to review the contents. Finally she broke the silence. “You have information on the governor, my brother, my mother…there are people on this table I didn’t even remember that I’d forgotten.”

  “I don’t know where the threat is coming from. I need to follow up on every possibility until I get to the right one.” He gestured to a pile of files stacked on the table to his right. “This pile has the ones I’ve eliminated so far. People who are dead or living too far away to have done this.” He waved his hand at the file in her hand and at the pile it came from. “That pile is full of people that I haven’t been able to clear, for whatever reason.”

  Kayla’s face scrunched up—in disgust, confusion, or fear; he couldn’t quite put a finger on the emotions that marred her features like a kaleidoscope. She flung the open folder to the side, then grabbed another and s
orted through the papers inside. He read the name on it—Jeff Eastland—the brother who ran off to Spain with his lover and abandoned his little sister to stand up to their father on her own.

  Yeah, okay, maybe he wasn’t entirely objective on this subject.

  “Why is Jeff in the not-yet-cleared pile?” Her voice was even, yet defensive.

  “Because I can’t verify his alibi for the past couple of weeks.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “He left you.”

  “He had no choice!” Kayla’s voice was sharp, her eyes blazing. “You’ve met my father. A gay son. Jeff…couldn’t stay.”

  The heartbreak in her voice cut him to the quick. He’d seen her in passion, anger, worry, and happiness, but her vulnerability at this moment was poignant. Jackson knew her life, how lonely she’d been. He’d grown up solitary in the middle of the boisterous Cantrell crowd, but that was mostly his own doing. And they’d have his back if necessary. There was no safety net for Kayla. She’d truly been on her own, except for her brother—and then he’d left her too.

  Jackson pried the file out of her hand and tossed it on the table. She tried to move away, but he captured her hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the rapid pulse point on her wrist. The flush across her cheeks deepened as he pulled her closer. He didn’t tug her against him like he wanted, but their legs brushed and he smelled the vanilla scent lingering on her skin.

  “I’m sure you’re right. He couldn’t stay. I just have to do this methodically. My system works, so trust me a little.” He’d gentled his voice and was relieved when the anxiety left her expression. He hated to keep up with this topic, but she needed to know how things were going to operate until her pet perv was caught. Some of the necessities were going to irritate her.

  “While you were sleeping, Lucky and I installed alarms on all of your windows and doors and we put a recording device on your phone.” Kayla’s eyebrows shot up but she didn’t interrupt him. Taking her silence as agreement, he continued. “We also secured the bootlegger tunnel down in the garage.”

  “Bootlegger tunnel?” Kayla’s nose wrinkled. She looked as confused as she sounded. “Crystal told me it was an Underground Railroad passage!”

  “She would.” Jackson laughed and pressed a quick kiss to the backs of her fingers while trying to figure out the best way to describe Crystal. “Crystal married Rick Robertson because he could give her the life she always wanted.”

  “I see.”

  “You probably don’t, growing up in the governor’s mansion, but that’s understandable. Crystal was desperate to find anyone who would put that trailer park behind her and she worked her way through this town pretty steadily trying to make it happen. Now, the Robertsons weren’t the most upstanding citizens in Elliott, so the money came with a stain on it.”

  He could tell by her expression that he’d confused her again. “Rick’s family made all their money running bootleg liquor during and after Prohibition. He spent a lot of it trying to make everybody forget that fact before he died.”

  “And Crystal is spending the rest of it trying to finish the job,” she said.

  “Yeah. Nobody remembers the past like Southerners. It took a lot of money to get her a place on the Library Board, but it was never enough to get past the ladies of the Junior League.”

  Kayla nodded, thoughtfully.

  Jackson waited her out. There was a lot to process and she’d have more questions. The one she settled on took him by surprise.

  “Why are you doing this?” She stared him down. Her expression dared him to lie.

  Jackson swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly bone dry. Because your son-of-a-bitch father can get my old job back. Yeah, it was the truth but he couldn’t tell her that—she’d run away from him and straight into danger. But it wasn’t the only reason.

  He was doing it for her. He could give her the truth that really mattered. “You know why.”

  The silence between them stretched, but never so thin as to be uncomfortable. This thing that connected them wasn’t a secret and neither tried to deny it.

  “Yes, I do,” Kayla brushed her lips against his, tenderly. “Thank you.”

  Jackson watched as she turned, walked to her room, and shut the door.

  “Good night, Kayla.”

  Chapter Eight

  Michaela woke to the sound of talking.

  The darkness was deep and the house still, except for the unease she panted out into the air. She’d been dreaming—of Jackson touching her, holding her, making her feel good as only he could. The kisses they’d shared still burned on her lips. She’d tossed and turned to the sounds of his moving around her living room before finally drifting off into sleep. Now, she waited in the dark, straining to figure out what had woken her. Silence. The only voice was the one running in a continuous loop in her head telling her to stop thinking about Jackson lying naked in her guest room.

  She fell back onto her pillow. Having him so near was wreaking havoc on her usual composure—what did Jackson call it?—oh yeah, the Ice Queen. Ice water was what she needed in her veins if she had any chance of keeping her hands off his body until this investigation was over. She had no doubt that he’d catch the guy and then escape to DC at the first chance. He’d made that much clear. But that didn’t stop her from wanting him for whatever time she could have him.

  “Stop.”

  Michaela sat up with a jolt. Okay, that wasn’t a dream. Heart pounding in her chest, she flipped on the bedside light and immediately regretted her action. Wasn’t that exactly what the dumb girl always did in horror flicks right before she officially became Dead Hot Chick Number Three?

  “No. Stop.”

  The voice came from the far corner of her room. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw a lone figure sitting in her upholstered side chair.

  Jackson. He was watching over her while she slept.

  That was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

  If he was going to sleep in the same room with her, then he was going to sleep with her. This dancing around each other was ridiculous. She wanted him for as long as she could have him and on any terms he offered. To pretend otherwise was only guaranteed to make her crazy.

  Throwing back the covers, she scooted out of bed, barely registering the cool floorboards against her feet. Approaching him cautiously, she heard him mumbling under his breath—words of caution in a tone laced with demand—but he was still asleep.

  His face was all angles and shadows in the half-light, his strong jaw covered in a dusting of day-old beard. Lashes, lush and black, were crescent moons emphasizing the bruising of fatigue layered just under his skin. He wore the T-shirt and jeans from earlier, but his feet were bare—a sight that caused her skin to tingle. Feet had never been sexy before, but his were long and finely arched, and their nakedness reminded her of the Jackson she’d spent the night with in Roanoke. The sexy, open, daring lover who’d taken hours to pleasure her with his body and his irresistible mastery of sexy, dirty talk.

  Mr. Webster would’ve been proud.

  Mumbling incoherently, Jackson shifted in the chair, the muscles in his face bunched with tension. Slowly, Michaela stepped forward, smoothing a hand across the lines creasing his forehead.

  Before she could blink, Jackson captured her wrist in a bruising grip and leaped up. Crying out with surprise and pain, Michaela stumbled. He shoved her backward onto the bed, pinning both hands above her head as his long, hard body pressed her down into the mattress. He stared at her but he didn’t see her—he was still in his dream.

  Waking him had been a really stupid idea.

  “Jackson! It’s Kayla.” She kept her voice firm. She held her breath, watching as her words penetrated his dream state. Slowly, his eyes focused on hers, their dark brown depths transitioning from hostility to recognition, fleeting affection, then horrified concern. He released her wrists, which ached with the resumption of blood circulation. Jackson rolled off and lay next to her, his arm flu
ng over his face, chest heaving as his body shook.

  Would it be okay to touch him or should she leave him alone? She rubbed her wrists. Her own hands shook with the residual energy now coursing through her.

  Jackson dropped his arm. “Shit, Kayla. I’m sorry.”

  She looked away and stared at the ceiling, the remorse and guilt on his face too painful to bear. “No, don’t apologize. It was my fault.”

  “How’s this your fault?” She felt, rather than saw him turn to look at her. “Fuck, I could’ve hurt you.”

  She rolled to face him, so close his breath mingled with hers. Jackson’s face was a portrait of disgust and it was all directed at himself.

  “You were talking in your sleep, clearly agitated, and I touched you. You acted out of instinct.”

  “That’s no exc—”

  “Stop.” She covered his mouth with her hand. “You’re former military and a cop. I should’ve known better.”

  “Kayla.” Her name was muffled.

  She moved her hand, letting her fingers linger over his lips and jaw before sliding it down to rest on his chest. His heart pounded in a steady tattoo.

  He swallowed hard, his body heaving with the exhalation of his last pent-up breath. “I have dreams…of the desert.”

  “The desert?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Oh.” She softened her voice. “During med school, I treated some kids whose father’s suffered PTSD after the war.”

  “Then you know that I could’ve hurt you.”

  “And you know it wouldn’t have been your fault.”

  Jackson looked away.

  Tired of pretending there wasn’t an ever-present link between them stretched taut with desire and frustration, she rolled over and pinned him to the bed. She rose up, just enough to look directly into his startled expression. Her hair, dislodged from her scrunchie, fell around them like a curtain, making the semi-dark room even more intimate. She smoothed his hair back from his face; it was silky and crisp as it curled around her fingers.