The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  Maybe she’d go to college one day, become a nurse.

  But first she had to get to Florida.

  Janie pushed away from the tree and tried to convince her rubbery legs to move. She’d just about talked them into it when a car pulled alongside her. Warily, she looked it over – a dark-colored foreign job, one of those BMWs, she thought – as the man driving it lowered the window.

  “Sugar you’re not out here walking in this heat, are you?”

  He looked to be about thirty, maybe a little older. She really wasn’t the best judge of age. He was jacked and kind of handsome for an old guy, but that didn’t mean she could trust him. After all, Danny Lawrence was handsome, and look what a crock of shit he turned out to be.

  He turned in his seat to pull a soda bottle from a bag beside him, then extended it through the open window. “You look like you could use something cool to drink.”

  Janie hesitated, because she didn’t know this guy from Adam. Just because he didn’t look like a perv didn’t mean he wasn’t. She took in the expensive-looking watch on his wrist, the glint of gold on his ring finger.

  He seemed okay, but still…

  “Just take the soda, sugar. I promise I’m not going to bite.” When she still didn’t move, he held up his cell phone. “Is there somebody I can call to come pick you up? I bet your parents wouldn’t be too happy about you walking down the highway all alone. I know I sure wouldn’t.”

  “You have kids?” she asked, cautiously inching closer. He really did seem okay, and she was so thirsty.

  “Just one,” he admitted with a proud smile. “A little boy. And his mama would have my hide if she thought I passed you by without offering to help.” He waved first the bottle, then the cell phone. “Would you like a drink, or would you like me to make a call?”

  “There’s no one to call.” Janie accepted the beverage. “I’m on my way to visit my cousin in Florida, and I’m afraid if I call first, she won’t let me come.” Unscrewing the cap from the bottle, she upended and nearly drained it.

  “Well Florida’s a bit farther than I intended to go. But if you’d like, I can give you a ride down to Beaufort. Although if you ask me, I still think you should call your cousin.”

  “No.” She shook her head, trying to decide what to do. She was hot and sweaty and exhausted, and the air conditioning seeping out his open window made her want to dive in. Hitching a ride to Beaufort might not be such a bad idea. Swaying a little, Janie thought the heat must really be getting to her, because when she looked down the deserted road the pavement seemed to move in waves.

  Before she knew what was happening, the man was helping her into the backseat. “Easy, there. You look like you might be having a little trouble. Why don’t you just lie down and rest, and I’ll wake you when we get where we’re going.”

  She was conscious of him tucking her feet into the car, tossing the small backpack she’d been carrying in beside her.

  Then the door closed with a muffled thud, and she wasn’t conscious of anything at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two weeks later…

  IT was just shy of eight a.m. when Clay Copeland arrived at his destination. The Isle of Palms was a little spit of beachfront off the Carolina coast, close enough to Charleston to be considered a kissing cousin. The island had been hit hard by Hurricane Hugo back in the late eighties, and with many of the original homes damaged beyond repair, the locals gathered up their insurance money and either rebuilt or cleared out. Consequently, McMansions had cropped up like so many mushrooms after a storm. Even after the housing bust, property values were at a premium, but Clay’s good friend Justin Wellington had gotten a sweet deal because he happened to perform emergency gallbladder surgery on the little old lady who’d owned his home.

  Clay parked his SUV beside Justin’s classic 1940’s pickup. The truck was all man, which made for an interesting contrast to the barren window boxes, shabby lace curtains and unruly flower beds on either side of the steps leading to the deep verandah. The lone rocking chair with its peeling paint was the punctuation on a sad, bachelor pad sentence. Chuckling to himself, Clay foresaw a long visit from Justin’s mother coming up in the near future.

  Having broken over the horizon a couple of hours ago, the sun now worked its watercolor beams through the tops of the palmettos and live oaks that shaded the small yard. Salt hung heavy in the air, and Clay sucked in a breath, savoring it like fine whiskey.

  He’d grown up with the sea, and he’d missed it.

  Not that his current home base of Quantico was totally landlocked, but as it stood he was only there half the month anyway. And even when he was there he was usually stuck inside, swimming in crime scene photos and autopsy reports instead of the surf.

  Don’t think like a federal agent.

  The words his boss had uttered as he’d basically booted Clay’s ass out the door were going to be Clay’s own little incantation. This vacation was long overdue, and given the nightmares he still suffered after having his last case blow up in his face, Clay was forced to admit he needed the break. So for the next several days he was not Special Agent Clay Copeland, officer of the federal government. He was Clay Copeland, beach bum.

  A worthy calling.

  To that end, Clay locked his badge in the glove box of his 4Runner, tucking his gun and holster into the duffel bag that he dragged from the back seat. Eyes gritty from so many hours of staring at the road, he made his way down the oyster shell path toward what he presumed was the back door. Justin was a man of his word, and Clay found it unlocked.

  Stepping quietly into the kitchen, Clay discovered it was pretty much more of what the house had offered from the front. At one time, a woman had lived here and left her mark.

  Unfortunately, that mark was singularly ugly.

  Taking in the lay of the land, Clay noted the slightly musty smell, the bumper crop of florals. He wandered into the living room, where the deep leather sofa, recliner and large screen plasma TV indicated the reassuring presence of a male.

  Clay followed the open doorway off to the right in hopes that it led to a bed.

  He encountered a linen closet, a room which housed some exercise equipment, a surprisingly updated bathroom – Justin had obviously gotten started on at least some of the home improvements – and a closed door which boasted a piece of paper attached to it with a strip of medical tape. A closer inspection revealed a scrawled message:

  I’ll eat the apple if you’ll stay away.

  It took Clay, in his sleep deprived state, a moment to make the connection. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” He grinned, suppressing the urge to barge into Justin’s room, just on principal. But he was too tired to mess with his friend. There’d be plenty of time for that later.

  By process of elimination, Clay determined that the door which faced the opposite direction from Justin’s must be the guest room. The wide plank floors had been refinished, the king bed attractively adorned with a simple blue quilt. Tasteful lamps topped washed pine nightstands, and white sailboats crossed a decorative pillow’s calm sea.

  Clearly, Mrs. Wellington had already paid a visit.

  Exhausted, Clay tossed his bag in a chair, toed off his sneakers, and didn’t even bother to pull the covers back before he collapsed on the bed.

  The smell of coffee drew him from sleep like a penitent to a revival. From the level of daylight seeping through the wood blinds he guessed it was sometime around noon. A glance at his watch confirmed he’d slept for four and a half hours without moving.

  And without dreaming of dead little boys.

  Shaking off that thought along with sleep’s vestiges, he swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. Despite the fact that he and caffeine had an uncertain relationship lately, he couldn’t deny the allure. Seeing as this was now vacation coffee as opposed to work coffee, maybe he’d have better luck.

  He shuffled toward the kitchen.

  A skivvy-clad Justin was hovering over the coffee pot,
dark head resting on the nearest cabinet. Clay thought of several cruel and immature ways to gain his attention, but hell, he was crashing at the man’s house for the week, so common courtesy prevailed. “Hey,” he drawled by way of greeting.

  “Ah! Damn.” Justin cracked his head against the cabinet before turning bleary gray eyes on his friend. “God, Clay, you scared the piss out of me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Obviously. Nice reflexes there, son. An efficient burglar could have waltzed in and out of here and you wouldn’t have had a clue.”

  Justin’s shrug was tired, or maybe just indifferent. “Other than the TV, I can’t imagine what any self-respecting thief would want.” Moving to take two chipped but functional mugs down from the cabinet, he proceeded to fill the first with coffee. “Aside from that, I’m six-three, one-ninety, and I grew up with four brothers. Self-defense wasn’t a class in my house; it was how you survived until puberty.”

  Clay chuckled, accepting the steaming mug. He’d gone through Quantico with Justin’s brother Jesse, so knew whereof the other man spoke. “You can rest assured that you won’t be hearing any personal safety lectures from me this week.” He took a sip of the rich dark brew while Justin poured his own. “I’m just here for sun, surf and loose women.”

  Justin grinned and motioned Clay toward the table, unconcerned about the fact that he was entertaining in his underwear. “I wish I could help you out there, but I’ve been pretty well out of circulation for the past… God.” He scratched his head. “I don’t even want to think about how long. My little black book probably has moths.”

  “Now that’s just sad.”

  “Tell me about it.” Justin took a bolstering sip of coffee. “What about you? I understand you’ve been pretty busy as well.”

  “An unfortunate guarantee that comes with the job.” There never seemed to be a shortage of evil.

  Despite all his talk, the pain of the past week was still fresh. As a member of the Bureau’s Investigative Support Unit, he saw the very worst of human behavior, though for the most part, the victims he dealt with were beyond help. The best he could do was help overburdened law enforcement officials narrow in on the offender by understanding the behavior.

  Until last week. When the suspect to which Clay helped lead Topeka officials took his own family hostage. Clay’d been thrown into the role of negotiator, and even as he’d tried to talk the desperate man down, the man turned the gun on his wife and his son.

  A day hadn’t gone by that Clay hadn’t heard that little boy scream.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Justin said. “I know it’s not easy.”

  “No, it’s not.” As a trauma surgeon, Justin had almost certainly learned that loss was an unavoidable part of his work. Funny that he, with all of his psychological training, was having such a hard time accepting that. “But anyway, that’s the end of the shop talk. So what’s on your agenda? I want to make sure to stay out of your way. Just direct me to the beach and a couple of restaurants and pretend I’m not here.”

  “Actually, barring an unforeseen emergency, I have the rest of the day off. We can slap a couple of sandwiches together, head to the beach if you want.”

  “Sounds good.” Clay drained his coffee, felt the familiar kick. Things were starting to feel right with his world. “Let me grab my trunks, and I’ll help you with the sandwiches.”

  After lunch they threw a couple of towels over their shoulders and waded through air thick and sweet as molasses. “God, I’ve missed this.” Clay dropped down onto his towel, adjusting his shades as Justin stretched out beside him. Waves rolled in, a reassuring rhythm that dulled the senses and lulled the mind.

  Casting his gaze down the crowded beach, Clay automatically noted the various activities going on around him. Numerous sandcastles were being alternately constructed or destroyed, a wicked Frisbee toss took center stage in the open area off to his left, and a large man in an inadvisably small swimsuit read a novel under cover of a striped umbrella. He tried not to survey the crowd in anything but the most casual manner, but given his occupation, his natural inclination was to look for signs of trouble or otherwise worrisome behavior. Those little unconscious quirks that gave people away.

  Don’t think like a federal agent.

  As much as he disliked the notion of hearing voices, he didn’t try to push his boss’s advice out of his head. He wasn’t here to profile the populace, or look for the socially deviant. He was Clay Copeland, beach bum, and he was here to have a good time.

  He was perfectly content to just lie on his towel and do nothing. Maybe take a dip. There was nothing like fresh air and sunshine to…

  “Joseph, Mary and all the saints.”

  Behind his sunglasses, Justin popped open one sleepy eye. “Problem?”

  “None that I can see.”

  Justin leaned up on one elbow to follow the direction of Clay’s gaze. “Nice,” he agreed after a moment’s observation.

  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 situation, 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 f
lesh 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 retrieved 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 take 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.”