The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  Tate snorted and sat up, spreading one hand over the straps of her top and raising the other like a stop sign. “Are you here on vacation?”

  “I am.”

  “Then let me save you some time. You’ll have better luck with your spiel somewhere else.”

  Clay settled himself on the edge of her blanket, propping one leg to support his arm. “Why?”

  Good lord. He looked like a page from a beefcake calendar. All that was missing was a tool belt, or perhaps a strategically placed fire hose…

  Tate jerked her eyes up to meet his expectant expression. “Because while there are many things for tourists to do in Charleston, I’m afraid I’m not one of them.”

  He grinned, clearly more entertained than offended.

  “I’ll be sure to mention to my buddy that he better take you off the brochure.” He motioned over his shoulder toward a very large dark-haired man who looked suspiciously like he’d passed out. They were probably a couple of drunks. She leaned a little closer to the man sitting beside her, detecting the salty sting of sweat, the unique muskiness that was man. But nothing that gave any indication that he’d been drinking.

  He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Do local men smell different?”

  “What?”

  “You’ll have to forgive me; I was unaware of my pervasive ‘tourist’ B.O. If you’d like, I can head back, take a shower before I ask you out.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she demurred automatically, wondering how this conversation had gotten so far off track.

  “Great, Tate Hennessey, since you’re apparently” – he leaned in and sniffed – “a local, I’ll let you choose the spot. I’d be happy to pick you up at let’s say… seven.” He consulted his watch. “Unless you’d be more comfortable meeting me. For a first date, that’s really the best idea.”

  Tate blinked twice, not quite believing her own ears. Had she inadvertently agreed to go out with him?

  She did a quick mental replay of the conversation, only to reaffirm that she’d made it perfectly clear she wasn’t interested in accepting the offer which he hadn’t actually put forth.

  “Okay.” She began to raise her hands in a gesture of dismissal, quickly aborted when her top started to slip. In a burst of impatience, she tied the straps together, leaving him looking disappointed. “I’ll give you points for being persistent, but that doesn’t change my answer. Now, why don’t you go bother that woman over there?” She pointed to an attractive blonde in a ridiculously small bikini.

  “Not interested.”

  Right. “You didn’t even look –”

  “Busty blonde, a little on the short side, almost wearing three black scraps of fabric. Looks like she’s waiting for the sun to come down and personally gild her ass.”

  Tate smothered a burst of laughter. It was a very accurate depiction. “How did you know who I was talking about? You didn’t turn around.”

  Clay shrugged. “I’m observant.”

  Her eyebrow arched in challenge. “Okay, Mr. Observant. Tell me about the sunbather lying next to her.” She wanted to see if his powers of observation extended to anyone other than the attractive females littering the beach.

  He rolled his shoulders, loosening himself up to meet the challenge. “Well now, Tate. I do believe you’re trying to throw me off. Because calling that man under the umbrella a sunbather is something of a misnomer. Since his skin is the approximate color of a fish’s underbelly, I doubt very seriously he’s trying to catch some rays. Unlike you, he’s probably comfortable with his complexion and doesn’t want to ruin it.”

  Tate drew back, unsettled by his perception. “What makes you think I’m uncomfortable with my complexion?”

  He gestured to her bottle of SPF 4. “You’re out during the hottest part of the day, with insufficient protection. In this day and age, everybody knows about skin cancer and premature aging, and you strike me as an intelligent woman. So what is an intelligent, fair-skinned woman doing lying in the afternoon sun with a lotion that does little more than lessen the severity of the burn? She’s asking for the burn, because she knows that with her coloring, it’s the quickest way to achieve the sought-after tan. Of course, she’ll probably just end up peeling anyway, but she’s young, and that’s a risk she’s willing to take.”

  Tate gasped, finding that more than a little bit creepy. It was like he’d sucked the thoughts right out of her head. “What are you, some kind of mind reader?”

  Clay smiled, looking rueful. “No, I’m actually… a psychologist. Behavior patterns and what they specify about the individual is sort of my specialty.”

  “So you’re a therapist?”

  “Not exactly,” he hedged. “I have a PhD, yes, but I’m not in practice.”

  Tate tried to assimilate this new information. Okay, so the man wasn’t a drunk, and he apparently had an education. But a couple of initials before or after his name didn’t mean he was a swell guy. He was still forward, and blatantly suggestive, and more than a little cocky.

  She narrowed her eyes. “So what’s my behavioral pattern telling you now?”

  “It’s difficult to say. Maybe if you loosened the straps to your top again, I could get a better reading.”

  Despite herself, Tate laughed, because it was clear he didn’t take himself too seriously. Shifting her weight back onto her hands, she studied the almost ridiculously sexy psychologist. He possessed the kind of humor and self-deprecation that transformed bravado into lethal charm. But since he was here for only a short while and she had more than her hormones to consider, she decided that she’d have to pass. “Although I can’t say I’m not intrigued, I’m afraid I can’t go out with you, Dr. Copeland.”

  “Clay,” he corrected. “And why is that?”

  “Well, for one thing, I have to work.”

  “Okay. Then how about I –”

  “Mommy!”

  Perfect timing, Tate thought. Then she raised a hand to greet the familiar duo heading toward them.

  THE excited voice brought his head around, and Clay noticed a small, dark-haired boy running in his direction, followed at some distance by an attractive older woman possessed of silvery hair and a tired smile. He peered over his shoulder, gauging whether the pair was perhaps bearing down on someone behind them, but a quick glance at Tate Hennessey’s wry smile put any doubts aside. And if that hadn’t done it, the resemblance between mother and son was unmistakable.

  The boy was beautiful. A beautiful, happy, living little boy.

  Against his will, Clay felt himself shutting down, the ghost of his failure rising up to haunt him.

  “Mommy, Grandma let me have two scoops of ice cream, instead of just one like you said.” Flush with the excitement of his secret, he was too young to keep it to himself. “I had a scoop of ‘nilla and a scoop of the pink one with all of those colored thingies in it.”

  “Cotton candy?” Tate suggested as she wiped her thumb across his chin, which still bore the evidence of his coup.

  “Uh-huh. It was yummy, but I wish they wouldn’t make it pink. Pink’s a girl color. Who are you?” He turned his inquisitive green-eyed gaze on Clay.

  “I’m Clay,” he explained, hating his sudden stiffness. “Pink’s not such a bad color, but you might not want to let any of your friends see you wearing it on your face.”

  The boy giggled as his mother wiped the sticky mess off his chin.

  “Max, this is Dr. Copeland. Clay, this is my son, Max. The second and most important reason I can’t meet you tonight,” she informed him under her breath.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Max.” Clay extended his hand, and the little boy eyed it for a second before slapping it with the traditional five.

  “Ouch. That was more like ten.” Max giggled and Clay felt something inside him breaking, a small fissure he wasn’t quite sure how to repair.

  The little boy in Topeka had had dark hair.

  He opened his mouth to excuse himself, feeling panic begin to well throu
gh that fissure, but the arrival of the older woman stopped him.

  “I take it the little heathen ratted me out.”

  “If he hadn’t, the evidence on his chin would have done the job.” Sending Clay an awkward glance, Tate made the introductions. “Mom, this is Clay Copeland. Clay, my mother, Maggie Hennessey.”

  Clay stood, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Hennessey beamed approval. And catching the spark that lit her mother’s eyes, he saw Tate roll her own.

  “And how do you two know each other?”

  “We don’t,” Tate informed her.

  “Sunscreen,” Clay said at the same time, trying not to notice the boy’s undivided stare.

  Seeing the confusion on her mother’s face, Tate hurried to explain. “Dr. Copeland happened by when I was applying my sunscreen. He was kind enough to offer to assist me in rubbing some on my back.”

  Despite his discomfiture, Clay had to smile at that little bit of whitewashing.

  “Oh. So you’ve just met,” Maggie surmised. “Are you from around here, Dr. Copeland?” The spark in her eyes burned brighter.

  “Clay. And no, I live in Virginia.”

  “Oh.” The subtext of that single syllable reeked of frustrated maternal machinations.

  “I think we’ve taken up enough of Clay’s time,” Tate said as she started to rise, and using her hand to block the sun from her eyes, turned to address him. “Thank you again for your… assistance.”

  Clay smirked at the blatant dismissal, but figured all things considered, it was for the best. “No problem.” His shaded eyes drilled into hers one moment longer than was strictly polite, before turning toward her mother.

  “Mrs. Hennessy, it was a pleasure. And Max.” Somewhat reluctantly, he stuck out his hand again, but then jerked it away at the last second. “Oh. Too slow. You’ll have to practice that with your mama.”

  The boy laughed and Clay barely repressed a flinch as he lifted his hand in farewell.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CLAY pulled on a white T-shirt over his freshly showered torso, wincing slightly as the fabric settled onto his shoulders. He’d overdone it a little today, staying out just long enough to make himself uncomfortable. After he and the lovely Tate Hennessey had parted company, sun awareness hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. Ironic, really, considering that had been a predominant part of their conversation.

  As for ironic, how about the fact that he’d driven eight hours through the night to escape the recurring image of the dark-haired little boy he’d failed to save, only to have another one thrown virtually into his lap.

  The psychological gods were obviously having a good laugh at his expense.

  Winding a belt around his waist, he decided to put off analyzing the situation and his reaction to it for a couple more days.

  After all, he was Clay Copeland, beach bum, and he was here to have a good time.

  “Are you ready?” Justin inquired after a cursory rap on the bedroom door, dark hair glistening from his shower.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Clay stuffed his wallet into his back pocket.

  They headed toward a bar in nearby Charleston that Justin swore had the best happy hour in town. Pinks and vivid oranges had just begun to paint the sky with the colors of the approaching sunset, and as they fought their way through the tourist-laden streets, he cranked down his window to allow the heavy smell of history to permeate his senses. It was tough to remain melancholy about his own trials when surrounded by the indisputable evidence that no matter what he had or hadn’t accomplished, time continued to march on.

  Murphy’s Irish Pub was nestled between an old-fashioned pharmacy and a private historic home cum bed and breakfast establishment, and Justin explained the arrangement was strategic: the folks at the bed and breakfast recommended Murphy’s for dinner and liquid refreshments; the staff at Murphy’s recommended the pharmacy for analgesics to ward off the next morning’s hangover, and the pharmacist recommended that inebriated patrons book a night at the bed and breakfast to sleep it off.

  The atmosphere inside the pub was festive, an interesting mix of traditional Irish camaraderie and southern hospitality. High tables clustered thick as barnacles along the scarred and stained wooden floor, which bore the marks of almost two hundred years of patrons. An angular staircase led to the dining room which occupied the historic building’s second floor.

  In one corner, a live band kept the crowd entertained with some rather bawdy Celtic music, and everyone of legal age had a pint or bottle tucked into their suntanned hands. The bar itself was shiny as a new penny from frequent passes of the polishing cloth, and behind it stood three strapping men doing their level best to keep up with the demands of the thirsty crowd.

  Justin signaled to the oldest of the trio – Mr. Murphy himself – indicating that he and Clay were going to be taking over one of the tables toward the front of the bar. The man acknowledged him with a lifted chin, and turned to speak with one of the waitresses as he finished pulling a fresh pint. Within minutes a peppy brunette in a green Murphy’s T-shirt and short black skirt appeared to take their order.

  “I think it’s been almost as long since I’ve been inside a bar as it has since I’ve been inside a woman,” Justin remarked wryly, after she’d left.

  Clay chuckled and slapped the other man on the shoulder. “The night’s young, my friend, and ripe with opportunity.” He cast his gaze around and noted the comfortingly high female to male ratio. For the most part, the women were young, tan, and unencumbered by masculine companions, their body language suggesting that they were here to have a good time.

  “If we can’t drum up some female companionship in this crowd, we might as well hang it up.”

  Justin cocked an inquiring brow toward Clay. “Speaking of female companionship, you never did tell me what happened with the yellow bikini. I gather you struck out.”

  A glib retort trembled on the tip of his tongue, but the truth tasted bitter, so he spit it out instead. “It turned out she has a kid.”

  “So she was married?”

  “I don’t think so. She wasn’t wearing a ring, and she didn’t give off any matrimonial vibes.”

  Their drinks arrived, and after they’d thanked the waitress, Justin lifted his glass. “Okay, I’m sure you get sick of people asking how it is that you do what you do, but I have to know. What in the hell is a matrimonial vibe?”

  Clay grinned, taking a pull on his beer. “Behavior is unspoken language,” he explained. “You determine a person’s baseline – or normal – behavior in a given situation. How they deviate from that baseline shows their instinctive reaction to the situation’s stimuli. If she had been married, she most likely would have reacted in one of two ways when I approached her. She would have been dismissive – either politely or aggressively, depending on her personality and the kind of relationship she might have with her husband – or she would have been receptive in a… guiltily excited way. Kind of like a kid offered a second cookie that she knows she’s not supposed to have.” He shrugged. “She was cautious but not strongly dismissive, and she showed no signs of guilt when I finally managed to pique her interest. She acted very much like a single woman who was weighing her options about an unknown man. Eventually, she turned me down on the basis of her obligations to her son, but even if she hadn’t, I probably would have begged off after I’d seen him. It sounds shallow, but I didn’t come here to be around little boys.”

  “That’s understandable. But I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about that tonight. Not a kid in sight.”

  Clay smiled, looked over the crowd, and homed in on a point of interest. “Now speaking of behavioral language, that pretty little blonde over there is practically oozing nonverbal leakage. She keeps trying to make eye contact with you, and she’s playing with her hair, which is a definite sign of interest.”

  Justin looked at the woman, who almost immediately looked aw
ay. “You’re full of shit, man.”

  “No, no.” Clay took another swig of beer. “Trust me on this, Justin. It’s what I do for a living. You see how she’s laughing a little louder than the other women at the table?”

  Justin rolled his eyes before cutting them toward the blonde. “Yeah. So what? Maybe she’s just obnoxious.”

  “No. She’s only become louder in the past few minutes. Ever since she looked over here and saw you. She’s trying to draw your attention away from the others by making herself stand out. Sort of like a male peacock lifts his feathers to make himself appear larger when he’s attempting to entice a mate.”

  Justin flicked his gaze at the table of girls. Flipping her hair when she caught him looking, the blonde offered up a smile. Justin turned and studied Clay.

  “See? Peacock.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Would I make something like that up?” When he saw Justin’s raised brow he held up a hand. “Okay. I might. Yes, it’s entirely possible that would be something I might do. But believe me when I say that I’m shitting you not. That lovely lady has shown numerous behavioral indications that she’s hot for you. If you’re looking to pull yourself out of your sexual rut, she’s your best bet.” Eying the dubious look on Justin’s face, he grinned and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “Ten bucks says she comes over here within the next twenty minutes.”

  Justin looked at the money lying on the table with a great deal of skepticism, but put his own President Hamilton on top of Clay’s. “You’re on.”

  Eighteen minutes later, Clay left the table ten dollars richer. They’d no sooner polished off their shrimp and ordered a second round of Killian’s when the blonde made her move. It turned out she was a pediatric nurse who worked at MUSC and had seen Justin around the hospital. Palming the money, shooting Justin a superior smirk, Clay excused himself to go mingle.

  The crowd had grown thick as evening gave way to night, and he wound his way through it to find a spot closer to the band. Smoke rose in a thin blue cloud, dispelled occasionally by the salty breeze drifting in from the open windows. Patrons wandered in and out from the patio to the bar, and well-fed diners descended the worn stairs to mix with the crowd. Clay leaned against a rough-hewn support beam and watched them come and go, amazed, as always, at the way body language spoke volumes.