A Night of Southern Comfort (8 page)

“Kayla, I wanted to talk to you.”

She shook her head and gestured with the phone in her hand. “Later. You need to get to the hospital.”

“Are you ok? Did someone hurt you?” He inspected her body for wounds, then grasped her arms. He couldn’t imagine how someone could have gotten to her in the diner but he’d catch the son of a bitch and make sure he never touched her again. “Who was it? Are they in the ba—”

“I’m fine.” She smiled and rested her hand against his chest where his heart thudded with adrenaline. The paced kicked up even more at the contact. “The hospital just called me. I’m the pediatrician on call.”

“What?” He didn’t understand.

“You need to go, Jackson.” Her blue eyes twinkled and she’d never looked more beautiful. His gut clenched in jealousy of who or what caused her such pure, unadulterated joy. He had it bad.

“Your sister’s in labor.”

Chapter Six

Oliver Cantrell Loftis was a lucky baby. Just shy of two hours old and his appearance garnered attention that rivaled Brad Pitt showing up at the local Starbucks. The maternity wing’s waiting room was full of people who had nothing better to do than drop everything, sit around for him to make his appearance, then make fools of themselves over his fat little fingers and toes.

Michaela was no exception.

In her esteemed medical opinion, he was perfect and beautiful and all things wonderful wrapped up in a blue blanket, handcrafted by the ladies auxiliary. Michaela stood at the nursing station trying not to gush as she entered her official newborn examination notes. Logging out of the computer, she turned to observe the happy scene unfolding in the hospital room directly behind her.

The proud parents, Mary-Marshall and Steve, cooed over their son while his big sister, Madison, bounced happily in her grandfather’s arms. John Cantrell was a large, jovial man with a ready smile and the easy authority of a small-town sheriff. His wife, Dolly, flitted among the crowd, admonishing and hugging in turn. It was a live version of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Michaela’s chest tightened. She’d never had a family like that and she knew what she’d missed.

Her attention shifted to Oliver’s godfather—Jackson. He leaned against the wall, remaining in the periphery while observing the antics of his family. A slight smile tugged at his sensual lips. Although his tall, muscular body took up an inordinate amount of space, he was genius at blending into the scenery. But Michaela always saw him clearly. When he was around, everyone else faded into the background. While his attention was diverted, she gave him a long, thorough, letters-to-
Penthouse
-inspiring ogle before she had to complete her rounds and head home.

As if on cue, Jackson turned his head. The heat that flared between them tightened her belly and quickened her pulse. Although Michaela knew she should, she couldn’t stop looking at him. Her skin burned with the memory of his hands, large and calloused, moving along her skin, over her nipples, and between her legs. She wanted that sense of utter freedom again. The ecstasy of sexual free fall.

Damn. She needed to get laid.

Jackson shifted his stance, straightened up and pushed off the wall, clearly intending to come over to her.

No, that couldn’t happen. She’d spent the better part of two days avoiding him and she wasn’t about to have the conversation he wanted to have in the busy waiting room. He would insist on the security detail and she would have to refuse. Nothing would change but they’d end up angry with each other yet again.

Turning her back on Jackson, she looked down at the desktop covered with papers and files and took the deep breaths that were—according to her yoga instructor—guaranteed to calm her nerves and relieve stress.

The instructor was full of crap. All it ever did was make her lightheaded and loopy—and Jackson already made her feel that way.

She needed to get out of here, complete those rounds, and get back to her home and her large, empty bed.
Jeez
. Now she sounded like a bad soap opera
.

“Running away?”

Michaela stopped, as Jackson’s drawl slid over her skin in a rough caress. God, how she loved his voice—it was as expressive as his facial expressions were passive, and it felt as if his sexy inflections and tone were just for her. She should have made her escape a couple seconds earlier. Talking to Jackson wasn’t going to strengthen her resolve to stay away.

“I’m not running away.” She turned then jumped. Damn, he was so close. She wouldn’t have to reach too far to drag Jackson against her body and kiss his sensual mouth. He’d taste like warmth, spice, and the desire that blazed in his dark eyes. She swallowed hard before continuing. “I have to check a couple of patients before going home.”

“Thanks for taking care of Mary-Marshall and the baby.” His voice dipped lower as he took a step closer.

She took a step back, bumping into the counter behind her. She was caged between it and Jackson. To escape, she either had to go through him or over a piece of furniture. She was staying where she was.

“I didn’t do anything. I just counted his fingers and toes after all the hard work was done.”

“Don’t tell my mom that.” His lips curled into an easy grin. “She thinks you’re a miracle worker.”

“I know.” Michaela laughed. “She told me that I get free pie for life!”

“Don’t bother arguing with her.” Jackson’s smirk morphed into a deep chuckle that curled her toes. “Seriously, just say thanks and take the pie.”

Michaela found herself smiling at him in spite of all her earlier internal lectures about avoiding the tempting Mr. Cantrell. Too soon, his face lost all signs of amusement and the intensity of his mood caused her skin to tingle with awareness.

“I’m sorry you had to interrupt your date with Teague.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Sure looked like one.”

“Nope. It was a ‘thank you for your business’ dinner. Nothing like our da…” Her words trailed off as her embarrassment tingled across her skin. She had said too much—again. The key to dealing with Jackson was to avoid all memories of how their last date had almost ended.

Jackson glared. Maybe she’d presumed too much by calling it a date? He’d made it clear that he wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. Time to backpedal.

“Not that our dinner was a
date.
It was just…pie,” she stammered.

Michaela bit her lip. This was agony. Normally she could handle a simple conversation—she’d been interviewed by Katie Couric for God’s sake!

“Just pie?” His voice was even, face unreadable.

“Yeah.” Oh crap, her voice squeaked like a teenager. Clearing her throat she tried again. “Just pie.”

Oh, wow. That was
so
much better.

“I thought it was a date.” Jackson shifted closer, his voice lowering to a deep timbre. “Food was shared. A romantic walk. A kiss goodnight.”

“But you didn’t eat anything.”

Oh my God.
She prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She was stupid with desire and sexual frustration. It was the only explanation for the way her IQ fell into the toilet whenever he was within two feet of her. Her hands shook. Tension coursed through her body and settled into a low burn in her belly.

Jackson leaned in, his chest and thighs brushing against her body as he focused on her mouth. He was going to kiss her.

And she was going to let him.

Abruptly, Jackson stepped back and put distance between them, disrupting her equilibrium and her peace of mind. Like a flash, the sexy, smoldering gleam in his eyes was replaced by something else. Aggravation? Confusion?

Join the club. They had chemistry and passion but that didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He’d been honest with her but it didn’t stop her mind and heart from wishing for a chance of something more.

He cleared his throat. It was now his turn to sound like he’d missed puberty. “I came over to see if you were okay. No one else hiding in your bushes? No photos? Threats?”

“Oh.” Not again. She didn’t want to have this conversation with him and disappointment sharpened her reply. “Stay out of it, Jackson.”

“Not an answer. You’d tell me if anything else happened, right?” He grabbed her hand, setting her heart to racing for an entirely different reason.

“Sure.” Michaela breathed through the anxiety caused by her Peeping Tom and forced herself to relax and put on a brave front. She didn’t think she’d actually fool Jackson, but she was counting on him being too much of a gentleman to call her on it. “But I think the governor will give up soon. I doubt he’d stoop to putting a bogeyman under the bed.”

“Would he stoop to physically harming you?”

Even with all of the underhanded stuff her father had pulled, he’d never laid a hand on her. It was a line that even he wouldn’t cross and the knowledge had kept her from totally losing her mind over the last few days. The stalker was creepy. Her father was going all out on this effort but she’d never really considered herself to be in danger.

“No. I don’t think he’d hurt me. That’s why I’m determined to wait him out. He’ll give up when it starts to bore him.”

He studied her for a moment before he tugged her a little closer. His lips brushed her earlobe, warm breath making the loose tendrils from her chignon tickle along her skin. “If anything happens, you call me.”

She opened her mouth to demur but he gently tightened his hand on her arm and cut her off.

“Kayla. Promise me.” It wasn’t a question.

Michaela’s desire to fight him melted under his fierce tenderness. She’d never had anyone care that much about her who wasn’t on her father’s payroll. She blinked back the tears and nodded. His long fingers stroked her wrist before he brushed the briefest kiss along her cheek and let her go. Damn, this man got to her every single time.

Stepping back, she took a deep breath and swallowed all the words she wanted to say to settle for everyday civility.

“Congratulations, Jackson. He’s a beautiful boy.”

Thirty minutes later, as she left the hospital and headed to the dark and relatively empty staff lot, Michaela mused over her short interaction with Jackson. She missed him. She wanted him. And he wanted her. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem—but when had her life ever been normal?

What the hell?

Clearly, her Jackson-induced high was blurring her vision because the man kneeling by the front left tire of her car
had
to be a hallucination. Something metal in his hand flashed in the overhead lights and stopped her dead in her tracks. Metal clanged against her hubcap and her brain processed one, clear thought: run.

Backing up as silently as possible, she cursed when her shaking hand lost its grip on her keys and they landed in a noisy heap on the asphalt. The intruder whipped his head up in surprise. So much for a stealthy retreat. The man—it
was
a man, in a dark jacket and a baseball cap—sprang to his feet, raced toward her, and knocked her out of the way as he sprinted to the woods at the edge of the parking lot.

Falling, her arms sprang out involuntarily, but too late to stop her head from slamming against the bumper of the neighboring car. Pain shot through Michaela’s skull and she cried out as stars danced behind her eyelids.

With a groan, she crawled on her hands and knees until she could place both hands on a car. She tried to lift herself up. Bad idea. The pain was blinding and she slumped down onto the chilled parking lot. Tentatively self-assessing her injuries, she figured she had a concussion but nothing else felt broken. She was going to hurt like a son of a bitch tomorrow when the bumps and bruises were no longer masked by the adrenaline. Right now, she was more concerned with hypothermia settling in, once the temperature dropped on the mountain.

After lying there for several moments, she heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the hospital entrance. Voices. Shouts. Activity swirled around her as her Good Samaritan summoned help. Through the dizzying tumult, one voice became clear and grounded her as the earth fell out from under her and was replaced by a hospital gurney.

“Kayla, baby. You’re gonna be all right. Just hang on.”

Jackson.

At least she wouldn’t have to call him to tell him that something happened.

…

Jack wanted to shoot something.

He stood just outside the emergency room cubicle assigned to Kayla while the doctor examined her. Though only an hour had passed since he’d found her lying in the parking lot, it seemed like an eternity. Why was it taking them so damn long to figure out the extent of her injuries? He knew from his stints in the Marines and undercover that head injuries were never good, and he’d raised holy hell when he’d brought her inside. One look at his thunderous expression and the staff had scuttled her directly to get a CAT scan, then called Beck to the ER to get him under control.

Beck assured him that the best doctor was on Kayla’s case and reminded him that she’d get all the courtesy due as a member of the hospital staff.

Well, what he’d actually said was,
Jack, calm your ass down or I’ll kick you out myself
—but it had worked well enough to get him to focus on whether this was a deliberate attack or an accident.

Lucky walked up to him, accompanied by Sheriff Burke, and nodded toward the bed where Kayla lay, looking shaky and pale. The fear in her eyes was in direct contrast to the rigid calm of her demeanor. She hung onto her control like a champ. While he admired her strength, he fought the urge to walk over and hold her.

“Is she all right?” Lucky asked.

“The doctor hasn’t said.” He turned to face Lucky and Sheriff Burke—both had a grave expression on their faces. This didn’t look good. “Did you see anything on the security tapes?”