Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (19 page)

Tate laughed, a small sound that faded quickly.  “So what you’re saying is that you’re taking the high road and turning me down?” 

Ignoring his penis as a navigational tool, Clay nodded, taking the
high-road’s first available on-ramp. “I like you, Tate.  Very much.  You’re beautiful and special and good.  And I don’t want to be the next blond to let you down.  Yeah, I remember what you said – I’m the latest in a line.  You know, you might want to consider dating brunettes.” 

Tate
’s smile was both wry and a little sad. “At the risk of sounding trite, and turning this into a stereotypical ‘I think we should just be friends’ speech, I’d like to say that I would like that.  You know, being friends.  Because you’re honestly the most amazing man I’ve ever met.”

Clay
winced, but she continued.

“I mean, I’d like you to call me, if you ever need to talk.  Or
want
to talk.  Or don’t particularly feel like talking but are inclined to listen.  Whatever.  And whenever you’re in town you’ll always have a place to stay.”

For some reason that made him feel worse. 

“Thank you,” he said, regardless.  “And now, before I ruin this whole
amazing
man
thing I have going by grabbing you and tossing you into the back seat, I think we’d better say good night.”

Tate leaned toward him, hesitat
ing, before planting a quick kiss on his cheek.  For once, Clay didn’t open her door, as that was just one step closer to following her inside.  In fact, he moved his gearshift into drive and sat with his foot on the brake. 

“You’ll, uh, let me know how the case is going?  If they find Casey.  Either way?”

“I’ll call you,” Clay promised, taking the punch to the gut as she walked away. 

When had he gotten so damn… pathetic?

This entire vacation was doing a number on his head.

He started to head back to Justin’s, but as he passed Murphy’s he pulled to the curb.  If he wasn’t going to spend the rest of the night with Tate, he saw no reason to spend the night sober. 

HE hadn’t raped her.

Casey repeated that to herself as she lay shivering in the middle of the bed.  It was probably an easy ninety degrees inside, but she couldn’t stop the chills that racked her.  Turning, she pressed her chattering teeth against a pillow gone wet with tears.

But he hadn’t raped her.

It was that thought alone that kept her from throwing up.

The man – he’d said his name was William – had actually been almost… nice. 

Creepily, unbearably nice.

He’d put a bandage on her wrist to keep the handcuff from doing more damage, chiding her for hurting herself.  He’d brought water, some food – which now sat uneasily in her stomach – and had un-cuffed her long enough for a desperately needed bathroom visit.  Taking the opportunity to study the window over the tub, Casey had noted the layers of old paint with a sinking stomach. 
Sealed shut,
she thought, and looked out for any neighbors, anyone who could help her. 

But William – God help her, he looked like a fish’s belly; he was so white – had known what she was up to.  “There’s no one around to hear you, Casey.”  And stood in the doorway, grinning. 

Startled, Casey slipped from the bathtub ledge, where she’d been peering at an empty field.

“If you’re a good girl,” he held out one huge white hand “I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.” 

Like that was supposed to make the whole thing better?

But figuring it best not to tick him off, Casey allowed herself to be led back to the bedroom.

Where he’d cuffed her, once more, to the bed. 

Then stripped off the shorts he was wearing and laid, just laid, beside her.

But he hadn’t raped her.

She reminded herself of that again.

He’d stroked her hair, touched her breasts – just once – and chatted as if they were friends.  As if by
smiling,
simply smiling at him, she’d given the impression that’s what she wanted.

Casey heard her mother’s voice in her head, warning her not to encourage strange men.

Oh, Mama,
she thought, throat constricting. 
I’m so sorry I didn’t listen.

But the noise from downstairs had her eyes snapping open.  The other man must be back.

The man who’d come into the room, seen William in the bed, and gone quietly, coldly ballistic.  He’d told William that he couldn’t mess with the merchandise, that the deal they had required a virgin.  Somewhere in the midst of the men’s argument, Casey’d come to realize they were talking about
her.

And Casey knew enough to know that merchandise meant that they were actually planning to
sell
her.

Tears rolled again, hot this time, as anger mixed with fear.  She’d find a way out.  She
had
to find a way out. Before the creeps could make their first dollar.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ROGAN
Murphy watched the FBI agent enter the bar, looking tired as hell and twice as grim.  His blond hair bore channels from frustrated fingers, and dirt and sweat marred the shirt which had been virginal just that morning.  He’d lost that freeze-dried Men in Black appearance, presumably shed while digging for God knows what in the dirt.  The tie was gone, too, his sleeves pushed back above tanned forearms.  All in all, the dude was definitely not looking his company best.

Whatever he and Tate had done today, it obviously hadn’t been barrels of fun. The man appeared to be in dir
e need of a drink.

Rogan, with that sixth sense
that seemed to come along with the liquor license, guessed that part of J. Edgar’s problem came from a snafu with his lovely cousin. 

So Tate had turned him down, eh?

The flag-planting expedition Rogan witnessed that morning apparently had been for naught.

Rogan topped off the pilsner he’d been filling, passing it and a tray full of shots to one of the waitresses.  After drying his hands on a bar towel, he slapped it over his shoulder, watching Clay belly up to the bar.  Declan took his order for Killian’s in a bottle. But Rogan overrode the call, tapping his brother on the back.

“Let me get this one.”

Declan cast a long glance over his shoulder.  “Isn’t that Tate’s new man?”

“I believe he’s applied for the position.” Rogan poured a shot of whiskey, then dropped the glass in the middle of a highball, filling it with Guinness from the tap.

“You plan on blowing him up?”  Declan motioned toward the Irish Car Bomb Rogan had prepared. 

“Testing his mettle,” Rogan clarified, smirking into identical blue eyes.  “As should be expected of any man who wants a piece of this family.”

Declan tipped his head toward Copeland.  “And why might you be thinking he wants a piece of this family, might I ask?”

Rogan inspected the drink, satisfied with its contents.  “He got all proprietary this morning, not only with Tate, but with Max.  It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so… refreshing.  None of the losers Tate’s dated before have been man enough to take on the kid.”  It was a sore point, as Rogan was devoted to them both.  “This guy looked able, and willing.”

Declan’s brow shot skyward.  “Yet here he sits, drinking alone.”

“He and Tate were working on some kind of FBI thing today – missing girl, I think, but I didn’t get the whole story.  But I suspect that hang-dog expression has as much to do with our fair cousin as it does with his sucky job.”

“Well, whatever.  But just to clarify, I thought FBI was here for a limited time frame.”

“Yeah.  Tate said he was out of here at the end of the week.”

“And so you’re fretting about this because…?”

“I don’t fret,” Rogan protested.  “I may, occasionally, express reservations, but I don’t fret. That’s physiologically impossible for a man.”

Dec snorted. 
His brother, who could care less what their friends and relatives did in their private lives, claimed Rogan had the tendency to channel the Love Boat’s Captain Steubing.

And Tate was his little Vicky.

“Have at it.” Declan shrugged, moving off toward the opposite end of the bar.   He sang low under his breath as he walked by, just loud enough for his brother to hear him.

“Set a course for adventure, your mind on a new romance –”

Rogan sent a well-placed elbow to Declan’s ribs.  Then he snagged Copeland’s drink from the bar.

THE
glass that was placed in front of him definitely contained alcohol, but it sure as hell wasn’t what he’d ordered. Clay lifted his head from the hand he’d dropped it into to find Rogan Murphy staring back at him.

Perfect.

Exactly who he wanted to see.  Maybe he should just call Josh Harding over, too, so that he could make this night a total suck-fest.  They could play The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, challenge each other to a couple of duels.  Or maybe Murphy could simply mediate while he and Harding shot each other, since his interest in Tate was platonic and the guy didn’t carry a gun.

“What’s this?” He was annoyed by the sullen tone of voice, but couldn’t find
pleasant
in his current repertoire. 

“Irish cure-all.” Murphy nodded at the glass.  “Looks like you could use one.”

Clay studied the drink, studied the man.  Tate’s cousin had his hair tied back in a tail, and he’d decided to put on a shirt.  Irritation spurted. Clay decided it had been a colossally poor decision to patronize this particular establishment. 

Dozens of bars, he mused, sliding his hand toward the drink. And he plants his butt in the middle of the Irish Inquisition.

“Is this some sort of test, Murphy?”

Rogan offered a smile
that was little more than a show of teeth.   “I don’t know, Agent Copeland.  Should it be?”

Absurd to have to prove a point this way, but Clay figured when in Rome.  And so figuring, downed the elaborate concoction in one fell swoop.

He turned it over, empty, on the bar.

About to make a comment regarding pissing contests and the like, the fire of that combination roared through him.  Tears welled, flames licked,
and his stomach exploded into a ball of burning embers.  “Holy shit,” he choked, relieved that his voice box hadn’t been cremated.  “What are you trying to do, man?  Kill me?”

Rogan
slapped a companionable hand on Clay’s shoulder.  “A moment or two of agony, and then you feel no pain.”

Clay wiped at the moisture leaking from his eyes.  “Well, I haven’t quite reached th
e
no
pain
part.  Apparently that involves a side trip through Hell.”

Rogan reached down, chuckling, and slid Clay a bottle of Killian’s with practiced flourish.  “So would you like to start a tab?  Easier, all around, if you’re planning to stay awhile.”

Yet a little unsteady, Clay eyed the man to gauge his agenda.  This was obviously a recon mission.  Or maybe an all-out assault, complete with dirty bombs. 

“I’d like to stay awhile.”  There was a double meaning there, and
from the look on the other man’s face, they both knew it.  “But unfortunately my schedule doesn’t allow for indulging in more than a couple drinks.”  And though his stomach rebelled, for principle’s sake, he lifted the beer to his mouth.

Flipping the towel off his shoulder, Rogan wiped the ring from the bar.  “It’s always been my philosophy that if you have no intention of getting sotted, you’re better off not visiting the bar.”

Tongue tucked firmly in his cheek, Clay contemplated the analogy.  Decided Murphy’s position was admirable, in an utterly obnoxious way.

“You’re close to Tate?” he asked, simply cutting through the crap.  They could dance around this issue for the next three hours, but Clay had left his blue suede shoes in the car.

“Very.”  Murphy’s arms crossed.  “Tate’s a sweetheart.  The only time we’ve ever locked horns was over the situation with Max’s father.  I wanted to kill him. The man was a piece of shit.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”  Clay tipped his bottle, pleased the contents went down easy.  “And this is the part where you tell me that if I hurt her, you’ll have to kill
me
.
”

“I wouldn’t have put it in so many words, because that might be construed as threatening a federal agent.”

Clay smiled.  “So do you go through this little dog and pony show with everybody who takes Tate out?”

Murphy’s eyes went hard.  “I saw how you were today, both of you, with each other.  And the way Max went right to you, as well.  Call it premature, but I’m good at reading situations.  You’re either going to be very good, or very bad, for Tate.  Now I figure which way that goes depends upon whether or not you’re a total asshole.  If you’re just hanging around her for kicks – a little side note to your vacation – then you make real sure you’re clear about that up front.  What she does with that is up to her, but at least she’ll know where she stands.  Goes the way you want it, you make damn sure your protection’s reliable.”