Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (best affordable ebook reader txt) 📕

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, hesitating, 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 dire 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