Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

of germs.
Tricky because every time she went near him with something medicinal, he snarled like a wounded animal.  “Guess that barnyard comparison wasn’t too far off.”
“What?”
“You’re growling.”
“You’d growl too if someone poured liquid fire in your open wound.”
Tate bit her own lip as she resisted the urge to laugh.  Not that his injuries were amusing, but the fact that he’d so completely lost his unflappable arrogance pleased her greatly.  He was acting like a petulant little boy, and that put them on more even footing.  She was much more adept at warding off temper tantrums than slick seductions.  “Hush.  You’ll wake up Max.”
Clay merely scowled at her when she smiled.
Tate doubted that his various bumps and bruises hurt that badly.  No, she suspected his bad mood was due more to the beating his plans for the night had taken.
It was tough to woo a woman when you were ignobly perched on her toilet.
“I thought Charleston was supposed to be a safe city,” he complained, battered face giving him the look of a boxer who’d gone one too many rounds.
“You know, for an FBI agent, you’re an awfully big whiner.”
The glance he shot her was filled with chagrin. “I was wondering when you would get around to mentioning that. I hope you don’t think I was yanking your chain earlier.  I really am a psychologist.  I just happen to be an agent, also.”
Tate stopped dabbing the cotton swab against his lip and considered.  He clearly hadn’t wanted to divulge what he did for a living, and she couldn’t help but wonder why.  “Are you undercover or something?”
“Nothing that exciting.”  He leaned back, wincing as if his bruised ribs objected to the movement.  “I’m just a guy on vacation trying to pretend that his real life doesn’t exist.”
Unsure whether the aggrieved tone of his voice was from embarrassment or discomfort, Tate furrowed her brow in concern.  Maybe he was hurt worse than she thought. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room?  I can handle a busted lip, but I don’t know anything about bones.  You might have cracked one of your ribs or something.”
“I’m fine,” he assured her.  “Justin looked me over and said that nothing appeared to be broken.  I’ll just be sore for a couple of days.”  He shook his head, then turned a mocking look her way, voice lowered to a sexy murmur. “I know you had big plans, sugar, but the kinky stuff will just have to wait.”
“And here I’d been looking forward to pitting your handcuffs against my whip.”
She realized her miscalculation when his eyes turned hot, raking down her body with obvious intent. His gaze climbed slowly, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind, and she crossed her arms over her chest.
“I was kidding.”
“You sure?” He leaned back, cocky as hell again.  “You’d look awfully good in my cuffs.”
Tate pushed that image right out of her head.  “Be that as it may, I think you’ve been beaten enough for one night.”
  Instead of putting him in his place, the words merely bounced off his ego.  His eyes finished their lazy perusal, heavy-lidded as they met hers.
The walls of the bathroom suddenly seemed too close, or maybe he seemed too large.  Too masculine.  Too…
Hers to do what she wanted with for the night.
Irritated with herself, Tate tossed the used swab in the trash.
She could feel his gaze burning her skin, but was afraid to let her own get drawn back to his.  Because the truth was she was sorely tempted.  And that in itself was enough to make her wary. She didn’t do one night stands, and she sure didn’t do them with both her mother and her son just down the hall. So instead, she crossed her arms again, and after a few moments, heard him sigh.
“I appreciate the help, but I think I’ve taken up enough of your evening.” He rose to his feet, closing some of the distance between them. The step Tate took back was instinctive, and Clay chuckled before leaning toward her ear.  “You can relax now.  I recognize a stop sign when I see it.  Body language,” he explained, when she raised a brow.  “You’re closed up tighter than a fifty-five gallon drum.”
“I’m sorry,” Tate began, feeling the need to explain. “But I can’t –”
He waved her excuses away.  “Probably for the best.  I’ll just call a cab to take me out to Justin’s house.  From the way things looked, he’s going to be spending the night at the hospital.”
Because, as she’d discovered, he was a doctor.  Not a drunk. In retrospect, Tate guessed she’d misjudged both men pretty badly.  But then, that was par for her particular course.
“We have a room available downstairs,” she heard herself say, and cursed her tongue for having a mind of its own.  She should simply let him call his cab.  “A last minute cancellation,” she continued anyway.  “If you’d like, you’re welcome to it.”
He hesitated – just long enough to make her feel uncertain and foolish for having made the offer – but then a lopsided grin eased some of the tension from his face.  “I’d appreciate it.”
Tate opened the bathroom door. “Come on.  I’ll see if I can dig up a T-shirt big enough for you to wear, and show you where you’ll be sleeping.”
THE little boy called out to him for help.  Clay could hear him crying in the background as he talked to the child’s father over the phone.
“Please don’t shoot us, Daddy.”
What kind of thing was that for a child to have to say?
And what kind of man could look into the terrified faces of his wife and son and pull the trigger?
Despite the fact that he was an expert on social deviants and their motivations, their sheer capacity for evil never ceased to disgust him.
“Carl.”  Clay called the man by his first name, establishing a rapport.  “Why don’t you just let Liz and Bradley walk out that door?”   Remind him of