Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

role in the investigation.  He suggested, quite equably, that she should direct any questions she might have toward the local sheriff.  He wasn’t inclined to have his face plastered all over the news.
“Are you ready?” he asked Tate softly, when they’d done all they could for the time being.
Tate nodded, and after offering a last word of support to Casey’s mother, he shepherded his date and her sleeping child back to his car.
THE quiet ride home was a far cry from their trip out that afternoon.
Max had fallen asleep even before they’d left the parking lot, and the closed look on Clay’s face kept Tate from peppering him with questions.  She had a million, born of concern and frustration, but she knew they’d done all they could for now. And like he said, maybe he was wrong.  Maybe Casey had gone off of her own free will. She wanted to ask what the statistics were for teenagers getting grounded until they reached adulthood for scaring their parents to death, but she thought it was better to leave it alone. Her cousin Kathleen was a homicide detective, and Tate understood that there were times when they just had to shut everything out.
Poor Clay.
Considering this was supposed to have been a no-stress trip to the beach, he’d spent more time embroiled in crises than lying on the sand.
“You know, for a man who’s on vacation you sure haven’t had much time to relax.”
Clay’s tone was rueful as he pulled into the inn’s lot.  “Well, I can’t say our dates have been boring.”
Tate studied him in the shadows.  The gas street lamp cast flickering patterns of light across his face, which still bore the insult of last night’s battle.  The swelling in his lip was down but the bruise beneath his eye had bloomed a sickly violet.  Added to that was the accumulated evidence of their day:  His white T-shirt bled red from the grasp of ketchup-smeared little fingers, and his hair– stiff from sweat and dust – was more burnished now than golden.
There was a small piece of what looked to be a popcorn kernel caught between his two front teeth.
“Actually,” she informed him to lighten the mood, and because she found his disarray ridiculously attractive.  Perhaps because she’d learned that the shiniest things usually tarnished faster than most.  “You can’t really consider them dates.  Last night you kidnapped me from my place of employment, and my son invited you along today.  If anything they’ve been more like… random encounters.”
“Random encounters?” One side of his mouth drew up in amusement.
“Uh-huh.  Dates are when one person asks another to accompany them someplace.  Usually involving a shared meal.  Possibly some form of diversionary entertainment.”
“I see.” Clay leaned against the window. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe we shared an ungodly amount of food today, as well as hours of various forms of entertainment.”
“True.” The nod was acknowledgement.  She was glad her teasing had drawn out his smile.  “But you’re forgetting that crucial ‘date’ component.  You never actually asked me out.”
“I see,” he repeated, reaching out to stroke her fingers.  She extended them to link with his.  “Is this where you tell me that because I skipped a step I’m required to go back to the beginning?  Do not pass go?” He kissed their joined fingers.  “Do not collect two hundred dollars?”
“I’m afraid those are the rules.”
“Well,” he tightened his grip.  “I’ve never been very good at following directions.”
Dragging her over the console, Clay shot his other hand into her hair.  Surprised, Tate could only blink as his mouth descended against hers. She’d been bantering with him, hoping to cheer him up… and possibly angling for another kiss like they’d shared beneath the Ferris wheel. A little sweetness to wash away the awful taste the last couple of hours had left in her mouth.
But this was no innocent sampling.  He angled his head, parted her lips, and went after her with his tongue.
Some small, sane part of her brain whispered this is a bad idea.  She’d lectured herself earlier about the dangers of playing with fire.
But her blood heated.  Her skin went damp beneath the hand that slid under her T-shirt.  The muscles in her stomach quivered when his fingers blazed a trail.
“God.  You taste good.”
As compliments went, it wasn’t the most poetic.  But when he nipped at her lip, traced the tip of his finger around the edge of her bra, she considered that sweet talk was overrated.
“That’s just the chocolate from that banana.”
He groaned against her throat, and the thick shoulders beneath her hands shuddered.  “I have a confession.”
The husky rasp of the words made her shiver.
“Oh?” She caught her breath.  His finger dipped beneath the black lace.
The lace rasped against her nipple as he drew the cup down.  “When I watched the way you were using your mouth on that tasty little frozen confection, I’m afraid it caused… an involuntary reaction.”
Tate was pretty sure he was reacting now.
And as much as she wanted to be put off by that, the fact was her blood was sizzling. His fingers skimmed, then cupped her breast as if to weigh it.  Circled her nipple, drawing a whimper from Tate’s throat.  And when he pinched, ever so slightly at first, then just short of actual pain, it short-circuited whatever protests her brain might make.
She tugged his hair to get his mouth back on hers.
CLAY had hoped to throw her off guard with that first kiss, shake her up a little.  Not allow her the time to think it through.  But since she wasn’t the only one who’d been shaken, he fought to wrestle his desire under control.
Tate was sweet, so devoid of artifice, and she’d gone utterly willing under his hands.
Not that he wasn’t delighted about that. But she deserved the time and space to do this right. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up taking her in the back seat.
Shit. 
The back seat.
Opening one heavy lid Clay caught sight of the