Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

was his first day at the beach.  A tourist, she concluded. Looking to score.
And his hand was hovering dangerously close to her ass.
Whipping herself over, Tate swatted at the offending appendage.  “Do I look that gullible, Mister …”
“Copeland.”  He smiled, to devastating effect.  “Clay Copeland.  And what you look like is a bad case of sunburn waiting to happen.”  Hoisting the bottle of sunscreen she’d tossed aside so recently, he waggled it around.  “It’s kind of tough to spread this stuff on your own back.  I’d be happy to help you with it. With skin as beautiful as yours, I’d sure hate to see you get burned.”
Tate could hear the gears of seduction working like a finely-tuned machine.  Five years ago, she might have been impressed.
Come to think of it, five years ago she had been impressed, and that’s how she’d ended up with Max.
She retrieved the bottle of sunscreen.  “I’ll just lie on my back, thank you, and that should take care of the problem.”
“You lying on your back might take care of both of our problems,” he murmured.
Tate’s mouth formed a little “O” of surprise. “I don’t know who you think you are –”
“Clay Copeland.  I thought we’d already established that.  However, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.  Ms…?”
“Hennessey,” she contributed, before she could stop herself.  “Tate Hennessey.”
“Lovely name, Tate Hennessey.” He tested it on his tongue, like fine wine.  “It fits you.”
Tate snorted and sat up, spreading one hand over the straps of her top and raising the other like a stop sign. “Are you here on vacation?”
“I am.”
“Then let me save you some time. You’ll have better luck with your spiel somewhere else.”
Clay settled himself on the edge of her blanket, propping one leg to support his arm.  “Why?”
Good lord. He looked like a page from a beefcake calendar.  All that was missing was a tool belt, or perhaps a strategically placed fire hose…
Tate jerked her eyes up to meet his expectant expression.  “Because while there are many things for tourists to do in Charleston, I’m afraid I’m not one of them.”
He grinned, clearly more entertained than offended.
“I’ll be sure to mention to my buddy that he better take you off the brochure.”  He motioned over his shoulder toward a very large dark-haired man who looked suspiciously like he’d passed out.  They were probably a couple of drunks.  She leaned a little closer to the man sitting beside her, detecting the salty sting of sweat, the unique muskiness that was man.  But nothing that gave any indication that he’d been drinking.
He tucked his tongue in his cheek.  “Do local men smell different?”
“What?”
“You’ll have to forgive me; I was unaware of my pervasive ‘tourist’ B.O.  If you’d like, I can head back, take a shower before I ask you out.”
“That’s not necessary,” she demurred automatically, wondering how this conversation had gotten so far off track.
“Great, Tate Hennessey, since you’re apparently” – he leaned in and sniffed – “a local, I’ll let you choose the spot.  I’d be happy to pick you up at let’s say... seven.” He consulted his watch. “Unless you’d be more comfortable meeting me.  For a first date, that’s really the best idea.”
Tate blinked twice, not quite believing her own ears.  Had she inadvertently agreed to go out with him?
She did a quick mental replay of the conversation, only to reaffirm that she’d made it perfectly clear she wasn’t interested in accepting the offer which he hadn’t actually put forth.
“Okay.” She began to raise her hands in a gesture of dismissal, quickly aborted when her top started to slip.  In a burst of impatience, she tied the straps together, leaving him looking disappointed. “I’ll give you points for being persistent, but that doesn’t change my answer. Now, why don’t you go bother that woman over there?”  She pointed to an attractive blonde in a ridiculously small bikini.
“Not interested.”
Right. “You didn’t even look –”
“Busty blonde, a little on the short side, almost wearing three black scraps of fabric. Looks like she’s waiting for the sun to come down and personally gild her ass.”
Tate smothered a burst of laughter. It was a very accurate depiction. “How did you know who I was talking about?  You didn’t turn around.”
Clay shrugged.  “I’m observant.”
Her eyebrow arched in challenge.  “Okay, Mr. Observant.  Tell me about the sunbather lying next to her.”  She wanted to see if his powers of observation extended to anyone other than the attractive females littering the beach.
He rolled his shoulders, loosening himself up to meet the challenge.  “Well now, Tate.  I do believe you’re trying to throw me off.  Because calling that man under the umbrella a sunbather is something of a misnomer.  Since his skin is the approximate color of a fish’s underbelly, I doubt very seriously he’s trying to catch some rays.  Unlike you, he’s probably comfortable with his complexion and doesn’t want to ruin it.”
Tate drew back, unsettled by his perception.  “What makes you think I’m uncomfortable with my complexion?”
He gestured to her bottle of SPF 4.  “You’re out during the hottest part of the day, with insufficient protection.  In this day and age, everybody knows about skin cancer and premature aging, and you strike me as an intelligent woman.  So what is an intelligent, fair-skinned woman doing lying in the afternoon sun with a lotion that does little more than lessen the severity of the burn?  She’s asking for the burn, because she knows that with her coloring, it’s the quickest way to achieve the sought-after tan.  Of course, she’ll probably just end up peeling anyway, but she’s young, and that’s a risk she’s willing to take.”
Tate gasped, finding that more than a little bit creepy.  It was like he’d sucked the thoughts right out of her head.  “What are you, some kind of mind reader?”
Clay smiled, looking rueful.  “No, I’m actually… a psychologist. Behavior patterns and what they specify about the individual is sort of my specialty.”
“So you’re a therapist?”
“Not exactly,” he hedged. “I have a PhD, yes,