Free Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by Lisa Clark O'Neill Page A

to wager, he bet that he’d be sorely tempted to hurl chow before this little outing was over. 
    He must be insane to go through all this just to get a girl.
    And hell, it wasn’t like any of this was leading anywhere.  He’d charm his way into Tate’s affections, enjoy her for a few more days, and then it was back to the real world.
    Romantic interlude forgotten.
    Max reached up at that moment to tuck a small, trusting hand into his, and Clay felt like a total ass.  He liked this mother and child too damn much to act like a typical schmuck.  He felt his priorities rearrange as conscience began to overrule libido.
    He’d treat them to an entertaining afternoon, drop them off safely, and then go about the business of pretending he never met them.  Anything else was simply making suggestions of promises he couldn’t keep.      
    How the hell he’d stumbled into this situation instead of a nice, uncomplicated vacation fling was beyond him.
    He let go of Max’s hand long enough to fish his wallet out of his pocket – he’d insisted on footing the bill in payback for his accommodations the night before – and garnered them three hand stamps signifying paid admission.  It earned them a limited amount of rides, but games, food and additional ride tickets cost extra.  All in all he figured these carnival folks had a pretty good thing going.
    They made their way through the gate, and Max’s mouth hung open for a full thirty seconds as he took in the bevy of available thrills.  To a child, the carnival was a veritable wonderland of exciting possibilities. 
    To that child’s male chaperone, it looked like precariously cobbled together hunks of scrap metal operated by a bunch of shifty-eyed and possibly criminal characters.
    Tate’s pained gaze met Clay’s over Max’s head, and he found his sentiments mirrored.
    “This is the first time I’ve been to one of these in the daylight,” she admitted, looking around.  A leather-skinned vendor hawked enormous clouds of cotton candy as a mechanical dragon looped overhead, ferrying passengers squealing with glee.  The specter of Port-O-Potties cast a malodorous pall over the far corner of the park, while the competing aromas of caramel corn and bratwurst vied for the upper hand in their assault on the olfactory senses.  Harried parents shepherded hot, sweaty children . Ear-splitting screams erupted from the direction of the “Tornado,” which spun unsuspecting folks in a vortex of centrifugal force while the ride’s bottom dropped from beneath their feet.  “It, uh, sort of loses something without all of the midway lights and, you know. Darkness.”
    The corner of Clay’s mouth tugged into a commiserative grin.  “I’d say the sanctity of Walt Disney’s empire remains comfortably un-assailed.”
    “Can I ride the dragon, Mommy?” Max was clearly unfettered by the grown-ups’ lack of enthusiasm.
    “Sure you can,” Clay responded, after catching an approving nod from Tate.  Then he picked the child up, balanced him on his hip, and flicked his finger down the length of his nose.  “How about we boys show your mama how real men handle vicious creatures.”
    They slew that beast, and many other mechanical monsters, over the course of the next few hours.  Clay’s stomach began to rebel at the thought of one more spin on any sort of rotating contraption.  To appease Max and buy himself a few minutes on steady ground, he took one of the glib-talking carnies to task by attempting to level a milk bottle pyramid. 
    He’d been at it for a solid fifteen minutes despite the fact that he was pretty sure the bottles were bolted down, and wondered what the orthodontia-challenged man operating the booth would say if he whipped out his badge and demanded to inspect the set-up. 
    It was petty and immature of him, but he wanted to impress Tate by winning Max a ridiculous purple bear.
    He tossed the ball in his hand, eyed the milk bottles like the enemy, and