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

for good measure slid a menacing glare toward Bucky, the Keeper of the Bear.  Max watched with eager anticipation, and Clay couldn’t help but notice that Tate was biting the inside of her cheek. No doubt to keep from laughing.
    He’d pitched a no-hitter at the last Bureau picnic-cum-softball game, and could nail a target with a knife from twenty feet.  Bruised ribs or no, he absolutely should not be having this much trouble taking out a few lousy little milk bottles.
    He wound up, focused, and let fly.
    The bottles wobbled.
    But remained stubbornly upright.
    “Ohh,” the man called out in sympathy, slapping his chest and leaning back as if in pain.  “You almost had it that time, Mister.  Want to try your hand again?”
    Clay heard snickering behind him, and turned to glare at the big, burly dude in the Atlanta Braves cap who was making the noise.
    The man was muscle-bound to the point of looking unnatural. His slick, darkly tanned skin advertised that he was no stranger to the weightlifting scene.  The hat shadowed his face, but Clay detected deep brown eyes laughing in his direction, and despite the heat the guy was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans.
    Something in the back of Clay’s mind clicked, but Tate’s hand on his shoulder distracted him into turning around.
    “A frozen banana on a stick would be much more refreshing and entirely simpler to obtain,” she suggested sweetly.
    It was like salt in an open wound.  Feeling his macho quotient shrivel, Clay wanted to punch somebody, drive a car real fast, and leap a tall building in a single bound.
    He wanted to toss her over his shoulder and drag her off to his cave to make hard, hot love to her until his masculinity was safely restored.
    He wanted to understand exactly when he’d degenerated from a civilized man into a baseball-throwing Neanderthal.
    “Hey mister,” the carnie said as he tossed the ball toward Clay.  “This one’s on me.”
    Clay caught the ball on the fly, flicked his eyes toward the milk bottles, and then returned his steely gaze to the carnie’s face.  Without sparing his target another glance, he sent the ball hurtling toward the bottles.  It hit the bottom middle jug dead center, and the entire pyramid collapsed.
    “You did it, Mr. Clay!” Max squealed as he jumped up and down.
    “You were trying too hard before.” The carnie grabbed a long hook and retrieved the fuzzy purple bear from its perch.  “It happens all the time when a man’s looking to impress his girl.”
    At that, Tate gave in to her stifled laughter. 
    “Thanks.” Clay’s tone was dry as he accepted his hard won prize.  Wooing Tate was turning out to be more difficult than his last ten relationships put together. He’d been sunburned, attacked by a mugger, accused of perversion, incapacitated by a blow to the family jewels, forced to endure numerous rotations on various mechanical contraptions, and humiliated by a buck-toothed carnival worker with some suspicious milk bottles and a cheap purple bear.
    All in all, it had been a painful twenty-four hours.
    He figured it was a good thing that he’d decided to call his intentions in the wooing direction to a halt.  Getting Tate Hennessey into bed might very well prove to be the death of him. 
    “Thank you,” the woman in question whispered i n his ear while dropping a quick kiss on his cheek. 
    All of his uncharitable thoughts flew out the window as she grasped his hand and squeezed.
    Max – proudly clutching his tacky bear to his small chest – took hold of his other hand and looked up at him with adoration.
    “Hell,” Clay muttered to himself.  No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was in full wooing mode, and saw no hope for relief in the immediate future. 
    They went in search of frozen bananas, and after Clay had procured three of the chocolate covered treats they retired to a wooden table that had been set up in the designated picnic area.  The