Sadness? He had no right! He’d done this to her—to them.
Slowly she faced him. Seeing him up close, the fatigue darkening his features, the lockbox began to shake, everything wanting out.
No. Absolutely not. This man had promised her the world, and in the same day, destroyed her world—with a smile.
“I can’t be here right now.” This was too much, and she was still too raw.
She tried to walk away, but he latched on to her bicep, stopping her. When she attempted to wrench free, he tightened his grip.
“Please, Ryanne. Talk to me. Let me explain.”
“Let me go.”
Again he tightened his hold, as if he feared he would never see her again if he let go. “I can fix this. You just have to give me a chance.”
“Why bother? I’m only a short-term affair.”
“You’re not only anything,” he said, and stepped closer to her.
She could have shouted for help. She could have used the self-defense moves she’d learned years ago. Yes, she could have. But the lockbox splintered apart, hurt spilling through her, filling her up, drowning her. Hurt Jude had caused. Hurt Earl’s death and her mother’s abandonment had caused. Hurts from her childhood, things she’d thought she’d gotten over.
Just—like—that. Her control snapped and, with a cry more animal than human, banged her fists into Jude’s chest. Not once did he try to protect himself from her wrath. He made himself more vulnerable, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her close—closer—cooing at her the way she sometimes cooed at the kittens.
If anyone tried to approach, Jude waved them away.
Eventually, Ryanne’s strength depleted. With a sigh of exhaustion, she sagged against him, and rested her head in the hollow of his neck.
He combed his fingers through her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve got you. Everything will be okay.”
“I forgive you for the smile, Jude. But...” Every word scraped her now-raw throat. “I don’t think you can repair the damage you’ve done. I don’t think we can be together.”
Though he stiffened, his tone remained gentle. “I’m going to change your mind.”
If only. “Let’s not do this. I’m tired of arguing with you. I’m tired of your hot and cold attitude with me. I’m just...tired.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He toyed with the ends of her hair. “I swear to you, if you give me another chance, I won’t be hot and cold anymore. I’ll just be hot.”
Easily said, harder to do. Besides, she didn’t want him staying with her because he’d promised; she wanted him to want to be with her, to admire and respect her.
“Why bother?” she said, her tone just as gentle. “Time is running out. Besides, I give too much, and you give too little.”
“I’m giving you everything I can.”
“I know.” But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
“What is it you want from me? Exactly?”
That, she didn’t know. All or nothing? The heart currently in a dead woman’s possession?
“All I know is that we’re too different,” she said, hating herself, hating him. This hurt. This hurt bad. “We want different things, and that’s okay. We’re not failures apart, we’re just failures together.”
“No. I don’t believe that.” His navy blues glittered. “Being without you has been the worst kind of hell. With you, I don’t feel like a man defeated by his past. I feel like a man with a future.”
Pretty words. “I wish I could believe you.” Though she wanted to stay cuddled against his chest more than anything, she straightened and stepped back...freer? Lighter? “I’m sorry I hit you.”
“Don’t be. I deserved it.”
“No, you didn’t.” Go. Go now. “Well. This is goodbye.”
Heart thudding against her ribs, Ryanne stalked to her station—before she did something foolish, like accept his offer and ruin both their futures.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE NEXT TWO weeks ticked by without incident.
Ryanne stayed in contact with Jude about the repairs at the Scratching Post. They were friendly to each other, and it was nice, if heartbreaking.
She missed what they’d had before. Sex and laughs. Communion.
My fault we’re not together. He’d asked for another chance, and she’d spurned him.
Had she made the right decision?
They avoided discussing anything personal, but did meet multiple times about Savannah. Apparently she had a son—Savannah mailed Jude photographs of her pregnancy as well as letters Filip had written her when he was first imprisoned, asking about the boy.
Dushku had been holding the boy hostage all of his life, and Savannah now wanted, needed, help. She’d been horribly used and abused, her little boy raised by a monster. Something had to be done.
Jude had called Savannah late last night, and the two had worked up a plan. He would show up at Dushku’s home later this morning, when Savannah and Thomas were scheduled to be together. He would create a distraction, and she would escape with the boy. Daniel and Brock would be waiting just outside Dushku’s property—out of range of the man’s security cameras—and they would escort the pair to the city, where employees of LPH Protection would drive them to a safe house, and work to get them new identities.
If Jude got hurt...
Sickness churned in Ryanne’s stomach. He’d faced more dangerous situations in the military. He would walk away from this one, too.
With a sigh, she petted and kissed the cats before trudging out of her room at the Strawberry Inn. She should be happy. The wounds left by years of hurt had finally scabbed over. All because of Jude. Because, despite everything, he’d been there for her when she needed him. Because he’d held her close, protecting her, as she’d crumbled. Yet...
The thought of leaving him, even for a month, caused a new hurt.
I will not act like my mother. I will not spend my life catering to the needs of an emotionally distant man.
Determined, Ryanne headed to the lobby to meet Dorothea. By some miracle, her friend had convinced her to wake at an ungodly hour and go jogging, promising exercise would clear Ryanne’s mind and heart, or some crap like that.
“How in the world do you look like sex while wearing yoga pants?” Dorothea anchored her hands on her hips, trying to hide a wealth of tension behind a smile. Had she fought with Daniel? “I look like five pounds of sausage meat stuffed into a one-pound wrapper.”
Ryanne rolled her eyes. “You look like a ray of sunshine. I look like death.” She hadn’t slept well since the fire. Any time she closed her eyes, she saw Jude rushing into the flames, felt the same sense of helplessness, wondering if she was going to lose her man, her cats and her business all in the same night.
“Sunshine? Score! Now stop flirting with me, and come on.”
The first two miles, Ryanne was able to keep up. By the third mile, she was drenched in sweat, panting and wheezing. She stopped in the middle of a dirt road, hunching over to brace her hands on her knees.
“Wait,” she managed to call. “Hospital...dying...heart attack.”
A laughing Dorothea backtracked and jogged in place. Her breaths were even, only a glimmer of perspiration on her brow.
“You can’t be human,” Ryanne grumbled, and her friend barked out another laugh.
Except her laughter didn’t last long, the tension Ryanne noticed earlier returning. “Okay, I have to tell you something, but please, please, please stay calm, okay? I wasn’t sure when to tell you, so I decided to wait until we were away from the inn and you could react the way you wanted, without fearing someone would see or hear.”
Panic struck. Acid churned in her stomach, waves of nausea nearly choking her. “What happened? What’s wrong? Tell me!”
&nb
sp; “Just before you came down to the lobby, I received a text from Daniel. The tent...” Color seeped from Dorothea’s cheeks, leaving her waxen. “Sometime after you closed last night, someone shredded your tent and tore up your parking lot, turning the gravel into a giant mud puddle.”
Meaning, she wouldn’t be able to open tonight or any other night for a while. Probably a long while. She could go without the tent, but she couldn’t serve her customers in mud. No one wanted to get dirty while on the prowl for a hookup.
Dushku. He was to blame.
“I’m so, so freaking sorry, Ryanne.”
Tears stung her eyes, and glass shards seemed to join the acid, her nausea intensifying until—
There, on the dirt road, she vomited the contents of her stomach. A cup of water and a banana.
With a cry of concern, Dorothea rushed to her side. “Oh, Ryanne. If there’s anything I can do...”
Again and again, Ryanne had fought Dushku’s underhanded attacks and come out on top. But what had it gotten her? Another devastating blow. Why keep fighting? Why not give up, give in and save herself another defeat?
“I want to go home,” she whispered. But she didn’t have a home, did she. Her war with Dushku had cost her the apartment, temporarily, and some of her favorite possessions, permanently. The smell of smoke could be cleaned from most pieces of furniture, maybe, hopefully, but broken vases and warped paintings could not be repaired.
Her friend helped her to her feet, but the emotional upheaval proved too strong and her stomach protested again. She threw up one more time before she had the power to head back to the inn.
When they reached the town square, residents were stirring, opening their businesses for the day. Virgil Porter and Anthony Rodriguez were already outside Style Me Tender, playing checkers as usual. Both men smiled and waved, then stood and approached when they noticed her fragile condition.
“Poor Miss Wade,” Anthony said. “Did you have yourself one of them heatstrokes?”
“Nah. This girl’s in distress,” Virgil said. “You tell us what’s wrong, and we’ll fix it, lickety-split.”
“Thanks, guys, but I just need to rest,” she muttered.
Finally she and Dorothea reached the entrance of the inn. Dorothea held open the doors, and Ryanne shuffled inside...where her mother waited at the counter, flirting with Daniel Porter, a suitcase at her feet.
* * *
JUDE PARKED IN front of the Dushku estate. Best property in Blueberry Hill. A fifty-five-acre working blueberry farm with an eight-thousand-square-foot antebellum estate. Armed guards walked the balcony, Anton and Dennis among them.
Considering Jude had spent twenty minutes at the security gate at the entrance, the pair he’d beaten at the Scratching Post had already been notified of his presence. Both males stopped to aim their semiautomatics at him.
Go ahead. Shoot me.
The worst that could happen? He’d die.
Wasn’t like death was a big deal. Through no fault of his own, he would join his family at long last. Considering his emotional state the past few weeks, he could use the peace.
I’ll never give up.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. Fight to live. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave Ryanne to deal with Dushku alone.
If all went according to plan, Savannah and Thomas would be safe within the next half hour. Using Dushku’s playbook against him, Jude had created a distraction earlier this morning, sneaking onto the property and setting the blueberry fields on fire. Tit for tat. Any other day, guilt would have slayed him. Today, Dushku had shredded Ryanne’s tent, and ruined her parking lot—Jude had thrown the match without a single qualm.
The blaze had been extinguished, but smoke still thickened the air, the perfect cover for Savannah and Thomas. More than that, most of Dushku’s men were still in the fields to mitigate the damage.
As Jude emerged from his truck, Dushku opened the front doors and descended the porch steps. The usual smug smile had been replaced by a fierce scowl. “Jude Laurent. To what do I owe this visit?”
Game on. “I’d like to chat about your destruction of Ryanne’s property.”
“Do you hope to trick me into confessing to a crime while you wear a wire? Too bad. I’m innocent.” Dushku pressed a weathered hand against his double-breasted suit. “If I happen to profit from her bad luck, well, she should take heart. The fact that she’s alive and well is a true miracle. And if she were smart, she’d sell the bar before things get worse. What if another tragedy befalls her?”
Calm. Steady.
Screw it. I’m going to kill him. Rage dotted Jude’s vision. As long as this man drew breath, he would be a thorn in Jude’s side. He had no respect for women or children, or life; reasoning with him was impossible.
With a single strike, Jude could sever his carotid artery. If he got hit by a hail of gunfire in the process, he got hit. Even injured he could dive into his truck and burn rubber past the gate. He’d survived worse.
Remember—can’t help anyone if you’re in prison for murder.
Right. He settled his weight in his heels, and remained in place. “You haven’t met your match—the truth is, I’m way out of your league.”
Dushku arched a brow, unperturbed. “Is that so?”
“I tried to tell you before, but you failed to understand. You made the biggest mistake of your life when you decided to go after Ryanne Wade. Without her, I’ll be free to end you, damn the consequences. I have nothing else to live for. And without me, my friends will feel free to end you, damn the consequences. They take their revenge seriously. Either way, you’re screwed.”
For the first time, Jude detected a glimmer of fear in the old man’s eyes.
“Brock sees her. She’s headed his way.” A familiar voice whispered through the piece in Jude’s ear. Daniel was keeping track of both Jude and Brock, who’d apparently spotted Savannah.
He smiled.
“What?” Dushku demanded.
The front doors suddenly swung open. Anton came stomping out, menace in every step. “Where is she? Where’s Savannah?”
“What are you talking about?” Dushku’s brow wrinkled with confusion. “I saw her twenty minutes ago.”
The last time he’d seen her, Jude had just reached the security gate. Everything was happening according to plan.
“She and the boy are missing. They aren’t in her room.” Anton flared his nostrils like a bull about to charge and focused on Jude. “Where is she? Tell me, or so help me, I’ll—”
Motion short and jerky, Dushku held up his hand in a bid for silence. “Did you search the house?”
“Not all of it,” Anton admitted, his tone stiff.
“She couldn’t have gotten far. Go. Search every room, even the storm shelter.” Dushku pointed to two other guards. “You, search the surrounding woods.”
Leveling his gaze on Jude, he grated, “I know you had something to do with this.”
“Me? Go against you?” Jude arched a brow. “Why would I dare?”
Dushku prowled closer to him, then stopped, his nostrils flaring. Realized he’d lose in a physical altercation? “Let’s take Mr. Laurent inside. We’ll continue our...chat.”
As the guards walked toward him, Jude smiled and tapped the small device in his ear. “I don’t think you want to touch me right now. For all you know, I have the sherriff of Strawberry Valley on Bluetooth, listening to every word.” He didn’t; he had Daniel, who had gone quiet.
Dushku popped his jaw as Jude climbed in his truck, unencumbered. His gaze remained on his adversary. You and I, we aren’t done, though.
The old man seethed.
Jude eased down the drive. As he passed the gate, Dushku in his rearview mirror, Daniel spoke up again.
“She betrayed us. Brock trekked the wood
s, intending to meet her, only to watch her and the boy climb into someone else’s car and speed away. He missed the plates, so we have no way to check out the car’s owner.”
In the end, had she not trusted Jude? Or had she used him as a distraction? Perhaps she’d turned to the john who’d given her the cell phone.
A mistake on her part, but there was nothing Jude could do about it now.
“By the way,” Daniel added, “Ryanne has been throwing up all morning, and on top of that little sundae, her mom showed up at the inn, causing trouble.”
Ryanne...sick...
A virus? Or something more sinister? Had Dushku struck again?
“I’m on my way.” Fighting panic, Jude put the pedal to the metal and sped toward the Strawberry Inn.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CAN’T DEAL WITH this right now, Ryanne thought.
She lay in bed, a cool rag draped over her forehead while the kittens used her body as a scratching post—and oh, the irony.
On top of everything else, Jude was at Dushku’s house, helping Savannah. As soon as realization had struck, Ryanne had vomited all over again. He was in danger, and there was nothing she could do to aid him. She just had to wait.
Now her mother, who’d followed her to her room, wanted to “catch up.”
Selma hadn’t aged a day. Her long black hair had no signs of gray, and her flawless olive skin had only a trace of lines. Dark eyes possessed a sensual tilt, and pouty lips promised a thousand delights.
How many Strawberry Valley males would make a play for her?
“My cariño,” Selma said, sitting on the edge of the bed. As if she hadn’t ignored Ryanne for years, and their relationship was no longer in tatters. “How can I help you?”
“You can leave. I feel better now, but I could use some rest.”
“You most certainly do not feel better. I hate to break it to you, baby girl, but you look like someone took you out behind a shed and shot you.”
Emotionally? Nailed it. Ryanne tossed the rag on the nightstand and sat up, glaring at her mother while gently petting William and Cameo. “Why are you here? You disowned me, remember?”
Can't Let Go--A Bad Boy Romance Page 21
