Before he'd shipped out the first time, she'd wrapped her arms around him and said, "Promise me you'll never give up, no matter how hard it gets and no matter what happens."
"I promise. I'll never give up. Now give me a kiss. Remind me of what I'll be missing."
If he could have lived inside the fabric of his happiest memories, he might have had a halfway decent chance of becoming the man he'd once been. But reality was a determined foe, as unstoppable as the pain and grief, clawing and kicking at his mind, demanding its due. Dreams offered no succor; any time his subconscious took over, he relived a moment he hadn't actually witnessed--a night forged in blood, fire and death.
The night his wife and twin daughters had died.
In the present, hot tears poured down his cheeks, leaving raw, stinging tracks in their wake. Two and a half years ago, a frat boy had drunk too much at a local bar, climbed into his car and driven away. No one had cared enough to stop him. Only nine minutes, twenty-three seconds later, he'd crashed into Constance Laurent's car, ruining Jude's life forever.
Constance died on her way to the hospital. The twins, Bailey and Hailey, died on impact.
The entire world should have ceased spinning that...very...second. The galaxy should have mourned the loss of such beauty, laughter and light. Rare treasures, his girls.
Dance with me, Daddy. I found my moves and my grooves!
Daddy, I'm not joking and I'm not playing. I need chocolate right now or I'm gonna lose it.
Lose what, little sweet? he'd asked.
I don't know. Whatever it is.
Children changed you the moment they were conceived. Made you softer and harder all at once. You learned to play defense and offense simultaneously, protecting your kids while warring with anyone who dared to threaten them.
After the accident, people had offered him what they thought were words of comfort. Meant to be. No stopping fate.
More lies. Fate hadn't poured alcohol down Frat Boy's throat, or put car keys in his hand.
Besides, nothing comforted Jude. The only arms capable of offering him solace were now rotting in a grave.
All he had left were memories of a life he'd once adored. Memories he both adored and despised. He remembered the way Bailey's nose had crinkled when she'd giggled. The way Hailey had twirled a strand of hair around her finger when she cried. The way Constance had blown him a kiss every time he'd walked out the door, whether he'd been headed for another mission or to the grocery store.
Memories would never keep him warm at night.
Only pitying yourself. He had friends who'd swooped in the moment he'd called. Gone...they're just...gone.
Now he lacked a purpose. And family. He supposed he could do something about the purpose. Or maybe he already had?
Maybe he'd found one in the Scratching Post. At least temporarily. By saving Ryanne and the bar he despised with every fiber of his being, he would save Daniel and Brock from losing someone they loved.
Through the trials of war, they too had already walked hand-in-hand with enough pain and grief, sorrow and loneliness. Enough...or far too much. Overseas, they'd lost friends in a hundred different ways. They'd overcome great odds to save Jude on the bloodiest of battlefields; as gunfire rained around them, they'd risked their own lives to carry him away when he couldn't even crawl.
As his breathing normalized, Jude wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt and fell back on his haunches. He loved his friends so deeply, he would willingly die for them, but he missed his family more than he missed his leg. Sometimes he experienced phantom pains, allowing him to pretend the leg was still there. At no time did he ever forget he was a family man without a family. A father without a child.
He was essentially alone.
He wished he could be more like Ryanne. She lived in the moment, enjoyed the highs, basking in her triumphs, and rolled with the lows. He thought she might even embrace those lows, choosing to learn from her mistakes rather than wallow.
Irritation pricked at him. Be like a bar owner? A person who served alcohol to potential motorists? Never.
He would go on as always, pretending to live, breaking down, then pretending to live again.
I'll never give up.
CHAPTER THREE
MENTAL NOTE: NEVER tease Jude Laurent.
After Ryanne's "I think I would have enjoyed soothing you" crack, he'd stormed away as if his feet were on fire, his expression a mix of horror and dismay.
Okay. Revise: sometimes tease Jude Laurent.
Despite her former ban on romance, flirting had always come easily for her. Bottom line, she'd inherited her mother's gift, though not to the same degree. Selma could pop the top off a man's biscuits with only a wink and a smile. Ryanne had to work at it, maybe because the guys knew they wouldn't get anywhere with her. But, with a little time and a lot of banter, she could charm the uncharmable. A necessary skill in her line of work. People tended to treat bartenders like therapists, and Ryanne wanted everyone who left the Scratching Post to feel good, or at least better than when they'd entered.
Not my biggest fan? Get ready, precioso. You will be.
The guy clearly had a stick up his patootie and yet, for one too-brief moment, he'd looked at Ryanne as if he wanted to devour her. And she'd liked it. A lot.
She wanted him to look at her with hunger again and again.
Jude was the one, she decided. The man who would break her amorous fast. Despite his surly attitude, he was the only guy her body craved. The only male her mind trusted. He might dislike her--presently--but he was still determined to save the people and things she cared about.
How sexy was that?
In order to win him over, she suspected she would have to teach him how to relax and have fun. In order to teach him how to relax and have fun, however, she would have to learn more about him.
Quickest way to gain info: covertly question Daniel and Brock. The perfect plan--until they finished their drinks and took off without saying goodbye. Disappointment delivered a swift one-two punch to her determination. Then she rallied. Jude would return tomorrow morning, and she would get her info straight from the source.
Then she could begin his training--uh, teaching him to relax.
After the bar had emptied for the night, the staff cleaned up and Ryanne fed the homeless. That done, she locked the back door, then the front...and thought she spied Jude in the parking lot, sans his truck.
Had he returned? When she blinked, he was gone.
I'm exhausted, that's all. She checked the windows, making sure they were locked as well, and trudged upstairs. How much would Jude charge for his services? How much of her precious savings would she lose? Enough to turn a first class trip into economy? She shuddered. To live her childhood aspirations properly, she required luxury.
She also required surviving Mr. Dushku, so, there was that.
What measures would Jude the Ice Man take against the mob boss? For that matter, what kind of trouble would her new neighbors attempt to cause?
Would Jude use legal means or push boundaries? He struck her as the boundary-pushing type.
With a dreamy sigh--I'm turned on by outlaws?--she stripped to her underwear, set her alarm and crawled into bed. To her dismay, sleep proved impossible, her mind continually flashing on images of the prostitute. The fear on the girl's face when those van doors had swung open...
Fear of arrest or fear of her guards?
Either way, Ryanne pitied her. And sympathized. As a kid, she'd often found herself under the iron rule of whichever man Selma happened to "love" at the time. Some had been kind, others cruel...like Harold Scott, Lyndie's dad. Mr. Hit-and-Blame.
The mental and physical abuse he inflicted on poor Lyndie had continued long after Selma divorced him. When Lyndie turned eighteen, she moved out, finally free. Only, she'd started dating Chief Carrington soon after.
He'd been a regular at the Scratching Post, and she'd heard Ryanne complain about the monster lurking beneath his go
od ole boy veneer more than once. Even still, Lyndie accepted his marriage proposal without hesitation, as if she felt she deserved to be slapped around.
A high-pitched buzz sounded from Ryanne's phone, and she groaned. Her alarm. It was already time to get up?
Hey, why was she complaining? Soon she would have to--get to--face Jude.
Well, well. Her nerve endings awoke in a hurry, tingling with anticipation. She stretched and grinned, her heart leaping, her blood heating. For so long, her body had felt frozen, hormones nonexistent. Now the ice was gone, fire in its place, desire as much a part of her as her lungs. She breathed, and she wanted...burned. It was ecstasy, and it was agony.
Her grin faded as she felt the full weight of her inexperience. Oh, she'd made out with the boys she'd dated before her ban on romance, but in her brief attempt at being a femme fatale, she'd never, well, gone all the way.
Yep, good ole Ryanne Wade was still a virgin.
She wasn't embarrassed about it, but she was nervous. Years had passed since her last date, and times had changed. Vanilla was no longer the norm; guys expected varying shades of gray.
What did Jude like? What kind of women did he prefer?
How could she break through his icy reserve?
On some level, he reminded her of Earl. Strong, competent and concerned about her well-being. And he was nothing like the playboys who frequented the bar. He never hit on women. Heck, he barely even seemed to notice them. Difference was, Jude had only ever insulted Ryanne while Earl had only ever supported her. But then, Earl had loved her unconditionally, valued her and built her up, never tearing her down. He'd taught her that family didn't have to be flesh and blood, or have legal ties.
Rubbing her burning eyes, she stood. Wobbly legs managed to get her into the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth, showered while sitting on a special bench she'd had made for times just like this, when she was too lazy--uh, tired, she meant tired--to stand. She applied lotion and dressed in a tank, a pair of faded jeans and flip-flops. She opted not to spend time drying her hair or applying makeup. Mornings sucked. No reason to dress up for one, even to attract a man.
If Jude didn't like the look of her when she dressed-down, well, he wasn't the one for her, after all. No matter how much she wanted him. Better to find out sooner rather than later.
After eating her favorite breakfast--Chips Ahoy! dipped in coffee--she tidied up her apartment, then slung a bag of trash over her shoulder. She made her way outside. Ugh. The sun! Too bright!
Eyes watering, she quickened her pace. As she turned to head back inside, a bottle rattled behind the Dumpster, and she paused, her brow furrowed. "Hello?"
As usual, the homeless were gone. Mornings and afternoons were often too hot here, despite the shade. Loner and friends would return in the evening, after the sun had set and the bar had opened.
Ryanne padded forward, searching...there! A morbidly obese cat was curled into a ball. He was black with white markings, his fur matted and dirty. Spotting her, he lumbered to his feet. Then he whimpered and sat back down, because "he" was actually a "she," and very pregnant, her nipples distended.
Mierda! The little darling looked ready to pop.
"Something wrong?"
Though she'd detected no footsteps, the masculine voice came from directly behind Ryanne, and she yelped, her hand fluttering over her hammering heart. Jude.
She spun. When her gaze landed on him, her breath snagged in her throat. Okay, so, the sun wasn't the enemy today but a welcome companion. Light illuminated him, painting him in shades of amber, gold and bronze. He looked like a fantasy come to startling life, a punk rock Prince Charming who'd stepped from the pages of an erotic fairy tale. His pale hair possessed a hint of wave this morning, and his jaw had the shadow of a beard.
Once again he wore a black T-shirt, plain and simple, dark jeans and combat boots. Those boots had a slight bulge on each side, a bulge she recognized. Holsters for guns.
A leather band circled each of his wrists. One hand held a duffel bag while the other held a briefcase. He was both street hardened and business savvy, the sexiest combination on earth.
"I don't mean to stare," she said, "but my hormones are busy giving you a standing ovation. Gold star for today's wardrobe selection, Mr. Laurent."
He shook his head, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. "Excuse me?"
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you want me to excuse you?" she asked, feigning innocence. "Were you thinking inappropriate thoughts about me...the way I was thinking inappropriate thoughts about you?"
His frown contained notes of confusion and uncertainty. "Let's go inside. We have a lot to discuss."
Any other time, she might have pressed. Ignore me? Get asked more invasive questions. This morning, seduction had to wait. "Do me a favor and use your big, strong man-muscles to bring this cat inside." She motioned to the feline even as she planned her next move. Call Brett Vandercamp, the only vet in Strawberry Valley, and convince him to give the cat a home. Call Lyndie. She's a schoolteacher, and today is Sunday; she'll be home. Request any supplies she'll need before Dr. Vandercamp is able to take the cat.
Food...but what else? A litter box? Ryanne had never had a cat. Or a pet of any kind. Not even a goldfish.
Jude approached her, his limp less pronounced than it had been last night. After taking in the situation, he foisted off his bag and case on Ryanne and carefully gathered the cat close to his chest. "Only you would have a bar named the Scratching Post and a pregnant cat hiding in your alley."
Okay, this was the sexiest combination on earth. A surly man with a soft heart for animals. Her ovaries joined her hormones, clapping and cheering.
With a gulp, Ryanne led Jude upstairs and into her apartment. Along the way, she phoned Brett. He promised to swing by on his lunch break but, to her dismay, he turned down her plea to keep the cat. His facilities were overcrowded.
"You can take her to a shelter in Oklahoma City," he added. "It's only a two-hour drive."
Force the cat to have her babies in a cage? "No way."
"There's nothing either of us can do to help her, anyway," Brett replied. "Nature will take over, the cat will have her babies and no human intervention will be necessary. You'll see."
So she should just twiddle her thumbs? "Tonto del culo," she spat, and hung up.
"Fluent in Spanish," Jude muttered. "Good to know."
"Do you know what I said?" Translated literally, the words meant an idiot of the ass. It was her mother's favorite curse.
"Don't care. Tell me about the vet."
Through clenched teeth, she relayed Brett's cruel shelter idea, then set Jude's stuff on the couch. Nervousness set in, and she chewed on her bottom lip. What next?
Ugh. She knew how to take care of herself. Broken down car? No problem. Leaky pipes? She'd grab a wrench. She'd always rolled with the punches life delivered. But this? Caring for a pregnant cat? Shudder.
"Make a pallet on the floor," Jude said. "Use blankets or towels, whatever you have available and don't mind ruining."
A bed. Duh! She hurried to obey, selecting blankets--they were softer. When she finished, he settled the cat in the center.
"I grew up on a farm." Jude rubbed his temples, lines of tension branching from his eyes and mouth. "I can ensure this beautiful little girl has a safe delivery here in your apartment."
Oh, thank the good Lord! And oh, wow, it was difficult to imagine rough, tough city-boy Jude as a farmer. "Thank you."
"She's got a few days to go. Maybe even a week." Jude gave the living room a single visual sweep.
She suspected he'd taken in everything at once, noting any changes since his last visit, when he'd helped her take care of a drunken Brock. What did Jude think of her furnishings and embellishments? She'd picked pieces to represent different cultures throughout the world. A throw from India draped a Victorian settee. A French side table displayed a Moroccan vase, an Egyptian bowl fille
d with blown glass fruit and an elephant figurine hand-carved in Africa. A landscape of the Scottish Highlands hung on the wall.
Nothing really fit together and colors clashed, but she loved every piece.
He remained on the floor, petting the now purring cat, a faraway expression on his face. She sat across from him, trying not to be envious while wishing she were the one being stroked so gently.
"She needs a name," Ryanne told him. "The cat" and "feline" were already old. "Since she'll be staying at your place--did I mention I think you should take her home?--I'll let you have the honors of choosing--"
He choked on his own tongue. "Hell, no. Finders keepers."
"But you said you'd ensure her delivery--"
"No, no, a thousand times no. I'll ensure a safe delivery here."
"Fine," she grumbled. "She can stay here." For now. "I'll call her...Ali Cat?" No. Too on point. "Kitty Poppins? Kitkat?" Argh! Same problem.
"Names are important. They define who we are and set the stage for who we become. So choose one with care."
"Wow. That's a lot of pressure for a single word." She traced a finger over her lock tattoo, her curiosity too great to ignore. "What does Jude mean?"
There was a slight hesitation before he admitted, "The praised one."
"Seriously?" She snickered, and the corners of his mouth might--might!--have twitched. So close to success, but still so far away. "I wonder what Ryanne means."
"It's the feminine form of Ryan, which means little king."
Had he known already...or had he looked it up after meeting her?
Warmth settled low in her belly. "So. Ryanne means little queen. You're right, our names set the stage for who we become. But I'm not calling you the praised one. Do you have a nickname?"
A pause, a clipped nod.
"Well," she prompted. "Don't hold back. Tell me before I start calling you Gollum or Spanky McSparkle."
"Spanky McSparkle?" He pursed those beautiful, scarred lips. "In the military, my teammates called me...Priest."
"Seriously?" she repeated. "Why--"
"Nope. No more sharing. Name the cat and move on."
Someone sure turned cranky superfast. Oh, wait. Cranky was Jude Laurent's default setting. "We'll call her Belle." Decision made. "And yes, you did, in fact, name her. You called her beautiful."
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