She searched the entire bar, but found no sign of him.
All right. She would deal with him later--
Her gaze landed on the prostitute who might or might not be here to cause legal trouble. Blondie had a scarf wrapped around her neck. Hiding a fresh bruise? Having lived with Lyndie and her dad, Ryanne knew all the tricks of batterer-batteree.
Her anger turned to pity. Poor Blondie.
What was the plan? Turn a trick or two, so Officer Rayburn could say he'd witnessed the crime?
Would Blondie claim Ryanne had approved of her trade, had even taken a cut of the profits?
Great!
Blondie sat at a table in back, partially hidden by shadows. She wasn't alone. Two guys who looked like they'd come from a frat party laughed at something she'd just said. Definite city boys. Ryanne recognized the type; they sometimes ventured into small towns to score "easy country chicks."
She did another search, this time on the lookout for Cigarette or Snake. Maybe they were waiting outside? Or maybe they were with Jim? Either way, Jude would tell her to send a bouncer over--that was what she paid them for, after all--and lock herself in her office. No, thanks. Her bar, her problem. If she needed backup, she had her trusty .44 sheathed in her boot.
Spine rigid, she marched to the table. Blondie spotted her and gulped.
"Hey, guys." Ryanne faked a carefree grin. "You having a good time?"
"Look who decided to stop by. Senorita bartender, the hottie with the body." The speaker had a piercing in both of his brows--brows he wiggled in her direction as he reached out to pat her butt. "We're having a better time now that you're here."
As she latched on to his wrist and held his arm as far away from her body as possible, without wrenching her shoulder out of its socket, her smile never faltered. "The first touch is free, cabron." Player. "The next one will cost you a finger." A threat and a promise, rolled into one.
Grabby McGrabbyhands ran his tongue over his teeth. The other guy snickered; his belt buckle had a display screen that flashed the words Do Me in neon red letters.
Not in this lifetime.
Blondie watched the exchange with eyes as wide as saucers.
"Why don't you boys head to the bar." A statement, not a question. She released Grabby to wave in the direction of the bar in question. "Sutter, the guy with the knives tattooed on his arms, has recently been promoted to manager. He will give you both a mug of our infamous moonshine, no charge. Just use tonight's magic phrase, 'No means no.'"
Her words were met with another snicker from Do Me and a glare from Grabby.
Alienating her customers was foolish, but stress had removed her filter.
"I'm happy where I am," Grabby said. "Why don't you be a good girl and fetch the mugs for us, hmm?"
A wave of heat suddenly rolled across her back, the scent of spiced rum filling her nose. A scent she knew well.
Her heart raced, goose bumps breaking out along her nape. Her breasts ached, her nipples beaded and her belly quivered. Need and heat pooled between her quaking legs.
Jude was back.
"You have five seconds to leave," he said, his voice soft but filled with pure menace. "When I get to six, I start whaling."
CHAPTER EIGHT
JUDE SHOULD HAVE stayed home.
He'd gotten the vasectomy eight days ago. After letting his doctor know he'd be having the surgery one way or another, he was worked in right away. Brock had driven him and lectured him about lifelong mistakes the entire time.
Jude would never regret it.
Of course, he would never again hold a son or daughter against his chest, either. Or watch with amazement as his children took their first steps. Or hear the sweetest word on God's green earth spoken with unfettered joy. Daddy.
But then, he would never attend a funeral for babies too young to have truly lived.
He ignored the hollow sensation in his chest. Carrie had sent the baby book as promised, but he'd cracked the spine only once. After a single peek at the photos glued to the inside cover, he'd cried so hard he'd vomited.
So, yeah, he'd made the right decision. Now he could be with a woman without worry.
A woman...or Ryanne?
Both. Neither. He didn't want to be with anyone, damn it! He'd gotten the vasectomy as a just in case.
So why had he counted the days until he would be cleared for sex?
With Ryanne's hair flipping, butt patting, full body shimmying, cleavage showing, finger licking, bra-and panty-forgetting ways, counting had been...hard. Very, very hard.
Day one, he'd found himself staring at a calendar. Day two, he'd nearly kicked his own ass himself for being so desperate. Day three, he'd come close to showing up at Ryanne's apartment, to hell with everything. Days four, five and six, frenzied frustration had set in. He'd paced, wondering when time had slowed to such a crawl.
Eventually, he'd broken down and texted her, asking how she could be so at ease while Dushku was causing trouble. Her response had stunned him. How could she focus on good things? And what did she consider good? Jude? She couldn't possibly.
Deep down, he'd begun to question whether or not she was a cosmic punishment for all of his misdeeds. A man forever doomed to desire the woman he should despise.
Had any man ever desired his punishment more?
Days seven and eight, he'd rationalized. Did he really need to hold out all eight days? What was the worst that would happen if, say, he had sex now? Still he'd resisted. If he opened the incisions, minute as they were, he would have to wait to have sex another few weeks.
Waited two and a half years. What's one more day?
Finally day nine arrived. Today. D-day--dick day. The small incisions had fully healed, and a record number of hard-ons said, You're ready.
He could have sex.
He could have Ryanne.
Damn her! She tempted him as no other. Two and a half years equaled thirty months. Or 130 weeks. Or 913 days. He thought he'd go the rest of his life sustained by memories of Constance, but Ryanne Wade had proven him wrong. Giving in to her appeal would be...
Delicious.
Wrong.
Perfect.
Now that the fear of impregnating a woman was gone, temptation proved stronger than ever. For Ryanne, only Ryanne. Was this his new normal? Growing hard every time he thought about her? Driven by unquenchable thirst and gnawing hunger?
Possessive instincts demanded he stand in front of her to shield her from the gaze of other men. She's mine.
This was crazy! His craving for her should have waned. They'd had no physical contact. Nor had he breathed in her sweet strawberry and cream scent. Or looked into her dark, magnetic eyes and drowned over and over again. Or listened to her phonesex-operator voice and wished they were in bed, their limbs intertwined.
Maybe his craving for her would have waned if he hadn't watched her on camera, but Ryanne TV had become his favorite program. He hadn't been able to get enough, had had to know what happened next. It was more than her incomparable beauty and her innate sensuality. More than her attempt to drive him insane. She wasn't just kind, as he'd thought; she was generous, giving and compassionate. She genuinely loved her customers and remained as vigilant about their protection as their enjoyment. She had a secret code: ordering an angel wing alerted her and her staff that a patron felt unsafe and needed help.
Jude actually admired her, a bar owner. And though she flirted often and liberally, her dark eyes never turned dreamy, her lips never softened as if preparing for a kiss.
Soft and dreamy happened for him, no other.
"You won't be getting a free drink, but a ticket out of the bar," he said softly, his gaze locked on the guy who'd dared to put his hand on Ryanne.
"Now wait just a--" Ryanne snapped her mouth closed, going quiet.
Did she hope to present a united front?
Smart girl.
Sexy girl.
"If they grabbed you, they'll grab others," he said, and smiled
his coldest smile at the young men. "And if they protest their eviction, I'll happily wipe the floor with their faces."
The two sensed the truth of his words, jumped up and scattered, their bravado gone. Daniel and Brock, who'd followed Jude to the bar, made sure the pair found the exit with ease.
The prostitute stood, clearly hoping to abandon ship, as well.
"I wouldn't," he told her. This was their second meeting. He'd talked to her weeks ago, when he'd first learned of her occupation, before Dushku had known who, and what, Jude was.
He'd bought an hour of her time and spent every second questioning her. She'd answered nothing. Still he'd offered help. She'd refused him.
When he'd told Ryanne she couldn't help someone who wouldn't help herself, he'd meant it.
The girl gulped and eased back into her seat.
Jude was pretty sure Dushku had sent her here to cause trouble. "There's a plainclothes cop from Blueberry Hill hiding in a stall in the men's bathroom," he said to Ryanne. "I have a feeling our friend is supposed to lead those two boys inside and demand payment, allowing the officer to catch her in the act."
"Yeah, I had the same thought," Ryanne muttered.
He stepped around her, ignoring the pain in his knee, and held out a chair for her.
For one prolonged moment, their gazes held. A familiar blast of lust punched him in the gut. His cells caught fire, scorching his veins. The urge to yank her against his body overwhelmed him, worsening as she eased into the seat, the scent of strawberries and cream enveloping him.
Want her now, now, NOW, his body cried. Give her to me.
Must resist temptation.
Motions jerky, Jude claimed the only other chair and forced himself to focus on the blonde he'd watched break into the bar. Somehow she'd known the code to the lock, which meant Dushku knew the code to the lock. Really, only one way made sense. Dushku had put up cameras of his own, and observed as Ryanne or Jude plugged in the code.
The cameras must be hidden with expert precision. No matter. Jude would make sure they were found and destroyed before night's end.
Right now, he had to deal with the prostitute. The moment the door had opened for her, he'd raged, and would have trashed his cabin if he hadn't been in such a hurry to reach the bar.
He wasn't sure why Dushku had played his hand tonight, this way, rather than sending a man to break in early in the morning, when Ryanne was alone.
"If you've been forced into this line of work," Ryanne said to the blonde, "we'll help you escape."
There she went, putting someone else's problem above her own.
"I'm not being forced," was the whispered response. "I'm just... Let me go, okay?"
Determined to find out more about her, Jude asked, "What's your name?" Before, she'd told him "Bambee" with double ee's, pronounced "Bam-bay."
A terse pause, then, "Savannah."
The truth? "Savannah what?"
"It doesn't matter." She lifted her chin, her pretty blue eyes going blank. In an instant, she looked hardened by life, completely removed from the situation, a skill she'd most certainly learned in order to survive. A skill he, too, had learned and utilized on occasion. "I'll be whoever you want me to be. Sex slave? Sure thing, lover. Tie me up. Where there's a wallet, there's a way."
He wasn't going to play this game. "Where are your bodyguards?"
"At home, waiting for a call from the Blueberry Hill PD." Savannah smirked at him. "Why? Are you eager to lose a fight? Or are you hoping for a three-way?"
Ryanne snorted, surprising him. Always surprising him. "Sorry, carino, but you don't know men as well as you think you do. One, Jude doesn't lose fights, and two, you and your guards couldn't handle him in the sack. He nearly burned me alive with a single kiss."
Her confidence surprised him further, thrilled him. The mention of their kiss...didn't fill him with guilt but lust.
Shame flashed in Savannah's expression, quickly gone, replaced by resolve. "Leave me alone and let me do my job. Okay? Please. Or better yet, sell your bar to Mr. Dushku and save us all a lot of trouble."
A commotion at the front door drew Jude's notice. The bouncers were denying entry to Dushku's men, the bodyguards Jude knew were named Anton and Dennis. He'd taken photos of the two, and told every employee to be on the lookout.
The men protested. Loudly.
The color leached from Savannah's cheeks. "I didn't text them, I swear."
"I think that honor belongs to Officer Jim Rayburn." Ryanne pointed to the undercover officer who'd been hiding in the bathroom; he'd finally come out to perch at the bar, a smirk on his ugly face.
Enough of this shit. Jude jumped to his feet and rushed for the door, shoving patrons out of his way. A chorus of "Hey" and "Watch out" trailed him, but he was too worked up to care.
"Ryanne told you not to come back here," he snarled when he reached his prey.
"You can tell your bitch--"
Jude threw a punch, taking both men by surprise, knocking one into the other. A fresh tide of fury exploded inside him. Words wouldn't help this situation. Obviously Dushku placed no stock in verbal warnings.
As the pair stumbled, Jude threw another punch, sending both men to the ground. He followed them down and whaled, his audience forgotten.
Time to send Dushku a message that could not be ignored or misinterpreted.
Strong arms wound around his waist and jerked him backward, and Jude got a bird's-eye view of his opponents. Anton had a broken nose. Dennis was missing a tooth and had a knot on his jaw. Blood splattered their faces, the crimson an obscene display of violence.
In a whoosh, the rest of the world came into focus. The music had stopped, Jude realized, and a large crowd had gathered around him.
As he panted, rage like acid in his chest, Brock held him against his chest. "The cop is here, remember?" his friend said. "The difference between assault and manslaughter is years, and people are starting to dig out their phones to record. You get arrested, and Ryanne will be alone. Thankfully Daniel made sure the cop couldn't see what you were doing, and I stopped you before anyone could press Record."
Can't afford to be arrested. Can't leave Ryanne unprotected.
Realizing he'd calmed, Brock released him and patted his shoulder. "The guy without a temper has a temper. Who knew?"
Savannah rushed past them to kneel beside Anton, fear replacing her earlier swagger. Did she think she would be blamed for what had happened tonight?
Next, Ryanne arrived and curved her fingers around Jude's bicep. The touch, though innocent, only amped him up again. She was so soft and delicate...so breakable. She could be hurt so easily.
"What happened?" The off-duty cop--Rayburn--pushed his way through the crowd. When he spotted the injured men, he stiffened. His narrowed gaze found Jude. "Did you do this?"
"Nope. No way," someone called. The drunk named Coot. "Watched the men do the damage themselves, I did, and Jude there tried to help."
"Is that why his knuckles are bloody?" the cop snapped.
One after another, Strawberry Valley residents stepped forward.
"I saw it, too. Jude definitely tried to help. Repeatedly. That's why he's bloody."
"Yessiree. Someone give that boy a medal of honor. He helped them somsabitches something fierce."
Jude listened in shock. He had allies he hadn't known about. The town had already begun to feel like home, and this... This was just icing on the cake, making Strawberry Valley feel like a happy home.
If he were normal, he would have basked in that happiness. Instead, he fought it, proving just how messed up he really was. Happiness led to complacency, and complacency led to mistakes. Mistakes led to disaster.
In other words, mistakes led to Ryanne's bed.
"You're lying, all of you." Rayburn's narrowed gaze slipped through the crowd. "I know you're lying."
Might be time to bring the Strawberry Valley PD up to speed about what had been happening at the bar. Someone Jude could trust to do t
he right thing, even if that "thing" meant going against a fellow officer.
Probably time to pay an off-duty officer to sit at the bar as well, watching everything.
"Why don't you ask Anton and Dennis what happened? When they wake up, of course." Jude offered Rayburn a cool smile. He would bet his savings the officer was working with the bodyguards. Why not turn the tables?
Quietly, for Rayburn's ears only, Jude added, "Or I could check our security feed. We have cameras everywhere. If anyone did anything wrong tonight, like, say, hide in a bathroom, we'll know it."
Rayburn blustered for a moment. "No need to do that."
He called an ambulance, but Anton and Dennis awoke before the paramedics arrived. The twosome glared daggers at Jude while lumbering to their feet, issuing a silent but clear warning: you will pay. But rather than admit a one-legged man had beaten both their asses--pride more important than orders?--they exonerated Jude, claiming he'd done nothing wrong. Then they stumbled out of the bar, Savannah fast on their heels.
Jude called her name, and though she paused in the doorway, she kept her back to him. "Stay here," he said. "Let us help you."
Her shoulders drew in, as if her muscles had contracted spontaneously. She shook her head and whispered, "You can't help me without consequences you're not ready to face, so don't even try," before marching onward.
Ryanne took a step toward her, stopped and wiped away a tear before it could fall. "You're right. We can't help those who won't help themselves." Trembling, radiating sadness, she turned to face him. "Why don't you go up to my apartment and clean up?"
He nodded and headed upstairs, but didn't immediately wash up. First he spent a little time with the kittens. Staying away from the fur balls had been almost as difficult as staying away from Ryanne. And oh, hell, had they grown.
Belle and the babies had completely overtaken the sunroom. Clean towels and blankets covered the tile floor. Belle reclined in the cradle of a windowpane while most of her brood slept on a pallet, one cutie piled on top of the other. Only two kittens were awake, and they tried to stand but failed. Their eyes were open, but their ears hadn't yet unfolded.
Behind him, the door opened and closed with a snap. Ryanne approached him, two shirts in hand.
Her gaze roved over him, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "Your shirt is ruined. Take it off."
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