CHAPTER TWELVE
FOR THE NEXT two weeks, Jude was militant about security at the Scratching Post, both physically and digitally.
Dushku’s cameras were found and removed; they’d been expertly hidden as Jude had suspected. Every afternoon he dozed lightly in Ryanne’s office, a laptop resting on his chest, the screen split to reveal feed from four different areas: three inside the bar, one outside. Every night he worked alongside the bouncers and did his best to avoid Ryanne.
She texted him twice. First she asked him out on a date.
I had fun with you, and would love to see you again. Interested?
He turned her down—and called himself a thousand kinds of fool.
She took his refusal in stride, all no big deal, then asked how they could help Savannah.
He’d messed up, hadn’t he? He should have said yes.
No, hell, no. He’d done the right thing.
Sex was supposed to end his unhealthy obsession with her porn-star body, whip-sharp mind and wicked smile. Distance was supposed to eject her from his mind.
No luck. He thought about her more often, and craved her harder, so much harder.
What they’d done in that shower...it had been more than a joining of two bodies. It had been the melding of souls.
Shit. He’d sunk so low, he now waxed poetic?
Well, why not? Since he’d lost his family, he’d had only one purpose: to mourn. Yet, as he’d slid into Ryanne’s hot, tight depths, he’d exalted, forgetting the past, focusing on the moment...and all the moments awaiting him in the future.
Damn this! Did he even deserve a future with Ryanne? He was slime. Worse than slime. He’d cheated on his wife’s memory.
She’s gone. I did nothing wrong.
If that were true, why did guilt plague him? Why had the sweetest pleasure led to the bitterest regret? Why had he gone from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows?
For his own good, he should stop the happy shower time play-by-play running through his mind on constant refresh and pretend it had never happened. He should stay away from Ryanne.
Impossible. Dushku would retaliate for what Jude had done to Anton and Dennis. The only questions were when and how. Of course, Jude could guess when—soon.
The stress had left him feeling as if his skin were stretched over his bones tight enough to rip. The few times he’d left the bar, he’d gone home only to shower and change.
He’d tried to distract himself with a background check on Savannah. Though he’d used every trick he knew, he’d had abysmal results. Was Savannah her real name? What was her last name? Where was she from? Men like Martin Dushku often shipped in girls from other countries, then hid their passports and visas so they had nowhere else to go. Was Savannah born overseas? If she had an accent, she masked it well.
Yesterday, Jude asked one of the men who worked in the Oklahoma City offices of LPH Protection to drive down and buy a night with Savannah in order to whisk her to safety, get her a new ID and hide her for good, but Dushku had stopped bringing her around.
So many obstacles. Jude had no idea what to do.
Chatter interrupted his thoughts. Daniel’s engagement party had kicked off about an hour ago, but Jude had spent every minute checking his phone, watching—what else—camera feed at the Scratching Post.
Now his attention snagged on the reason for the chatter: Ryanne had arrived.
She stood just outside the tent that had been erected outside the Strawberry Inn, golden light shimmering over her, paying absolute tribute to the deep bronze of her skin. Her dark hair hung in decadent waves, the sides anchored back by two crimson ribbons.
Exquisite.
She wore a skintight black dress with a hem that ended just below her knees. A red bow cinched around her waist. A bow he imagined undoing with his teeth. Four-inch crimson heels only added to her appeal.
She was, without a doubt, the sexiest woman in the world. He knew this for fact. For the military, he’d traveled the world.
Breath caught in his throat when her dark gaze met his. His body vibrated with awareness, and his blood heated. Touch her...
Breath seemed to catch in her throat as well, but she quickly turned her attention to Brock, who stood beside him. She smiled and waved, and Brock gave her a thumbs-up.
Jude bit his tongue until he tasted blood. Going to pretend I don’t exist? I’ll teach her—
Nothing.
The entire town had shown up for the party, filling the tent. Twinkling lights hung overhead, interspersed with colored flowers and paper lanterns. A sign that read Gettin’ Hitched had been nailed to a white picket fence. Tables were set up in every corner, offering an array of casseroles made by local favorite Brook Lynn Dillon.
In one of the dishes, Brook Lynn had mixed peanut butter, chocolate, bananas and bits of bacon. Jude refused to sample the oddity...only to decide he wasn’t leaving until he’d gotten the recipe. Ryanne took a bite and moaned with pleasure.
I know that moan. I’ve caused it. The fire in his blood reignited.
Reignited? Ha! The flames had never died.
Look at me, shortcake. Want me the way I want you.
The endearment floored him, but the thought shamed him. He’d abandoned this woman immediately after sleeping with her, then pushed her away when she was kind enough to offer him a second chance, and now he expected her to cater to his every whim?
Again she turned her attention elsewhere, exactly what he deserved.
Had she thought of him at all? Did she regret sleeping with him?
Had he taken her virginity?
More and more the question troubled him. Just as soon as he would convince himself she’d been with other men, doubts would surface. Jude’s initial entry had startled and pained her, and she’d been so tight, barely able to fit him inside.
Did he want to be her first?
Not even a little, he thought, even as a sense of possessiveness grabbed him by the neck and placed him in an undeniable chokehold.
She’s mine. No one else is allowed to touch what’s mine.
If he’d taken her virginity and abandoned her afterward...
She was someone’s daughter. If his girls had lived, and a man had ever treated them so shabbily, Jude would have been killing mad.
I should be shot.
No, I should apologize. He should sweep Ryanne into his arms and carry her to a room in the inn.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled over his spine.
What would Constance say about the man he’d become? A man who’d treated his lover as if she were disposable, unimportant. A man so afraid of impregnating another woman he’d paid a doctor to cut into his testicles.
“Staring like a creeper,” Brock said, placing a cup of strawberry lemonade into Jude’s hand. “Not cool, dude.”
“I’ve never cared about being cool.” He drained half the cup, the coldness of the drink registering more than the sweetness, soothing his dry throat...but not for long.
A tall man approached Ryanne. He exuded the kind of arrogance usually found on Wall Street. Jude’s grip tightened on the cup, crinkling the plastic.
Smiling with her customary flirtatiousness, Ryanne shook Wall Street’s hand.
Rage burned inside of Jude, driving out every other emotion, leaving no room for guilt, remorse or tenderness. Clearly, she’d taken his words to heart. Sex without commitment. One time only. She was free to enrapture any other man she desired.
“Good. I see you’ve noticed someone is making a move on your girl,” Brock said.
“She’s not my girl.” Believe it. Accept it. “She’s my boss.”
Wall Street hadn’t been to the bar since Jude had started working there. If ever he showed up, he’d leave with a black eye and broken nose.
His dark hair was cut and styled to perfection, and his face shaved. The suit he wore had no wrinkles while Jude’s button-down had seen better days—several years ago. No doubt Wall Street had both of his legs, and he could make love to a woman while standing up.
“Do you know what’s sad?” Brock’s pale green eyes were wary as he confiscated Jude’s drink. “I’m a total screw up, it’s all I’ve got going for me, and yet you’ve somehow turned me into the voice of reason. It hurts, man.”
Guilt flared. He’d worried his friend. “Not true.” Brock had an off-the-charts IQ, a bank account the size of Texas thanks to a trust left by his grandfather, and a heart of solid gold. “Your problem is your zipper. It’s open for business 24/7. The little guy’s tired and needs a vacation.”
Smiling a genuine smile, Brock flipped him off.
Daniel and his father, Virgil Porter, stepped from the crowd to join them. Through pictures, Jude knew Virgil had once been as tall and strong as his son. Today, not so much. Age had left its mark. His shoulders were slumped, his bones fragile. He’d lost a good deal of hair and had more wrinkles than a discarded prom dress.
Most days, Virgil was grumpier than Jude. But underneath his bluster was a deep love for his son, his town and, really, everyone he met. Which struck Jude as odd. Virgil lost his wife in an accident years ago and had struggled to recover.
Was recovery even possible?
Virgil patted him on the shoulder, saying, “Came to tell you that you’re looking at our sweet little Ryanne Wade the way a serial killer looks at his next victim. You planning on locking her in your basement, boy? Maybe wearing her skin?”
“Told you,” Brock muttered.
“No, sir, I’m not.” His gaze returned to Ryanne, unbidden.
Wall Street smoothed a strand of hair from her face and hooked it behind her ear, throwing new kindling on Jude’s rage.
Ryanne took a step back, at least, stopping the guy’s next caress. What she didn’t do? Walk away.
Who was the man? Besides dead. What was he doing here?
Damn it, Ryanne should know better than to trust a newcomer. What if this one worked for Dushku?
“A little advice from an old man,” Virgil said with a sigh. “Fight for what you want, while you can. If you don’t, someone else will win your prize, and you’ll have no right to complain.”
The old man didn’t understand. No one did. Not even Jude.
He wanted Ryanne, but the moment he took her, fresh guilt would raze him. Worse guilt, because he’d already been there, done that, and should know better. He would end up hurting her all over again.
“Dad gave me the same advice,” Daniel said, “and if I’d heeded him, I would have settled down with Thea a lot sooner. I would have been happy a lot sooner.”
Jude didn’t think he’d recognize happiness if it kicked him in the balls.
“Sorry, boys, but I’ve got to go. I’m being summoned by my damsel in distress.” An eager Daniel rushed off to join Dorothea, who’d been cornered by her mother’s book club. The old biddies loved romance novels, and had no qualms asking everyone in town about their preferred sexual positions.
Yeah. They’d once asked Jude if he’d ever tried “that S and M stuff.” He’d nearly stepped in front of a bus—willingly, gladly—as he’d made his escape.
His gaze returned to Ryanne. Still with Wall Street, her fingers toying with the bow around her waist. A bow highlighting the flatness of her stomach.
The rubber. It broke. Damn it, I knew the water would be a problem. He’d known, but he’d proceeded anyway, out of his mind with desire and desperate to have the woman before she changed her mind.
The timing is wrong, yes?
Only if you mean I’m ovulating right now.
Ryanne was on the pill, hadn’t missed a single dose. There was no need to worry.
So why was he still fucking worried?
“She’ll be traveling the world soon.” Brock finished off the strawberry lemonade. “Why not enjoy her while you can?”
“Because. Just because,” he said. But the idea...had merit. Enjoy her before her trip. Say goodbye when she leaves. Move on with your life.
“Want to know a secret, son?” Virgil winked at him. “Love is the answer to every problem on the planet, even yours.”
At one time, Jude would have agreed with him. Then his family died and his great love for them hadn’t brought them back. Love had failed him. “I’m not interested in falling again.”
Virgil smiled a sad smile, his gaze faraway. “I was married to my Bonnie for over twenty years, and they were the best years of my life. When she died—” His chin trembled. “I’ve mourned her every day since. I’ve hurt. I’ve hurt so bad some nights I could only sob into my pillow. But even if I’d known our end, I wouldn’t have avoided our beginning. I would have married her regardless. I have a feeling you’d say the same about your wife.”
As the weight of the old man’s words settled over Jude, he stumbled back. Every muscle in his body tensed. If he’d known what would happen to Constance and the girls, if he’d known their terrible fate, and his own, would he have turned his back on love to avoid loss?
No. Absolutely not. Right? He hadn’t known true joy until Constance and the girls. But then, he hadn’t known true pain until their deaths, and now he was an empty shell with nothing to offer anyone else.
“Shoot! Edna Mills is headed this way. The gosh dern woman likes to sneak a pinch of my bee-hind. I’m not a piece of meat, you know. I have a brain, and it isn’t in my pants.” Virgil lumbered off as fast as his arthritic feet would carry him.
Brock’s gaze followed the old man to a shadowed tree. “What I wouldn’t give to have a father like that.”
So true. But why couldn’t he answer Virgil’s question with a simple yes or no? Jude loved his sweetheart and little sweets, but he would do anything to experience peace. Peace he couldn’t have, thanks to his loss. Yet, he also couldn’t imagine living his life without his memories of Hailey and Bailey smiling up at him every time he returned from a mission.
Ryanne’s laugh drifted across the distance, and his gaze zipped right back to her—and narrowed. Wall Street was in the process of typing into her cell phone. His number?
Limp more pronounced than usual, Jude strode toward the couple. What he would do when he reached them, he had no idea.
“That’s my boy,” his friend called.
Glaring at Wall Street, he snapped, “I’d like to talk to you privately, Wade.”
Like a puss, Wall Street paled and inched backward.
“Hey, Jude,” she said with a smile. Not the warm, inviting smile he was used to seeing, but a facsimile, and it gutted him. “This is Glen Baker. We went to junior high together—”
“Don’t care,” he interjected. Apparently raw possessiveness had stripped away his civilized veneer and strict military discipline. “Let’s go inside. Just you and me.”
Wall Street blanched. “I, uh, think I see someone I know. I should say hi.” He handed the cell phone back to Ryanne.
She glanced at the screen, frowned and latched on to the soon-to-be dead man’s arm. “There are only six numbers here. What’s the seventh?”
Yep. The bastard had been typing his phone number.
Glancing between them, Wall Street shuddered. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”
“I’m not. Jude is my employee, with zero benefits.” To Jude she mouthed, Go away. She even made a shooing motion with her free hand.
He ran his tongue over his teeth—and stepped closer to her.
Stiff as a board now, she offered her phone to Wall Street. “Seventh number, please. And remember the manners your momma taught you. It’s rude to keep a lady waiting.”
Wall Street reached out to accept.
This time Jude grabbed his arm, squeezing tight enough to bruise. “Do yourself a favor. Walk away. Now.”
“Sure, sure. I’m outta here.” Wrenching free, Wall Street beat feet.
Jude breathed a sigh of relief...only to realize this could happen again and again. Ryanne was free to flirt with, call, date, kiss or sleep with anyone she desired. Next time he might not be nearby. Or, if he was, he might end up in prison.
Touch what’s mine, and die.
There was only one way to stay out of jail. A short-term relationship with Ryanne, as Brock suggested. He would take what he could, while he could.
He and Ryanne could be together every night before she left for Rome. A couple months of blissful sexual satisfaction. Blissful, exclusive sexual satisfaction.
As much as he’d suffered in life, he’d earned the right to luxuriate in the woman who tempted him like no other.
He would feel guilt, yes, but that guilt would have an expiration date. The only other option? Walking away and living with long-term regret.
Ryanne glared at him, her chest rising and falling in quick succession. “You had no right, Laurent. Absolutely no right!”
He so did not like hearing her refer to him by his last name.
Had he ruined his chances with her? Maybe. Probably. But he’d faced worse odds and won.
First, he owed her a compliment. “You are...” His gaze roved over her, his blood heating. “Spectacular. I look at you, and I hunger. As I’ve proven, I can’t stay away.”
Her eyes widened as they studied him. Electric currents arced down his spine, and the rest of the world faded. They were the only two people in the world.
He whispered, “I want you, Ryanne. Here, now. I plan to take my time, to savor every inch of you.”
Her pupils expanded, a sea of midnight, and her eyelids grew heavy. Tremors rocked her, encouraging his hope. “What happened to once and only once?”
“A mistake. I’d like the opportunity to make you come over and over again.” He bent down, kissed the base of her neck, the tip of his tongue grazing the pounding fury of her pulse. “I’m not done with you. Are you done with me?”
“I don’t... I can’t... Argh! You are like a burr in my saddle, you know that?”
As conversations ceased and multiple sets of eyes focused on them, the world zoomed back into focus. Small-town living. Everyone thought they deserved to know everyone else’s business.
“We’re drawing an audience. Come on.” Jude took her hand and led her through the gaping crowd.
No protests, no attempts to wrench free. His hope continued to magnify.
Inside the inn, he made a beeline for the reception desk, where Holly Mathis, Dorothea’s younger sister, was seated.
Spotting him, the teenager set down her phone and crossed her arms over her chest. She always did her best to stand out, and today was no different. She wore a red corset top and a black ruffled skirt. Her neon pink hose were ripped, the tops of her combat boots frayed.
“Why aren’t you celebrating your sister’s upcoming nuptials?” Ryanne asked the girl.
“Why aren’t you minding your own business?” Holly popped a bubble with her gum.
Ryanne smiled with all the sweetness of a rattlesnake. “How about I tell Dorothea about the time you and your friends came to the Scratching Post and—”
“Fine,” Holly rushed to add. “I’m grounded. A boy snapped my bra, and I broke his nose. Dorothea congratulated me, but Mom doesn’t yet understand the concept of sexual harassment—and the consequences. So why aren’t you two losers out there celebrating the upcoming nuptials?”
“We’d like a room,” Jude said. “Please and thank you. And did you notice what I did there? Used my manners like a big kid. You should try it sometime.”
Pop. “Are you guys going to bone? Because starting right this second we offer hourly rates. One hour is double the cost of an entire night, because it comes with my silence.”
He...had no idea how to answer that.
“Depending on how the conversation goes once we’re in the room,” Ryanne said, “this might be a cold-blooded murder situation.”
“In that case.” Holly tossed a key at Jude. “The room is free of charge. The press will do us some good. But try not to get blood on the comforter, m’kay?”
Jude rolled his eyes and launched into motion. Thanks to Daniel, the inn had undergone a complete transformation. Gone were threadbare pink carpets, peeling wallpaper with faded strawberries that looked like testicles, and laminate countertops. Every piece of furniture—from the scuffed and stained couches to chairs and coffee tables—had been polished or reupholstered.
Elaborate chandeliers dripped with ruby and emerald crystals shaped to resemble wild strawberries. Different walls had been painted different shades of beige, and the floors were solid wood. The counters now boasted gold-veined marble.
The rooms were being renovated and decorated with themes. Well, most of the rooms. The one Holly had given them hadn’t yet begun its transformation. At least it had been spotlessly cleaned, and there was a bed...
Jude turned the door lock, an ominous click sounding.
“All right,” Ryanne said, and sighed. “Let’s get this conversation over with so I can be on my way.”
He turned and roved his gaze over her slowly, lingering on all the places he planned to touch.
“Jude.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, covering the hardening peaks. “You do realize you’re screwing me with your eyes, yes?”
“Yes. But I can’t look at you any other way.”
She began to soften, then scowled. “Okay, I get it. You’re horny, and want to have sex. But why me, the girl you’ve repeatedly ignored?”
“I haven’t ignored you. I can’t. You walk into a room, and my gaze finds you. You walk away, and all I want to do is follow. You breathe, and my body aches.”
A gasp. “I... You...”
I’ve rendered her speechless. Shouldn’t smile.
What the hell? I want to smile?
“I want to have sex with you a second, third and fourth time,” he said. “Actually, I want to lose count, and I don’t want to stop until you leave for Rome.”
Her mouth opened, snapped closed. “So you would be my temporary boyfriend?”
A boyfriend was a husband without legal ties.
His skin burned too hot while his blood flashed ice cold, and a clammy sweat formed over his brow. “There’s no need for labels.”
“So this would be a two-month-long one-night stand? We’d be friends with benefits?”
He nodded: yes. He was the speechless one now.
Goose bumps broke out over her arms. One minute passed. Two. She licked her lips, fanning the flames of his desire. “Before I’d ever consider agreeing, we’d need to get a few things straight.”
Elation went head-to-head with fear. If she had conditions, he wasn’t out of the game. But. Commitment terrified him. Fall into love or even like with a woman, only to lose her? Never again.
Desire eclipsed both the elation and the fear.
He nodded: continue.
“Last time, you treated me terribly after sex.”
Guilt flared, and finally he found his voice. “You’re right, Wade. I was an asshole. I’ll try to do better this time.”
“Wade again,” she muttered.
Hated the use of her last name as much as he did? “Ryanne. Shortcake.”
She softened. Another minute ticked by in silence, this one thick with tension. Staring down at her shoes, she toyed with the belt around her waist. Nibbled on her bottom lip.
When next she faced him, her eyes were narrowed, the long length of her lashes fused together like puzzle pieces. “I’m not sure you understand how deeply you hurt me. I gave you my—” Her cheeks flushed a vibrant shade of rose. “Body. I gave you my body, and you—”
“Wait. Stop for a second.” Suspicions danced through his head yet again, and his gut churned. Why had she paused? Only one reason made sense. To stop herself from saying my virginity. “Was our first time your first time?” he asked point-blank.
The color in her cheeks deepened and spread. “What does it matter?”
Oh, shit. Shit! Breathing became an impossibility. Answering a question with a question was telling. “It matters. So tell me true. Was our first time your first time?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
Damn her! “Because you shouldn’t have gifted your virginity to a broken man.”
She blanched, her arms falling to her sides. “Why do you keep calling yourself broken?”
“And once again you failed to answer my question. Tell me the truth, Ryanne.”
Up went her chin. “By giving myself to you, I gave us both the gift of an orgasm. Stop being greedy, asking for more.”
Feeling as if he were choking, he pulled at his tie to loosen the knot. “I will find out the truth one way or another. Even if I have to start asking the good people of Strawberry Valley about your dating history.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, yes, I would.”
“Fine.” Her chin lifted another notch. “Take heart, Laurent, because I most certainly did not give my virginity to a broken man.”
He began to sigh with relief...relief paired with—surely not. Surely he wasn’t disappointed.
Then she added, “I gave my virginity to you. A warrior. A protector. A man who made me feel safe and sexy, who rushed over to help me when I needed him most.”
Jude stumbled back, overwhelmed by a tidal wave of shock, anger, more guilt. A lot more guilt. More fear and possessiveness. Even...euphoria.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” he demanded.
“I was afraid you’d stop.” The picture of feminine pique, she anchored her hands on her hips. “But don’t go feeling special. If not for an avalanche of trust issues, I might have a thousand lovers in my past.”
Would he have stopped if he’d known the truth?
No need to ponder. No, nothing would have stopped him. “Why did you trust me?”
“A moment of insanity.”
Hardly. “Why? Tell me.”
She huffed and puffed with indignation, but said, “Before I met you, I’d already worked through most of my issues. I’d found a journal Earl had written, and his love for his first wife...well, you reminded me of him.”
Thank God for Earl.
Jude scoured a hand down his face. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I will do better this time.”
“I want to believe you, I really do, but...”
“But,” he prompted, gentle now.
“I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.”
Needing to touch her, craving a connection, he stepped toward her. “Being with me doesn’t have to be a mistake.”
She gulped and stepped back. “Maybe, maybe not. I have questions.”
“Ask. Quickly.” He pushed his weight into his heels, somehow finding the strength to remain in place. “Time isn’t on our side.”
Her tongue slid over her lower lip, leaving a sheen of moisture. “You mentioned you wanted to be with me every night before I leave for Rome, that we’ll be friends with benefits.”
“I don’t hear a question.”
“Are we friends? Before, you said—”
“I know what I said.” Annnd remaining in place ceased to be an option. He moved directly in front of her, only a whisper away, the scent of strawberries and cream intensifying. “I’ll never lie to you, and I’ll protect you and yours. When you need help, I’ll drop everything. We are friends.”
She closed her eyes, drew in a heavy breath. As she exhaled, she faced him, her irises exquisitely smoky. “Last question. Will you cuddle me afterward?”
Her meaning crystalized, and a slow smile bloomed. “Yes, I will.” Gladly.
“Good. Now take off your clothes.”