CHAPTER SIX
WHAT THE HELL did I do?
Jude burned rubber, hauling ass to the home he shared with Brock. Unfortunately, the thousand-square-foot log cabin in the heart of five wooded acres offered no solace. Nor did the winding creek that split the property into two sections. My half, your half, Brock often joked.
The wealth of pecan, hickory and oak trees surrounding the property offered a private, tranquil escape from the rest of the world, yet Jude only felt turmoil.
Granted, he only ever felt turmoil, period. Especially at the Scratching Post. Or anywhere Ryanne Wade happened to be.
She hadn’t dated a man in two and a half years.
The timing wasn’t lost on Jude, and it threw him for a loop. We waited for...each other?
No. Absolutely not.
Why did she want him? He’d done nothing to lead her on.
Idiot! Of course he had. Constantly he watched her. He stared at her lips, riveted, when she spoke. He sought her out, and cock-blocked anyone who flirted with her.
Damn her. The woman had tied him into knots, and he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. Soon he would break.
Wrong. He’d already broken. That kiss...
To his utter shock, he hadn’t felt a shred of guilt—until the kiss had ended. Now he knew Ryanne’s sweet taste. The feel of her silken skin, and the little mewling sounds she made when pleasured. How was he supposed to resist her?
Easy. If he couldn’t resist the owner of a bar, he wasn’t a man deserving of Constance’s love.
The bartender who’d served his family’s killer hadn’t been charged for serving an obviously drunk man or for allowing that man to drive away. And really, Frat Boy hadn’t received much of a punishment, either. His ten-year split sentence—five years behind bars, five years on probation—was a joke. Soon the murdering asshole would be out on the streets, ready to murder another family.
How was that okay? The most ridiculous crimes sometimes came with a severe life sentence, but kill a mother and two young girls and you’d only have to push the pause button on your life for five too-short years.
Cursing, Jude slammed his fist into the steering wheel again and again. As his knuckles bled and throbbed, his cell phone buzzed, signaling a text had come in.
If Ryanne had messaged him, expecting to talk about what had happened, he would—what? Say something terrible he could never take back.
Angry, uncertain—hopeful?—he checked the screen. The anger and hope drained as the name Carrie Jones flashed. Constance’s mother.
I found a baby book Coni made for the girls, and I think you should have it. When I saw the pictures inside, well, I laughed through my tears, and I think you will, too. Please, Jude, tell me where you’re living so I can send you the book.
With another curse, he tossed the phone on the floorboard and smashed his fists into his burning eyes. After the car wreck, he’d packed up everything he and Constance owned and shipped the boxes to her parents. When he moved to Strawberry Valley, he’d left his own belongings behind to be sold or tossed, and hadn’t told anyone back home. Too raw to handle anyone else’s grief, he’d simply cut all ties.
Through it all, his love for the Joneses had never faded. He’d never known his biological dad, and his mother had washed her hands of him as soon as he could take care of himself, just as she’d done with his sister and three older brothers, each of whom had moved out or run away by Jude’s thirteenth birthday. Russ and Carrie had welcomed him into their family with open arms and, through example, taught him how to be a good father to his own children.
He’d wanted to be a better parent to his girls than his mother had been to him. And unlike his dad, Jude had planned to be there any time his babies needed him. A monster under the bed? Dad to the rescue. Got a hankering to give a makeover—lipstick, hair bows, nail polish, the works? Dad’s your man, or model. Can’t reach the cookie jar on the kitchen counter? Dad will lift you up so you can pretend to fly.
But in the end, Jude hadn’t been a better parent than his own. He hadn’t been there for the girls when they’d needed him most. No, he’d been in bed, recovering from the bomb blast that had taken his leg.
Not your fault, so many had said. But it had been his fault—he had made the decision to join the army. He had fought to join the Ten against Constance’s wishes. He had wallowed in self-pity, refusing to work harder to leave the hospital sooner.
He was so ashamed. And he was ashamed of his desertion of the Joneses. The past few months, Carrie had contacted him at least once a week. Her grief had eased, he supposed, and she’d found the strength to go through her only daughter’s things, and probably assumed he had the strength, too.
Maybe he should fly to Texas...where his relationship with Constance had begun. Where memories lurked in every corner. He shuddered.
Can’t leave Ryanne. Not with Dushku nearby.
But Jude could reach out.
He swiped up his phone, sent his new address to Carrie and ended with, I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. Thank you for thinking of me.
Send.
What he would do with the baby book when it arrived, he wasn’t sure.
After a moment’s hesitation, he sent a second message. How are you guys?
Her response came quickly. We’re good. As good as can be expected, anyway. We miss you like crazy. We lost Coni and the girls, and feel as if we lost you, too. Come visit us soon?
Rather than reject her offer outright, he opted for radio silence. At least for now.
Next he called a surgeon he’d met while serving, a guy who was now a urologic surgeon for civilians. The first available appointment was a month away—though Jude suspected the good doctor wanted to put him off, thinking time would change his mind. He asked to be notified if an appointment opened up sooner.
When he looked up, he found Brock lazing in a hammock, shaded by a portico they’d built together. His friend appeared relaxed, completely at ease, but Jude knew better, knew the chaos and pain trapped inside his head. Most nights the guy woke up soaked in sweat and screaming. Sometimes he broke down and cried. Other times he hopped on the treadmill and ran until his knees gave out. Jude understood.
During their years of service, they’d killed a lot of men and lost a lot of friends. That kind of loss did things to a man—ruined his ability to live a “normal” life, leaving stain after stain on his soul.
Jude exited the car and closed the distance, his stride long and strong despite the pain in his knee.
“Dude.” Brock rocked back and forth. On every inward swing, Jude saw the fatigue etched into his face. “You look like you could use a good cuddle. What put your panties in such a twist?”
“Everything.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Nothing.”
With his chin, Brock motioned to the cuts on Jude’s knuckles. “In other words, Ryanne Wade. Go on.”
Jackass. “She’s only part of the problem.” He reached over and tipped the hammock, dumping his friend on the wood planks beneath. A heavy thud shook the entire porch.
Sputtering, Brock jumped to his feet. Once steady, he barked out a laugh. “You suck, my man. Big-time.”
“I know. Sadly it’s one of my better qualities.” He pressed a shoulder against a post and crossed his arms. “What are you doing here, anyway?” The guy spent every night with a new woman.
Brock shifted from one booted foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “Today is career day at Scottie’s school, and she asked me to dazzle her class with my occupation. What am I supposed to say when the only thing I did was kill people? I’ve only got an hour to come up with something true but also appropriate for innocent ears.”
“Talk about the security firm. Tell the kids you’re basically a superhero, because you stop bad guys from committing crimes. Now, who is Scottie?”
The indomitable Brock Hudson flushed with embarrassment. “Lyndie.”
“Ah. Lyndie Scott. Who is now Scottie. How adorable. Are you guys finally on speaking terms?”
“Barely. She’s afraid of me.”
“You know her father and husband abused her. She needs time to get to know you, to assure herself you’ve got control of your temper.”
“Do I? Have control, I mean.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I think not knowing me actually works in my favor.”
“You’ve got your faults. Who doesn’t? But you’re a good guy.”
“Please. You’re my friend. You’re required by bro-rules to think the best of me.”
“No, I get to think the best of you because I’m your friend.” Jude patted Brock’s shoulder and made his way to his bedroom.
He could have offered more assurances or even a few platitudes, but to what end? Brock was attracted to Lyndie, but hadn’t changed his MO. He only ever had one-night stands, using and losing women as a distraction from his troubled mind. Lyndie was a permanent part of their group; a one-night stand would never work. Brock would have to face her multiple times a week, every week.
Jude kicked off his shoes, then his jeans, and sat at the end of his bed. He removed his prosthesis and, with a wince, massaged the scarred stump under his knee. Sore muscles ached in protest as well as relief.
He’d been patched up on the field and then flown to Germany, where he spent a week convalescing from surgery. Then he was flown to San Antonio, where he spent three months in recovery. Constance and the girls had come to see him as often as possible, staying in temporary housing. With every visit, his wife had seemed brighter, happier, and once she’d even told him that she would love him no matter what, but deep in his heart, he hadn’t believed her. He was no longer the man she’d married. He was less. He wasn’t as strong or capable as he’d once been. Hell, he had to learn how to walk all over again.
Acid scalded his throat as he wondered how the flawless Ryanne would react to such an ugly sight.
He shook his head. What did her opinion matter? They’d kissed once, and they wouldn’t do so again.
No matter how desperately his body longed to possess hers.
A beep sounded from his phone, distracting him from his thoughts. He checked the screen, his tightening grip nearly cracking the plastic case when he spotted Ryanne’s name. If this was another invitation—
Wade: HELP ME!!! How fast can you get here??? I need you here five minutes ago. Belle is giving birth, and you probably can’t tell, but I’m freaking out!
He sent a hasty reply. I left the list for a reason. Follow it.
Wade: COME OVER RIGHT NOW JUDE LAURENT OR I SWEAR I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND—I DON’T KNOW WHAT! BUT IT WILL HURT. IT WILL HURT BAD.
Already on my way.
Wade: Thank you thank you thank you. Sorry not sorry that I threatened you. Still friends?
We aren’t friends, Wade. We’re coworkers.
No response.
Maybe he’d been too harsh? Guilt prodded him.
Moving with lightning speed, he reattached his prosthesis, pulled on his jeans and shoes, then stood. He palmed his keys and raced outside, calling, “I’ll be at the Scratching Post.”
He made the twelve-minute drive in six, without being pulled over. A true miracle. As he parked in front, he noticed a flurry of activity at the construction site across the street. More men than usual congregated there.
No better time to drive his truck through the gate and scare the piss out of everyone. Mess with Ryanne and suffer. But she’d asked for help, and he’d promised to be there for her and the cat. He would keep his word.
Jude rushed inside the bar and climbed the stairs to Ryanne’s apartment, easily bypassing the coded locks he’d installed on the doors. He paused in the foyer, watching as she paced, his chest aching all over again.
She’d anchored her dark hair in a sloppy knot on the crown of her head, but several tendrils had already slipped free. Her wide eyes were windows to her vulnerability, her cheeks devoid of color as she clutched a bag filled with supplies. Never had the spirited woman appeared so fragile.
“Don’t be silly,” she was saying—to the cat. “I’m not the one in need of a distraction. You are. So where’s the father?” She’d either chewed on her lips, or Jude’s kiss had left them looking bee-stung and red. “Did he love and leave you, or did you guys have a casual affair?”
“You do realize you’re questioning a cat, right?” he piped up.
Her gaze found him and watered with relief. “Yes, I know, but she’s my friend. And how else am I supposed to find out about her past?”
A fresh round of guilt hit him and, shockingly enough, it was followed by a wave of amusement. Ryanne always found a way to lighten his mood. Something only a friend could do.
Get your head in the game, soldier.
Right. Jude marched into the kitchen and washed his hands. That done, he claimed the bag of supplies. Alcohol, blunt end scissors in sterilized packages, hemostats that were also in sterilized packages, petroleum jelly, gloves, a suction bulb, thermometer and stethoscope. He entered the sunroom, pulled on the gloves. Per the To Do list he’d left her, she’d shut the blinds. The room was darkened, the air warmed by a small heater in the corner. A gram scale waited on the side table. Belle lay on a folded blanket, four kittens already curled up against her belly, each with different colored markings. She panted as a fifth kitten entered the world, the little cutie trapped in a jelly-like membrane filled with clear fluid.
Belle turned her attention to the new arrival, licking the sac from the kitten’s face with more and more force until finally the thin membrane shredded, improving the baby’s circulation, allowing him to breathe. Then she chewed through the umbilical cord and ate the placenta.
“Um, gross?” Ryanne said.
“Belle needs the vitamins.” Jude listened to the kitten’s heartbeat, cleared his airways and checked him over before presenting him to his mother.
“Good girl, Belle,” he praised. “You’ve got this.”
“You promise?” Ryanne flattened a hand over the racing pulse at the base of her neck. “You’re not just being nice? You’re being honest?”
“I’m always honest. But I wasn’t talking to you, Wade. I was talking to Belle.”
“I know.” A tremor shook her in place. “Just to be clear, though, you’re promising she’s got this? That she’ll survive?”
Had the tough bartender fallen in love with a cranky alley cat? “So far this is a textbook birth with zero complications.”
“Oh, thank the good Lord.” The words rushed from her. “Belle might be a small psychotic cream puff, but she’s my psychotic cream puff. At least for now.”
“Tell me about her,” he said, to keep her talking and distracted.
“Well, she’s ruthless but adorable. Destructive but cuddly. She hisses when I pet her, but glares at me when I don’t. More than once she has perched in my lap, purred happily, then bitten my finger when I reached for her.”
Her description amused him, which irritated him. Desiring Ryanne Wade was one thing. Constantly being amused by her—charmed by her—was another matter entirely. “Basically she’s you in feline form,” he grumbled.
Her lips quirked at the corners, as he’d intended, and some of the tension left her. “Maybe she is. But unlike Belle, I haven’t bitten anyone. Yet.”
An image flashed through his mind. One of Ryanne on her knees before him, her straight white teeth nibbling on his inner thigh...as she worked her way up to his shaft.
He cursed and made a mental note to call his doctor, and beg, if necessary, for the surgery to take place this week. No waiting until October.
“Where are your towels?” he asked with a little more force than he’d intended.
“Right here.” Ryanne tossed him the desired item.
He cleaned the rest of the kittens, then used the suction bulb to remove any excess mucus from each baby’s nose and mouth. While he worked, Belle birthed two more babies, making seven total.
After she expelled the placentas, he took care of the newest additions, then helped the entire group feed from Belle. “They’ll want to—and need to—eat a full meal every one to three hours. You’ll need to make sure Belle is fed as well, so she keeps up her strength. Wet food will be easier for her to digest.”
“Me?” Ryanne squeaked. “On my own?”
“Who else? Unless you have a roommate I don’t know about.”
“Maybe I’m like Cinderella and live with talking mice.”
“Say goodbye to those mice. They’ll be a nice snack for Belle.”
“Good, then there will be plenty of room for you to move in and help me. Just for a few days.”
The thought of spending even one night here...
Every muscle in his body tensed. “Nope. You’re on your own.”
What little color Ryanne had regained suddenly vanished, leaving her waxen. He almost shouted, Never mind, I’ve changed my mind, I’ll stay as long as you need me.
As gently as possible he moved Belle and her crew to a clean blanket. Then he ushered Ryanne into the living room, where he urged her to settle on the couch.
“Breathe in, out,” he instructed as he pushed her head between her legs. Hard to believe this was the same woman who’d so boldly yanked him close for a world-rocking kiss. “Good, that’s good.” When he realized he was tracing his fingers down the length of her spine, he ended the contact and gripped his knees. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.” Her voice was weak, thready.
He headed to the kitchen, washed up and dug through the cabinets until he found a glass. The first time he filled it, he drained the contents. The second time, he returned to the living room and crouched at Ryanne’s feet.
The position hurt his knees, but he hid a grimace and said, “Here. Drink.”
Radiating concern, she jackknifed into a sitting position and patted the area beside her. “I’ll drink. You sit.”
She was so aware of him she’d noticed his discomfort?
He eased onto the couch, careful to maintain a bit of distance—nearing her had been a mistake. Her sweet scent teased him, beckoning him closer. “Tell me about your upcoming travels,” he said in an effort to distract them both.
Slight tremors shook her as she drained the water and clutched the empty glass to her chest. “I’ve never even been to another state, but I plan to travel the world. I’ll be starting with Rome. I leave in roughly three months, and I’ll be gone for four weeks.”
Four weeks without her smile? Something dark razed his chest. Ignore it! “Why did you select Rome for your first outing?”
“Honestly? There are so many places I want to go, I ended up spinning a globe and pressing my finger into a random location.”
“The globe served you well. You’ll fall in love with Italy. The Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Piazza Navona. St. Peter’s Dome. The churches. The Vatican. Museums. The food.”
“You’ve been?” Excitement pulsed from her, and she leaned toward him. “Tell me everything!”
The urge to reach out, comb his fingers through her hair, smoothing the errant strands from her cheeks, bombarded him. No doubt she would misconstrue the offer of comfort. And rightly so.
Comfort? Ha!
“I took my family while I was on leave. Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel blew my mind.”
Her dreamy sigh left him breathless.
He added, “Be sure to stand at the top of the Castel Sant’Angelo. There’s a spectacular view of Vatican City and the Tiber, and you can see the Ponte Sant’Angelo with Bernini’s carved marble angels.”
“Sounds absolutely heavenly.” Her eyes closed, as if she were imagining every location, a smile playing at her lips.
Desire—and his lack of resistance—nearly gutted him. He’d seen that look once before, after they’d kissed.
His muscles clenched, his entire being ready to give and to take. To possess. For a moment, he let his mind revel in what could be. He would strip her, strip himself and give her everything they both wanted. Passion, pleasure. Connection.
They would stay in bed until she left for Rome.
As if his desire for her could be satiated in three months. Please. It was planted too deeply, the roots too strong. He had a sinking suspicion every touch would only make him want more of her.
In his mind, and this stolen moment, she would invite him to travel with her. He would say yes, and experience her delight as he escorted her to all his favorite places. He would make love to her on hilltops, verandas and, hell, against any flat surface he could find.
Longing joined desire, a double punch to his solar plexus. He popped his jaw, killing a groan. He had no business feeling this way, even in his fantasies, and he wouldn’t stand for it. Returning to Italy without his girls would be too painful.
“Uh-oh.” Ryanne tsk-tsked, watching him through hooded lids. “You’re thinking about our kiss, aren’t you?” She leaned toward him, as if she had a secret to impart. “Guess what. So am I.”
In an instant, his shaft hardened beneath his fly. “I most certainly wasn’t thinking about our kiss,” he grated, only to admit, “Not anymore.”
“Too bad.” Folding her legs underneath her, she offered him an innocent smile. The seductress knew how to play demure. Noted. “We should probably discuss what happened between us...and how it’s going to happen again.”
He fisted the edge of the couch—don’t reach for her, don’t you dare reach—and swallowed the barbed lump in his throat. Another mistake. The barbs sliced and diced his stomach. “I don’t want to be with you, so there’s nothing more to say.”
Hurt crossed her features, then suspicion. Her gaze roved over him, seeming to burn through his clothing. Satisfaction radiated from her. “Well, well. The man who says he never lies is lying. You’re hard as a rock right now.”
Not so demure anymore, was she. No other woman would dare point out the battering ram in his pants. “You’re right, so let me rephrase. I don’t want to want you.” Not her, not anyone. Constance was no longer the last woman he’d kissed, but she would be the last woman he’d slept with.
Why are you so determined to get that vasectomy, then, hmm?
The dark something returned, only sharper.
“I like you, cowboy, and I like spending time with you.” She traced her fingertip along the seam between his lips, then his scar, dragging a moan from his deepest depths. “I’m not looking for anything serious or long-term. I just—”
“Stop.” Please. Already his mouth watered for another taste of her, and his hands itched to touch her every luscious inch. Need and want clawed at him, his newly awakened body throbbing. “You’re a bar owner. The bane of the world.”
He expected another flash of hurt, or a flinch. A curse or a slap. Instead, she offered him a gentle smile, as if she understood the worst of his pain, and said, “Conversation isn’t going to help either of us. We need to act first and think later.”
True to her word, she flattened her palm on his chest, the heat of her seeping through his shirt. Jude jumped to his feet. He had to leave. He had to leave now. Withstanding her charm had been difficult. Withstanding her touch would be impossible.
Silent now, he stalked to the door.
She called, “Don’t walk away from this, Jude. Give me a chance to prove we’re good together.”
His step faltered, but he didn’t look back and he didn’t stop.