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 phone-sex-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, cariño, 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 the 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.”
The command nearly undid him. He hesitated but ultimately reached for the hem and eased the material overhead.
A sharp intake of her breath made the fire crackling inside him burn hotter. Sensual smoke filled his mind.
“Oh, wow,” she said, and fanned her cheeks. “Good news for you, bad news for me. I have a replacement shirt for you. Well, maybe this is bad news for you, too. I keep a few clothing items in my office as a ‘just in case’ for customers. You get to pick between a double XL T-shirt with a bikini printed on the front, or a small T-shirt with the Scratching Post’s logo.”
“Give me the bikini,” he said, doing his best to ignore her admiration of him.
“Is it because your muscles will rip the small one like you’re the Hulk? Good thinking.” With a smile she tried unsuccessfully to hide, she tossed the requested garment in his direction. He caught it and yanked the material on, then pitched the ruined one in a trash can.
She pressed her lips together. “Who knew you’d look so good in a bikini?”
“I did. Brock and Daniel, too.”
Now she snorted. “If you tell me you’ve worn a real bikini, I will absolutely, one hundred percent, insist on seeing pictures.”
“I lost a bet and as my punishment, I had to sport a two-piece G-string on the beach. I threatened to kill anyone who took pictures—so of course both Brock and Daniel have hundreds.”
She giggled and the happiness returned. This time, he basked.
“I need to borrow your laptop so I can change the code to every lock in the building,” he said. “And if it’s okay, I’ll work up here tonight to keep an eye on the security cameras.” No way he would be leaving her side any time soon. As added protection, he would text his friends and have them begin the search for whatever cameras Dushku had placed inside and out.
“Sure thing.” She walked over and gently placed her hand in his. Her skin was soft and warm—it was life. Slowly, giving him time to protest, she lifted his fingers to press his knuckles against her cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay, cowboy.”
He closed his eyes tight, knowing he needed to man up and fight her allure. But she felt so good. The connection to her felt good, and damn it, he was tired, so tired, of fighting.
“I thought you were covered in their blood, but some of it belongs to you.” Her voice was infinitely tender. “You injured yourself in an effort to defend me.”
A vine of thorns seemed to sprout inside his throat. “I’ve had worse.” He peered at her again; somehow, she’d become even more beautiful. “Do you want to talk about what happened down there?”
Maintaining her hold on him, she shrugged. “You took out the trash. What more is there to say?”
Blink, blink. “I took out the trash violently. You should fire me, or at least order me to control my temper.” Why wasn’t she frightened of him? Of Dushku? This was only the beginning. This battle marked a turning point for the war. “Tell me to apologize to Dushku. Something! Now he’s going to up his game. No more minor inconveniences and veiled threats, guaranteed. He’ll come after you, as well as the bar.”
She arched a brow. “First, an apology wouldn’t do either of us any good. Not with a man like him. Second, why will he come after me, but not you?”
Hurting Ryanne was the best way to strike at Jude.
Dushku had done his homework. He knew Jude had failed to protect his family from a drunk driver. If Jude failed to protect Ryanne as well, his guilt and mental anguish would never be appeased.
When he remained silent, she sighed. “I’ll deal with whatever comes. Thanks to you, I’ve taken a boatload of precautions.”
I’ll deal, she’d said. Not we’ll deal. Thinking you’re ready for anything and actually being ready for anything were two different animals. “Your trip to Rome,” he grated. “Leave now. Today. I’ll deal with Dushku and the bar.” There was no line he wouldn’t cross, no task too dark.
“Jude, honey, there’s something you need to know about me. I’ll never do what a man commands. Call it a quirk. And even if you were to wise up and ask nicely, my answer would remain no.” Silky locks danced at her temples as she shook her head. “I’ll be staying here, with you.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?” he insisted.
“Because!” She raised her chin, the picture of feminine stubbornness and sexy beyond belief, as strong and brave as the soldiers he’d once served with. Her grip on his hand tightened. “I don’t run from my problems.”
The way he’d been running from his desire for her?
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He wanted her, yes, but he also refused to insult his wife’s memory by being with someone who sold drinks to potential motorists, even someone like Ryanne, who fought against drunk driving to the best of her ability.
He bit the inside of his cheek. Ryanne wasn’t looking for anything serious, so his lack of attachment and attention afterward wouldn’t hurt her.
Perhaps they were perfect for each other?
Damn it, the lines between black and white had begun to blur. This woman had well and truly screwed up his head. Well, screwed up his head more.
If he took her profession out of the equation, he would already be on her, lost in the throes. Sex could be basic, primal, but it didn’t have to mean anything.
If it didn’t mean anything to him, would it—he—insult Constance’s memory more or less?
Worry about the particulars later. He needed to work Ryanne out of his system now. Until he did, she would obsess him.
Rationalizing never helped anyone.
Afterward, he would feel guilt, he was sure of it, but he could deal. He would have to deal, because he didn’t have the strength to walk away. Not tonight.
I’ll never give up.
I’m sorry, Constance. I’m alive, and I’m going to live.
“You should go downstairs,” he said, his tone flat. “And you should hurry.”
Her eyes widened—with arousal or fear, he wasn’t sure which. Still she clung to his hand. “Or what?”
Arousal. Definitely arousal. Her breathless voice shattered what remained of his control.
“Or you’re going to get fucked.”