New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter is back with a sizzling Original Heartbreakers tale about an icy war vet and the only woman capable of melting him...

With trust issues a mile long, Ryanne Wade has sworn off men. Then Jude Laurent walks into her bar, and all bets are off. The former army ranger has suffered unimaginably, first being maimed in battle then losing his wife and daughters to a drunk driver. Making the brooding widower smile is priority one. Resisting him? Impossible.

For Jude, Ryanne is off-limits. And yet the beautiful bartender who serves alcohol to potential motorists tempts him like no other. When a rival bar threatens her livelihood—and her life—he can’t turn away. She triggers something in him he thought long buried, and he’s determined to protect her, whatever the cost.

As their already scorching attraction continues to heat, the damaged soldier knows he must let go of his past to hold on to his future...or risk losing the second chance he desperately needs.

Praise for New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter

“Showalter...rocks me every time!”

—Sylvia Day, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Showalter writes fun, sexy characters you fall in love with!”

—Lori Foster, New York Times bestselling author

“Sassy, smart characters and an expertly woven, unconventional plot, The Closer You Come showcases Gena Showalter in all her shining talent.”

—Kristan Higgins, New York Times bestselling author

“Showalter makes romance sizzle on every page!”

—Jill Shalvis, New York Times bestselling author

“Emotional, heart-tugging, kept me turning the pages!”

—Carly Phillips, New York Times bestselling author

“With compelling stories and memorable characters, Gena Showalter never fails to dazzle.”

—Jeaniene Frost, New York Times bestselling author

“The Showalter name on a book means guaranteed entertainment.”

—RT Book Reviews

“The versatile Showalter...once again shows that she can blend humor and poignancy while keeping readers entertained from start to finish.”

—Booklist on Catch a Mate

“Gena Showalter is a creative genius.”

—Hypable

Can’t Let Go

Gena Showalter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book would not have been possible without three amazing ladies:

To Jill Monroe and Kresley Cole for the invaluable brainstorming. And laughs. And fun. And heck, for being you.

To my amazing editor Emily Ohanjanians for incredible feedback. I love that you just get me! Even better, you get my quirky characters.

And I have to give a second, special shout-out to Jill Monroe, who spent 8 hours holed up in a hotel room with me one day, helping work through the kinks in the story.

I’m blessed!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

HE WAS BACK.

Ryanne Wade poured her world-famous fruit cocktail moonshine—affectionately known as CockaMoon—into a small mason jar and, as discreetly as possible, watched as Jude Laurent prowled through her bar. And okay, the moonshine wasn’t exactly world famous but regionally famous. Okay, almost regionally famous; made from her personal recipe, it was distilled at a local brewery and sold exclusively at the Scratching Post.

Jude had once called the drink Downfall in a Glass. Or DIG. Like, you’re digging your own grave, Wade. Just to get a rise out of her, she was sure.

The former army ranger was a new resident in her hometown, and one of three co-owners of LPH Protection, a security firm. Sometimes he looked like a brawler from the maddest, baddest streets, yet other times he looked like a businessman fresh from a boardroom negotiation—and he’d won. Tonight, he was a bona fide brawler, ready to throw down and heat women up. He wore a black T-shirt, ripped jeans and combat boots. Leather cuffs circled his wrists, and three silver rings glinted on his fingers. His version of brass knuckles?

No matter his persona du jour, he was always as gorgeous and tempting as sin—and an all-around pain in Ryanne’s backside.

He really churned her butter.

Usually he only blessed the Scratching Post with his exalted presence when one of his two friends required a designated driver. He never ordered anything but water, and never spent a dime or even left a tip for the waitress unlucky enough to serve him. Namely Ryanne. Not even the insulting kind of tip: a note on a napkin. Fetch my drinks faster next time, and you’ll get cash.

The worst thing about him? He liked to stand at the jukebox and intimidate patrons with a death-ray glare. Oh, and let’s not forget how he sometimes attempted to police the door, commanding people to sit and stay as if they were dogs, simply because they’d had a sip of something—anything—alcoholic.

The nerve of the man. And the body on him...

Ryanne fanned her flushed cheeks. Time to crank up the air conditioner. Because no, her boiling blood had nothing to do with Jude’s sexy, muscled, delicious, sexy, mouthwatering, sexy good looks.

Not too long ago—okay, okay, soon after meeting Jude—Ryanne had decided to nix her ban on romantic relationships and pick someone to date. The timing was purely coincidental, of course, but her hormones had been out of whack ever since.

Besides, even if she did want Jude, she wouldn’t go after him. Despite his surly attitude, females young and old continued to approach him in droves, stealthily or not so stealthily dangling their bait, but he never even nibbled. He might as well have Off Limits tattooed on his forehead.

Was tonight the night he relaxed and had a little fun?

Shivers rained over her as he cast a dark, brooding glance in her direction. He had collar-length blond hair with the slightest wave, eyes bluer than a morning sky, and the body of a surfer: lean, muscled and bronzed. But he also had a perma-frown. To her knowledge, he’d never smiled, joked or laughed, and he’d always radiated scary-hot menace and aggression.

If he ever smiled...goodness gracious, her hormones might explode from lust overload!

Of course, he had a good reason for his bad attitude. A few years ago, he lost his entire family in a terrible car accident; his wife and twin daughters were gone in the blink of an eye. Talk about the ultimate heartache. Ryanne reckoned guilt and grief ate at him on a daily—hourly—basis. And she absolutely 100 percent empathized.

But come on! His troubled past didn’t give him the right to accuse her of duplicitous flirting practices in order to boost return visits, and oversalting snacks to ensure patrons remained thirsty. First, she wasn’t a plain, ordinary flirt; she was flirtish, and there was a difference. She wasn’t after conquests but smiles. Second, how would Jude know anything about the food? He hadn’t tasted a single dish she served.

For some reason, he’d pegged Ryanne as a villainess at their first meeting, and his opinion of her hadn’t changed.

Dang him. I’m as sweet as sugar, and probably tastier to boot!

When he turned on his heel and headed her way, a frisson of electricity raced through her. Their gazes locked once again, and his step hitched—so did her breath. The sight of him, drawing nearer while fully focused on her...

Keep your cool, mi querida.

Impossible! Her heart thudded against her ribs, and sweat glazed her hands.

Attraction gave way to irritation, but irritation gave way to compassion when she noticed his limp. Poor guy. It was more pronounced than usual.

On a mission overseas, he’d lost the bottom half of his left leg. Now he wore a prosthesis.

Fingers snapped in front of her face, and she blinked. Cooter Bowright, one of her regulars, stared at her with concern. “You all right, Miss Ryanne? You’ve been spacing while I’ve been foaming at the mouth. Dehydration is deadly, don’t you know.”

Ugh. Caught ogling a man who despised her. Feigning nonchalance, she topped Coot’s CockaMoon with a sprig of mint and slid the jar in his direction. Since she’d begun selling the fruity specialty, her nightly revenue had increased over 20 percent. Maybe because the cocktail consisted of strawberries, blueberries and grapes, a tribute to the three Oklahoma towns that surrounded the bar: her childhood home Strawberry Valley, Blueberry Hill, where the Scratching Post was located, and Grapevine. Or maybe because the cocktail utterly rocked.

“I’m all right enough to know this is your last moonshine of the night,” she said. “If you get to feeling dehydrated again, I’ll pour you a sweet tea.”

Coot took a long swig, draining half the glass, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come on, Miss Rye-anne.” He sometimes drew out the syllables in her name when trying to make a point. “Don’t cut me off just yet. The night’s barely even started.”

“You know the rules. Three CockaMoons, no exceptions.” No one got blackout drunk on her watch. Actually, if anyone slurred their words or staggered while walking, regardless of the limits, she pulled a Jude and stole keys. One, it was illegal to sell alcohol to anyone who appeared intoxicated and two, no, just no.

Safety first, sales second.

The difference between her and Jude? She called a cab afterward and never judged.

“I’d say you suck rotten eggs, but I love you too gosh dern much,” Coot muttered, only to brighten. “Hey, you gonna be singing tonight?”

Sometimes she enjoyed performing a couple sets with the band, but she couldn’t sing, mix drinks and make snacks. “Not tonight. I—”

Jude reached the bar, and the rest of her response died in her mouth. Sex made flesh. He leaned against the polished wood and—shocker—glared at Coot. “Public intoxication is a crime.”

Coot withered. “You’re right, Jude. I’ll be more careful next time. Honest.”

Hoping to lighten the mood, Ryanne winked at Coot and said to Jude, “Your shirt is a crime.” The black cotton was far too tight and likely to cause riots. She wiggled her brows. “How about you do us all a favor and take it off?”

See? Flirtish.

He frowned at her and, right on cue, she withered just like Coot.

The old man patted her hand in a show of camaraderie. “I ever tell you two about the night I let the wife use zip ties in the bedroom?”

Yeah, he’d told her about a dozen times. Mrs. Bowright had tied him up all right, only to fall off the bed and knock her head on a side table. Cooter had to crawl bare-butt naked across the floor to get to the phone stuffed in the pocket of his discarded jeans. He’d ended up using Google to find a way to free himself from the ties before the paramedics arrived—something about spreading your elbows, raising your arms and slamming your joined hands into your torso—but not before he’d mistyped and found himself on a zit-popping site.

Ryanne listened, anyway. She loved the old man.

For once, Jude refused to be ignored. He stepped into her line of vision, their gazes tangling together. Blood fizzed in her veins as her stomach performed a series of flips.

How did he affect her so quickly and intensely?

Easy: her romantic past was basically a blank slate. She had no experience, so she had no means of fighting her attraction to this—any man.

Bottom line, she’d gone two and a half years without dating. Before that, she’d only gone out a handful of times, too distrustful of the male species to offer more than a handshake at the door.

Why bother doing more? In high school, her mother slept with not one but two of her boyfriends, and Ryanne had feared it would happen again (and again).

Just wanted to know if they’d cheat on you, cariño.

Yeah, right. You don’t betray your “sweetie.”

Ryanne’s trust issues had only gone downhill when she’d started working here. Before taking over ownership, she’d balanced the books, bused tables and waitressed. Every night, someone had propositioned her, pinched or swatted her butt, or groped her breasts. Supposedly devoted husbands had picked up singles, and women who’d left with a man one weekend had cried a week later when he’d gone home with someone else.

As a child, some of her mom’s “special friends” had gotten handsy. Once, Ryanne had overheard one of those special friends laughing with coworkers, bragging about easy conquests and sneering about “clingy bitches.”

It was a miracle Ryanne had gotten over her issues, and a bigger miracle someone as cranky as Jude had set her fantasies aflame. He really, really wasn’t her type.

Was anyone?

Surely! She would find a candidate sooner or later, and he would be everything she’d ever wanted, everything she’d ever needed. Honorable, loyal to the bone. Kind. He would prize and cherish his significant other, no matter how long or short their relationship.

He would be like Earl Hernandez, who’d had a heart of gold.

When Earl died of pancreatic cancer a few years ago, her entire world had come crashing down.

Only recently had she cracked open the journals he’d written throughout his life. His devotion to his first wife, who’d died before him, had shone as brightly as a star in the darkest of night. If those two had lived, they would still be together.

“I need to speak with Ryanne privately,” Jude said to Coot.

He did? About what?

“Course. No problem, Jude.” Coot blew her a kiss before wandering off.

“So...how are you?” Jude said, now looking anywhere but at her.

Going to exchange pleasantries, were they? Okay, fine. “I’m well. How about you?”

He shrugged and said nothing else.

Oookay. Exchange over. “What can I get you? Liquid Viagra? Blowjob on the rocks? Screaming Orgasm?”

“Water.” His voice was a little hoarse, and she fought a grin as she filled a glass with his beverage of choice. “And add a lemon,” he said.

Ooh la la. Lemon. She wedged a slice on the rim. “That’ll be two dollars and fifty cents.”

His gaze zoomed back to her, his lips pursed, pulling his scar taut. “Two fifty for water that’s never before cost me a dime?”

Was he such a miser at other businesses or just hers? “My mistake. Tonight I’m charging you for my time and energy. And if you think you’re getting a bargain, you’re right.” While everyone else tiptoed around him, afraid of making him unhappy—well, unhappier—she often bristled like a porcupine.

Unfortunately, she’d inherited her mother’s hair-trigger temper.

He stroked two fingers over his beard stubble before placing a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Do not keep the change. And since we’re on the subject of time and energy, you’d do well not to waste mine by admitting you need me.”

You need me.

Was this an attempt to ask her out? “Excuse me?” she said, and grudgingly handed him two dollars and fifty cents.

“Your security—” air quotes “—wouldn’t stop an accident much less a deliberate crime. You need me to fix the problems before someone gets hurt.”

Nope, he wasn’t trying to ask her out, and she wasn’t disappointed.

“No one’s going to get hurt.” Her “duplicitous flirting” helped maintain the peace, preventing fights. When one happened to break out, she handled it.

“You’re too trusting,” he said.

What! “Too trusting? Me?”

“You must think the best of people. Otherwise you’d fix your ancient locks, and better watch your customers. You have four employees, and there’s no way the five of you can keep track of everyone at once. What if someone steals money from your register? How will you know, until it’s too late? Plus, there are too many dark corners in and around your bathrooms. What if a woman is assaulted? And do you have any idea what’s going on in the parking lot?”

The thought of anyone being assaulted in her establishment sickened her. “Just so you know, I’m not responsible for the decisions others make. And my locks do their job, which is all that matters. But what do you suggest I do about the dark corners? And what’s going on in the parking lot?”

“Add motion sensitive lights, as well as hidden cameras.” He said no more, ignoring her second question.

“Lights, yes.” Even though the constant on and off might be annoying. “Cameras, no way. They’re a violation of privacy.”

“It’s perfectly legal to put cameras in the hallway outside a bathroom. Also, you need at least two men at the front door. Someone to monitor who enters, and someone to monitor who exits. The latter can issue Breathalyzer tests to anyone planning to drive.”

A customer signaled her from the other end of the bar, but Ryanne held up a finger, asking for a moment. “Hello. I’m a walking Breathalyzer. And as much time as you’ve spent here, you should know it. The things you’re suggesting will only tick off loyal patrons, costing me business and money.”

Every spare cent she made went into her travel fund.

As a little girl, she’d escaped her rocky home life inside the pages of travel books, imagining she was somewhere—anywhere—else. Now she longed to visit those places for real.

Last week, she’d purchased her first ticket. In two months, twenty-eight days and seven hours, she would be on a first-class flight to Rome, where she would spend four weeks biking through the city and its surrounding countryside, touring the Vatican, oohing and ahhing over famous artwork, eating fresh cheese and homemade pasta, and tasting wine at different vineyards.

Muscles jumped beneath Jude’s navy blues. “For Ryanne Wade, monetary profit comes before other people’s lives. Got it.” He turned on his booted heel and stalked away.

Dang him! He always had to have the last word. But...was he right about something bad happening in the parking lot?

She hustled to the waiting customer and, for the next hour, managed to push Jude from her thoughts as she mixed drinks. It was Saturday, but only 6:30 p.m. Still, the bar was crowded, her waitresses rushing from table to table.

After her full-time bartender, Sutter, clocked in, Ryanne made the rounds, making sure customers were happy and no crimes were being committed. The regulars smiled and waved at her.

Most came from Strawberry Valley, where she’d lived the bulk of her life.

Her mother, born and raised in Mexico, had moved to the United States to marry a Texan. However, the two soon divorced, and a pregnant Selma Wade—once Selma Martinez, now Selma Wade-Lewis-Scott-Hernandez-Montgomery—moved to Oklahoma City, where she later met and married a prominent Blueberry Hill businessman. Like husband number one, he hadn’t kept her attention long, and she’d divorced him in favor of marrying a pillar of the Strawberry Valley community. When those two divorced, Selma married Earl, another Strawberry Valley resident, only a far less reputable one. All too soon she’d divorced him, as well. She dated around before marrying her fifth husband and moving to Colorado, where she still lived.

That’s when newly minted eighteen-year-old Ryanne made the quality decision to move in with Earl, her third stepfather. He’d owned the bar, but he’d had trouble running it after his cancer diagnosis. And though she’d come here to help him, the wonderful man had helped her, supporting and encouraging her the way a father should, even when people accused him of falling for a “cheap Lolita.”

A pang in her chest, Ryanne blew a kiss to his picture, which hung above the bar, right alongside postcards of every country she’d ever dreamed of visiting. Greece. Egypt. Finland. Iceland. Actually, all the lands! Ireland, Greenland, Switzerland, the Netherlands, Thailand, and England. Australia. Africa. Costa Rica. France. Germany. Israel. China. Mexico. Russia. The Virgin Islands. Basically, she planned to travel from one end of the earth to the other, and everywhere in between.

Throughout the rest of the building, she’d preserved Earl’s country-western motif. The walls had patches of exposed brick, and above the dance floor were the words Wild West, every letter surrounded by colorful neon lights. For bar stools, saddles were welded to metal bases. In the corner, swinging saloon doors partitioned off the bathroom hallway.

Do you have any idea what’s going on in the parking lot?

Jude’s words rolled through her mind, and curiosity got the better of her. With her favorite .44 holstered inside her boot, she marched to the rear exit. In the alley, cool night air couldn’t mask the pungent scent of garbage due to be dumped. The overripe smell hadn’t driven away the people who sat along the wall.

At the end of every shift, she liked to give leftover food to the homeless, and word had spread.

“Hey, guys,” she said with a wave. “Anyone seen anything suspicious going on out here lately?”

A man known only as Loner stood to wobbly legs. Dirt streaked his skin and caked his hair while stains littered his ragged clothing. Her heart ached for the man. She didn’t know his story, only knew his eyes were dulled by hopelessness. Life had given up on him, and he’d given up on life.

“There’s been a young man skulking through the shadows,” he said. “Tall, blond. Looks constipated all the time. We thought he worked for you ’cause he paid us to report any drug sightings or—” Loner tugged at his collar “—flesh peddlin’.”

Constipated? Only Jude. The man hated every second of his existence.

Why did Jude care what happened on her property, anyway? Why did he think people were selling drugs and sex? Oh...crap. What if people were selling drugs and sex? Acid churned in her stomach, quickly burning a path up her throat.

“And did you have to report anything to him?” she asked.

Loner shifted from one foot to the other. “Past few nights, different men have climbed inside a van and, uh, it started rocking soon after. Those men took off about fifteen minutes later.” Again he pulled at his collar. “Not sure if no money was exchanged, though.”

Poo on a stick!

Ryanne had heard so much cursing on a daily basis, she’d decided to keep her words and thoughts, like, superclassy. Snort.

She sooo did not want to call the cops about this. While she loved the hardworking, honorable men and women who worked for the Strawberry Valley PD, she didn’t fall under their jurisdiction. Instead, Blueberry Hill PD would be sent out, and one of their officers—Jim Rayburn—wanted her shut down by fair means or foul. Sometimes he showed up at the bar to card and question her patrons. Other times he pulled them over for suspicion of drunk driving. Ryanne suspected Jim was the one who’d written “Ryanne Wade is a slut” and “For a good whore call Ryanne Wade” on the men’s room wall.

He despised her, all because she’d helped her friend and ex-stepsister Lyndie Scott leave her husband, Chief Carrington, Jim’s former boss.

The abuses the chief inflicted on the delicate Lyndie, turning a buoyant young girl into a woman with crippling shyness and constant panic attacks... For the first and only time in her life, Ryanne had contemplated cold-blooded murder.

A jealous husband did it for her, giving the beater and cheater a taste of his own medicine. In Jim’s mind, Lyndie and Ryanne were responsible. What if he blamed the sex and drugs on Ryanne? What if he jailed her?

Can’t risk calling for help. “Thank you, Loner. Please report any other shady activity to me instead of the constipated man. Okay?”

He nodded. Determined to hunt down the van, she surged into the crammed parking lot. As she wove in and out, peeking into windows, the loud wail of a jackhammer registered. Her gaze zoomed across the street, where halogen lights were posted around a construction site.

Not too long ago, a man named Martin Dushku had come to see her. Though he’d had violent tattoos on his neck and hands, he’d worn a sophisticated suit that probably cost more than her SUV.

He was opening a strip club nearby, he’d said, and hoped she wouldn’t mind having competition.

She’d smiled and said, “What competition? I run a bar, not a strip club.” Besides, economic theory suggested two competing businesses being located right across from one another was actually better for each business, because the competition fueled more activity and therefore more business.

He’d laughed. “And your place is low end while mine will be high end. But,” he’d added, “I’d prefer to buy you out and run both businesses, which would free you up to travel.”

Her desire to travel wasn’t a secret, but he’d still managed to creep her out. She’d refused his offer. She wanted to travel, yes, but she also wanted a home to return to, something she hadn’t had as a child. More specifically Earl’s home. Also, she enjoyed providing meals for the homeless. Mr. Dushku struck her as the type of man who would treat the less fortunate like dirt.

She’d expected a fight, but he’d accepted her refusal gracefully and taken off.

Mind on the task at hand. He’s not my worry tonight.

Right. Almost done. Only a few more cars to check. In fact, she was about to breathe a sigh of relief that there was no sign of the van or foul play when she came to a shadowed corner in back, with only two vehicles. One—a van. The other was a sedan. Her stomach sank. Both vehicles had tinted windows and, just as Loner reported, the van rocked back and forth.

What should I do?

Light suddenly flooded the sedan, allowing her to lock eyes with the man behind the wheel. He was smoking a cigarette, casual and unabashed. Beside him sat a man with a snake tattooed on his jaw.

I should...run? They had to be pimps or bodyguards, because their charge was clearly doling out goods and services in the van.

Run? No! Fury sparked inside Ryanne, tempered only by dismay.

Calling the cops was no longer a should-she-shouldn’t-she situation. She should. She would. First, she needed proof of her innocence, just in case Rayburn tried to turn the tables on her. So, despite possible dangers, Ryanne withdrew her phone and took pictures of the men and the license plate on both vehicles. No one would be pinning a crime on her.

When she stood at the rear, the passengers decided now would be the perfect time to emerge. Well, crap. She began to stream a live video on her phone. A weapon in and of itself: it proved her innocence, while ensuring the guys couldn’t do anything violent without a boatload of witnesses.

“Say hello to the world,” she said, and grabbed her gun as a just in case.

Cigarette was over six feet tall while Snake topped out at about five-five. Both males were muscled, heavily tattooed and glaring at her.

Ryanne stood her ground. How many times had she been forced to break up fights involving big, scary men? Countless.

Cigarette slapped a hand against the van, once, twice, and it stopped rocking.

“You and your crimes aren’t welcome here.” She was proud. Her voice, like the rest of her, held steady. “Leave, and don’t come back.”

Snake looked her over slowly, leered and licked his lips. “You might want to watch your mouth, little girl. You don’t, and bad things are likely to happen.”

“Please,” she said, “threaten me again. I’m not sure the camera captured your best angle.”

The door in back of the van suddenly swung open, a man wearing tighty-whities falling out. With the rest of his clothes clutched against his chest, he sprinted past Ryanne and down the street. The alleged prostitute—blonde, pale and thin, with wide eyes full of fear—remained inside and shut the door.

“You okay in there?” Ryanne called.

Silence.

Cigarette took a menacing step toward Ryanne.

“Stop! Anything happens to me, and the world will know who’s responsible.” As a tremor swept through her, the phone fell from her grip and thudded on the concrete. Crap! At least she still had her gun.

“We know who you are, and we know the cops hate your guts. They’ll blame you if anything happens to us,” he replied.

How did he know about her fears?

Thumping footfalls sounded in the distance, growing closer by the second. She tensed, unsure what was about to happen, when—

Jude appeared in front of the vehicles, his hands balled like sledgehammers. He squared his shoulders and braced his legs apart, his posture rigid. A precombat stance. He wasn’t panting, but he was making some kind of low growling noise, as if he were a rabid animal who’d finally found a meal.

Commando likes the taste of blood. And oh, wow, she liked this side of him. In the moonlight, he was a god. A warrior without equal.

Still, her tension spiked. If he were hurt...

To her astonishment, Cigarette and Snake immediately backed up. Cigarette slid into the sedan, and Snake climbed behind the wheel of the van. All without a word. One after the other, the vehicles shot out of the parking lot.

Ryanne lunged forward, intending to follow. On foot? Idiot! But the girl...

Jude latched on to her wrist, keeping her in place. “Don’t,” he snapped. “You’ll only get yourself killed.”

Was he mad at her?

No, no. Couldn’t be. He was mad at the world. Always.

She swiped up her phone, intending to dial 911. Instead, she paused. “Who are they? Were they selling that girl?”

“They work for a man named Martin Dushku, and yes. They were selling that girl. Have been for the past two weeks.”

The answers hit her like twin jabs to the gut. Why would Mr. Dushku sell a girl on her property rather than his own?

To blame Ryanne and get her shut down? Why not call the cops on her, then?

Maybe he only wanted to scare her so she’d sell?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “And why didn’t you call the cops? We need to help that girl.”

“I know all about your history with the Blueberry Hill PD. And I was handling it. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

Had he tried and failed? “Clearly you weren’t handling it well enough.”

Malice radiated from him as he bared his teeth. The fact that they were straight and white made him no less intimidating. “You know there are Eastern European gangs in Texas, right? I dealt with them when I lived in Midland. They’ve migrated into Oklahoma, and like I said, the two assholes you threatened work for Martin Dushku, the guy building a club across the street. He isn’t known for his sharing and caring but his fervor to own everything. He’ll try to force you to sell or shut you down, whichever comes first.”

Gang members? Here? No freaking way.

Maybe Mr. Dushku wasn’t involved at all. He might have been a little creepy when he offered to buy her out, but he hadn’t been pushy. “How do you know this?” she asked, one brow arched. “Let’s face it. You could have arranged this little show in an attempt to scare me into hiring you.”

He stepped toward her, far more dangerous than Cigarette or Snake, and yet she wasn’t afraid. “I don’t want your business, Ryanne. I’ll never be your biggest fan, and I despise your bar. Frankly, I’d rather let it burn to the ground. If you weren’t friends with my friends, I would. And I know about Dushku because I investigate everyone who moves to my town.”

She believed him. One thing she couldn’t doubt—his loyalty to his friends, Brock Hudson and local hero Daniel Porter. The three had served in the military together, and had each other’s backs without fail.

And she wasn’t hurt by Jude’s I’ll never be your biggest fan crack. The man had terrible taste.

“I’m sorry,” she said, fear suddenly clawing at her insides. A gang had come to Oklahoma, and the leader wanted her bar. Her home.

She’d taken care of Earl here. Happy memories abounded. If something happened...

Who was she kidding? Something would happen. Martin Dushku and his associates were bad people, willing to do bad things. What if they hurt her patrons, innocent people who’d done nothing wrong?

Biting the inside of her cheek, she sheathed her gun and extended a shaky hand to Jude. “Congratulations, Mr. Laurent. You’re hired.”

CHAPTER TWO

JUDE LAURENT IGNORED the delicate hand being offered to him, his mind remaining on high alert. He’d provoked two predators tonight. At some point, both men would return, and they would act out in an attempt to save face.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he told Ryanne. “Nine a.m. We’ll go over details and prices then.”

Sputtering, she dropped her arm to her side. “Nine a.m.? No way, no how. I don’t go to bed until four a.m., and I’m never up before noon.”

“Nine a.m., Miss Wade.” When their meeting concluded, he’d have to make a two-hour drive to the city to purchase whatever equipment they’d agreed upon. And, to be perfectly blunt about the matter, he didn’t care if she got her beauty z’s or not. “Not a minute later, or you’ll be on your own with Dushku.”

A cool breeze blew in, caressing strands of inky hair over the delicate rise of her cheek. Motions clipped with irritation, she hooked the strands behind her ear. “Remind me who will be paying whom.”

“Remind me who will be saving whom.”

Now she anchored her fists on her hips, the picture of feminine pique. “Well, this is just freaking perfect, isn’t it. We’re not going to drive each other crazy at all.”

“If you do what I say, when I say, we’ll get along fine, guaranteed.”

She bristled, pricklier than a porcupine. Perhaps she believed he was acting like a hard-ass. Too bad. He wasn’t acting. People could take him or leave him. He didn’t care about that, either.

“How about we split the difference and meet at ten thirty?” Once again she offered him a fine-boned hand. “Deal?”

This time, ignoring her hand proved more difficult. Her nails were square-tipped, painted soft pink and glittered in the moonlight. A surprise. As tough—and sexy—as she was, he expected bloodred or jet-black.

A series of calluses marred the tips of her fingers, and on her wrist was a small but elaborate tattoo. An antique lock without a key, surrounded by emerald ivy, as if her arm had a hidden doorway to paradise.

His wayward gaze traveled over the rest of her, unbidden, as if drawn by an irresistible force. Her hourglass figure sizzled with carnality, and he suspected everyone who’d ever looked at her imagined her stripped naked and spread over a bed. Or any flat surface, really.

He certainly had, and he hated himself for it. Desire Ryanne Wade? No. Hell, no. The twenty-five-year-old single woman was the bane of his existence: a bar owner who threatened his control. But he’d told her the truth. His friends loved her. She was close to Dorothea Mathis, who was engaged to one of his buds, Daniel Porter. She was also close to Lyndie Scott, who was desired by Brock Hudson, Jude’s only other bud.

That made Ryanne Wade a double whammy.

At the end of the day, Jude would do anything for Daniel and Brock, who had served with him overseas, saving his hide more times than he could count. Which was why he’d added their names to the massive tattoo on his chest.

They, along with a rare few others, were the only people who mattered to him.

Jude forced his gaze to lift at last, meeting rich brown eyes so often filled with joy he could no longer understand. Those eyes were framed by curling dark lashes somehow sweet and sultry at once. Long raven hair surrounded a face that belonged in a movie. She had smoky eyes, high cheekbones, a pert nose and pouty red lips.

Beauty, brains and bravery. The whole package.

“Well?” she demanded. “Judging by your silence, I can only guess you’re blown away by my brilliance.”

“I’ll meet you at nine a.m. and not a minute later,” he croaked. Then he backed away, and motioned for her to get her ass inside. Any time she brought her “sassy tone” into a conversation, he had only one option: retreat. That tone twisted him up, and sometimes even hollowed him out.

She stood in place for a long while, different emotions sweeping over her exquisite features. Anger, irritation, frustration, but finally resolve. Decided his services were worth the hassle, after all?

When she trudged into the bar, he followed close on her heels. As he moved, phantom pains shot through the calf he no longer possessed. He should go home, remove his prosthesis and relax for the first time in...never mind. He didn’t know how to relax. He should work, the best distraction from his toxic thoughts.

Ryanne maneuvered through the crowds, being sure to give her hips an extra sway. Witch. Whistles preceded her, and catcalls trailed her.

Jude cursed the circumstances that had brought him here. Ignore her. Ignore everyone. He had work to do, and a very short time to do it.

The Dushku motto: Don’t Bend, Break.

As soon as the family had moved into Blueberry Hill, only minutes from Jude’s home in Strawberry Valley, he’d done background checks on every member. His motto? Can’t Be Too Careful.

Ryanne was in serious danger. Years ago, Dushku moved to a small town in Texas. He offered to buy out every bar, restaurant and liquor store in the area. Soon after, anyone who’d refused to sell suffered a tragic fate. Some were arrested for a crime they swore they’d never committed while others were injured in some kind of accident.

Dushku was never charged.

On edge, Jude counted the number of cameras and lights he would need, and tested the reliability of every lock. Something he’d done several times before, as he’d waited for Brock to finish drinking and say the magic words: take me home. He repeated the process, checking and double-checking his findings. His analysis remained the same. Anyone with a tire iron and a couple minutes to spare could break in without difficulty.

How had Ryanne survived so long?

His gaze sought the beautiful brunette unbidden. She’d settled behind the bar, her attention locked on Daniel and Brock.

Daniel had dark hair, though not as dark as Ryanne’s. His eyes were light brown and there was a slight bump in the center of his nose. That nose had suffered one too many breaks.

Overall, he looked like the soldier he was: rough, tough and solid as a rock.

On the other hand, Brock looked rougher and tougher with multiple piercings and arms sleeved in tatts. His jet-black hair was cut close to his scalp, and a thick five-o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, a complete contrast to the pale green eyes that often reflected skepticism, disdain and warped cheerfulness.

Brock had grown up filthy rich, but as the old saying went, money hadn’t bought him happiness. Just like a lack of money hadn’t been the source of Jude’s problems. Wealth had nothing to do with emotion. Both he and Brock had parents who never should have had children.

Daniel hadn’t been rich or poor, but he’d had the kind of childhood most people only dreamed about. He’d been born and bred in Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, adored by his parents, cherished for the boy he’d been as well as the man he would become.

He was the reason Jude and Brock had moved to the speck-on-the-map small town. Any time their military unit had gotten stuck in a shit storm, waiting for escape or death—whichever came first—Daniel had spun fairy tales.

Dude. Check it. Strawberry-scented air.

All the peace of a beach without sand in your ass-crack.

Magazine perfect. If there’s heaven on earth, it’s Strawberry Valley.

Unwilling to go back to Georgia, where Jude had been stationed after joining the army, and equally unwilling to return to Texas, where he’d grown up—where beloved and hated memories waited to torment him—he’d moved to Oklahoma with his friends.

Ryanne’s eyes flashed with merriment, and Jude almost smiled. Had anyone ever loved life with such abandon?

Part of him hated her for that abandon.

Damn it! When had his focus slid back to her?

Daniel spotted him and waved him over. “There you are.”

Ryanne smiled with feline satisfaction, as if she’d discovered a particularly juicy secret.

A muscle clenched low in Jude’s gut.

Though he would rather avoid the bar owner until he’d calmed from whatever she continued to do to his emotions, he closed the distance between them.

The scent of strawberries and cream filled his nose, courtesy of Ryanne. Every time he neared her, he was reminded of his favorite dessert, strawberry shortcake, and his mouth watered. When his mouth watered, his teeth gnashed, because a wave of crackling heat always followed, as if—

No. I do not want her.

Daniel patted him on the shoulder. “Ryanne said you’d taken off.”

“Ryanne isn’t always aware of her surroundings,” he replied, flicking her a cool glance. “She’s usually too busy flirting with customers.”

She puckered those red, red lips and flipped her glorious fall of hair over her shoulder. “If I can convince just one more man to buy another penny beer, I might be able to afford that solid gold bi-deet I’ve been wanting. Fingers crossed!”

Brock snorted at her—purposeful?—mispronunciation of bidet. “What are you doing here, anyway, my man?” he asked Jude. “I thought you were staying home tonight.”

“Changed my mind.” More and more, he’d had trouble avoiding the Scratching Post, knowing Dushku could strike at Ryanne at any moment. “LPH will be taking over security here.”

“Well, it’s about time,” Daniel said with a nod.

Ryanne batted her lashes at Jude. “Can I get you another water with lemon, Mr. Laurent?” Her voice was sugar sweet, but strangely, also as mean as a rattler.

“And let you charge me another two fifty for roughly five seconds of your time?” He shook his head. “At your rates, I’ll owe you nine thousand dollars for an hour of our meeting tomorrow.”

She winked at him, sensual, erotic—so beautiful it hurt to look at her. “Trust me. I’m worth that and more.”

Raising an empty bottle, Brock told her, “Before you guys go and drag me into this odd little mating dance you’re doing, I’ll have another of those penny beers. Please and thank you.”

Jude bit his tongue in an effort to remain silent, annoyed by both the comment and the request. Mating dance? Hell, no. He and Ryanne argued, nothing more. And though he’d never asked his friends to give up alcohol, he’d wanted to, which made him loathe himself a little more. Their pasts were as painful as his own, and they needed an outlet.

“Daniel?” Ryanne asked. “Another ginger ale?”

“Yes, please,” Daniel replied with a grin. “I’m Brock’s designated driver tonight.”

“Well, then, I’ll make sure your sacrifice is rewarded and add a cherry and a lime wedge free of charge.” Slowly, languidly, she leaned toward Jude. “You see anything you want, Mr. Laurent?”

Another clench of muscle low in his gut. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

“Oh, sugar. I’d bet my unmentionables you’re very, very bad.” Hooded gaze locked on him, she flattened her hand on his shoulder. He had to hide a jolt of surprise, the warmth of her skin burning through his shirt, the scent of fresh strawberries and cream strengthening.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Don’t think. Know. I’m wondering why you look so hungry. Positively ravenous.”

He stiffened in places he shouldn’t. Had she just insinuated that he hungered for her?

He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

She winked at him, all coy femininity and smoky charm—and he did hunger, shit, he did. “Stay right there. I’m going to satisfy your appetite.” With another wink, she took off.

Those hips swayed with more vigor, and his hands curled into fists.

Brock whistled under his breath as he watched her go. “That is one mighty fine woman.”

Of course he would think so. She was exactly his type. The kind of female who would tick off his parents.

Teeth gnashing again...

Don’t care who my friend wants to nail.

“She’s a trouper,” Daniel said with a sly glance at Jude. “We’re in a tri-city, right? Between Strawberry Valley, Blueberry Hill and Grapevine. In all three towns, her mother was known as a get-around girl. Remarried a couple times, but in between marriages she stole the husbands of other women. Even slept with one or two of Ryanne’s high school boyfriends.”

Having done his homework, Jude knew a lot of people disdained Ryanne for her mother’s behavior, and he sympathized. Back in Midland, his mother had been the town pariah. Poor as dirt, so desperate to keep her family farm going, she’d sold herself to any man willing to fix tractors, repair barns or feed cattle.

But Daniel wasn’t done needling Jude. “When Ryanne moved in with one of her former stepdads, hot damn. Even the residents of Strawberry Valley went a little crazy. Earl Hernandez used to own this bar, and Ryanne was seventeen, I think, maybe eighteen. Countless people called her a whore. Parents forbade their children from spending time with her, fearing she was just like her momma. Fact was, she’d moved in to care for the guy. He had cancer.”

Yeah. Jude knew that, too. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Not that he would allow Ryanne’s past to matter to him. He would keep his eyes off her curves and on the prize: her survival.

He’d already briefed the guys about Dushku’s move to town, so he used their minutes alone to explain his plan for camera placement inside and outside the bar, with twenty-four-hour monitoring. A necessary component, considering Ryanne lived upstairs.

“The Scratching Post falls under Blueberry Hill jurisdiction, so we shouldn’t involve the cops just yet,” he added. “There’s serious bias against Ryanne, Dorothea and Lyndie.”

“It’s true,” Daniel said. “Lyndie was married to the former chief, and Ryanne helped her leave him. I wasn’t here, but I remember my dad’s shock when the seemingly happy couple split. Apparently Carrington was beating the shit out of Lyndie.”

“Where is Carrington now?” Brock’s words were laced with so much rage, Jude had no doubt the ex would be beaten to death if he ever walked through the door.

“Dead. Which saves you from killing him and being sent to prison,” Daniel said. “As for Dushku, we don’t want to stay on the defensive. We need to go on the offensive as soon as possible.”

Jude rubbed the back of his neck, unable to alleviate the tension coiled there. “The Dushkus are merciless, even the ones who are in prison.”

“We put the fear of God in Martin Dushku now,” Brock said, “and we’ll save ourselves a lot of trouble later.”

Or start a war.

Who was he kidding? The war had already started.

“I’ll take care of this,” Jude said. He’d keep his friends—and their women—out of it.

“We’ll all take care of it,” Brock corrected. “Together.”

All for one, and one for all. The story of their lives. Even still, Jude would take the lead on this. When things got bad, and they would, he wanted to be the sole target.

Unlike the others, he had nothing to lose.

He said none of that, however. His friends would only argue. What they couldn’t do? Stop him.

Ryanne arrived with drinks, a bowl of popcorn with sesame-glazed pistachios, soft pretzel sticks with beer cheese fondue and a plate of bacon-wrapped french fries. “In case you want to order another, this is the One Night Stand. Expect an orgasm in your mouth. This is the Horizontal Tango, and this is the Porking. If you’d like to add a plate of Thai-coconut chicken wings, aka the Boneyard, just let me know.” Smiling as Jude nearly choked on his tongue, she presented him with a bill. “Enjoy,” she said with a wink.

He expected her to leave, but once again she leaned toward him. “Well? Taste everything, and tell me again about the amount of salt in the food.”

Daniel snagged a french fry, and Brock grabbed a pretzel and shoved one end into the dip. Jude hadn’t had a real appetite since...in a long time, but he couldn’t stop himself from tossing a handful of popcorn and pistachios in his mouth. The sweet and perfectly salted flavors hit his tongue, and he nearly moaned.

Next thing he knew, he’d emptied the bowl.

“Guess my snacks are delicious, after all.” Ryanne laughed, the magical sound turning the food in his stomach to rocks. “Tips are encouraged or the next round might come with an extra special topping.”

With one more of those annoying winks, she wandered off to do what she did best: charm absolutely everyone.

Before his brain registered his intention, Jude found himself on his feet, stalking after her, finally jumping in front of her. “You’re being nice to me.” Not just flirting with him but enchanting him. “Why?”

“I realized I’m now your boss.” Cheeks glowing a lovely shade of rose, she beamed up at him. Whether she was flushed from the temperature of the room or pleasure, he didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. A devil never appeared with horns and a tail, holding a pitchfork. A devil appeared looking like everything you’d ever secretly wanted but knew you shouldn’t have. “My word is law, no matter how much you protest.”

Fighting her allure, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You actually think you’re in charge.”

“You said you were doing this for your friends. I know how much you love them, how much you don’t want to let them down.” In the muted light, her dark eyes glittered like jewels, threatening to hypnotize him into submission, tempting him to—nothing. “I’m willing to play the part of happy employer, but it’s going to cost you.”

Blackmailing him? “The price?” he grated.

“Praise. One compliment a day. Two if you’re being particularly snarly.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. “An unearned compliment is a lie.”

“And you never lie?”

“Never.” Truth was too precious.

Her head canted to the side, her study of him intensifying. “So you can’t think of anything positive to say about me?”

“I—” Could. Denying it would have been a lie.

She’d well and truly trapped him, an impressive feat. One worthy of the compliment she desired. Unwilling to give up an inch of ground he’d won, however, he said, “If you want your business to come out of this alive, you’ll do what I say. End of story.”

She took a step toward him. Her breasts brushed against his chest, earning a gasp from her and a hiss from him. Like a coward—an aching, throbbing coward—he took a step back, severing contact.

“I think I’ll be okay. Forgot to tell you I streamed a video of Mr. Dushku’s men tonight.”

“A video won’t save you in the future.” Another step back.

“Are you afraid of me, Jude?” She followed him, voiding his retreat, suddenly so close her warm breath rasped over the racing pulse at the base of his neck.

“No!” His spine bowed as the denial roared from him. Over the years, he’d been shot, stabbed and had part of an appendage blown off. Fear a slip of a woman? “No,” he repeated, doing his best to sound calmer.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” As graceful as a ballerina, as erotic as a pole dancer, she turned and glanced at him over her shoulder. “I think I would have enjoyed soothing you.”

Had she just...come on to him?

Jude pulled at his collar, skin growing clammy. Ryanne Wade was too hot, and so was his blood. His body was in serious danger of overheating, a physical reaction he hadn’t experienced in a long time, thanks to another woman.

Constance Laurent. My Constance.

Memories fought for his attention. The way she had smiled at him each morning when she’d woken in their bed, as if overjoyed to find him home. The way she’d somehow ruined every meal she’d ever cooked, but had looked at him with adoration whenever he’d cleaned his plate. The way she’d cried during Hallmark movies.

The air might as well have turned to syrup; it was too thick to pull into his lungs, his chest too tight. His limbs shook.

Time to go. He didn’t bother saying goodbye to Ryanne as he rushed past her, didn’t even wave to his friends. He flew out of the bar, never once looking back.

* * *

JUDE THREW HIS truck in Park. Half the vehicle was in grass, the other half in the driveway. At least he’d made it to the cabin he leased with Brock rather than stopping in the middle of a road.

Each breath more labored than the last, Jude headed for the porch. Midway, he fell to his knees. Pain and grief exploded inside him, filling him, killing him.

A lie. He wasn’t dying. Not even close. Death would have been a mercy, and mercy wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.

Screaming obscenities at the sky, he punched his fists into the grass. Crickets quieted, and fireflies vanished. Hanks of dirt flung this way and that. A rock sliced into the side of his hand, the sting a minor inconvenience compared to the fire seeming to pour through his chest, ashing his heart, charring his lungs.

This was his life now, a series of minutes and days bleeding into months and years. He existed, nothing more, except for moments like this, when the pain and grief overtook him—then he agonized.

Why? Why did he continue to agonize? He should rejoice. Pain and grief were his friends. Pain had been there for him on the worst day of his life. Grief had hugged him close and kept him focused on what he’d lost: his entire fucking world.

He knew the answer, though. Deep down, he resented every second he spent on this earth. And yet, still he fought to survive.

I don’t want to fight anymore.

Must.

Long ago, he’d made a promise to Constance. Shy, sweet Constance, his high school sweetheart.

They’d met on a double date he’d attended only because his friend had begged. One look at Constance, and he’d been a goner. She’d been as pretty and delicate as a cameo, and she’d sent his adolescent hormones into a tailspin.

She’d wanted him, too, willingly shucking convention to go steady with the poorest boy in town. The boy who’d once nailed more tail than Brock on his best day, all in an effort to prove he was wanted, or worth something.

You’re worth everything, Jude Laurent. Do you hear me? Everything!

They’d married the week after graduation. Determined to provide a better life for her, he’d joined the military.

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 good 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 filled 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.”

He glowered, and yet the expression lacked heat. “All right. It’s 9:03. Let’s get down to business.”

“All right. Let’s.”

Over the next hour, he explained the complex camera system he intended to put into place. Once, only once, she accidentally touched him. He jolted, as if she’d burned him. A bad reaction, or a really, really good one?

The next time she touched him was on purpose. Again, he jolted.

Focus. Business now, play later.

Basically every inch of her bar and parking lot would be filmed twenty-four hours a day, with the exception of the bathrooms and the inside of her apartment. A panic button would be added to her apartment, and with a few tweaks, the closet in her bedroom would become a safe room. She would hire three bouncers, though he’d suggested four, and all three males would be big, burly and fearless; they would enforce her rules and eject anyone who acted out of line. And if ever she held a big event, he had employees in the city who would drive down to help with security. Finally, she would hire a full-time night watchman, who would patrol the parking lot, stopping any outside mischief before it had time to enter the bar.

“You do realize all these changes and additions will eat up my profits, right?” Thousands of dollars would be spent on cameras and installation, plus the ongoing salaries of four new employees.

“If something were to happen to your bar, you’d make zero profits. But, to supplement your income, you can begin hosting daytime events. Think about it. The bar is closed mornings and afternoons every day of the week. You can offer private parties, showers, whatever. The possibilities are endless.”

The Strawberry Valley book club did need a bigger place to get together. And the local matchmaker wanted a venue for the meet and greets she was hoping to host. But everything Jude suggested meant more work for Ryanne, and she was already overtaxed.

Still, he was right. What if she made enough money to pay for all the security additions, salaries and upgrades for her travels? Excitement sparked.

“The panic button you mentioned,” she said. “It will be linked to Blueberry Hill PD? Strawberry Valley PD? Grapevine PD?”

A muscle jumped underneath his eye. “None of the above. The signal will go to LPH Protection. We have monitors in place 24/7. Someone there will notify 911 as well as call Daniel, Brock...or me.”

Delicious, drugging warmth spilled through her. Getting personal with Jude Laurent... “Are you saying you’ll drop whatever you’re doing in order to save a damsel in distress?”

His nod was immediate. “I will. So will they.”

“Well, hiring the right employees will take time.” Am I really going to do this?

“I know. That’s why I’ll be acting as a bouncer in the meantime.”

Her heart leaped, a thousand butterflies taking flight in her stomach. Jude...nearby every night... “There’s a slight problem with your plan. You make my customers uncomfortable.”

“Good. They’ll be on their best behavior.”

“Or they’ll leave and never return.”

His wide shoulders hiked in a shrug.

Such a contradiction, this man. Helpful, but indifferent. Kind, but aloof. Smoldering, but standoffish.

“All right,” she said, and sighed. Safety first. “You have permission to proceed. With everything.” She couldn’t help but add, “After I hear my daily compliment.”

One brow arched. “Rescuing your cat wasn’t enough?”

“Our cat. We’re co-owners.” She’d almost said coparents, but had stopped herself in time. No reason to remind him of the daughters he’d lost.

“Fine.” His lips compressed, and he gave her his patented I disapprove look. “You want a compliment, you get a compliment. You are a...singular woman.”

She waited for him to say more. He didn’t.

Well. “Singular woman” was as good a compliment as any, she supposed, and maybe kinda sorta better than she’d anticipated. “Just so you know, I’ll expect something a lot more personal tomorrow.”

“Why?” he grated. “Why do you care what I think about you?”

Make a man laugh, and he’ll have a good day. Teach a man to have fun, and he’ll have a good life.

Remembering her plan, she twirled a lock of hair around her finger and batted her lashes at him. “Don’t be silly, praised one. I just like to watch you squirm.”

CHAPTER FOUR

FOR THE NEXT WEEK, Jude did his best to avoid the too flirtatious, too happy Ryanne. An impossible task, considering he worked at the Scratching Post each of the seven days, installing cameras in the morning, checking food deliveries in the afternoon, acting as a bouncer in the evening and helping care for Belle every minute in between. The pregnant, very grumpy cat hadn’t yet given birth.

Ryanne had texted him a few times, too. Random invitations to do ridiculous things.

Let’s go to a finger-painting workshop! We’ve GOT to improve our employer-employee relations.

His response? How will finger paint help us?

Duh! Our bodies are the canvases and we get to paint each other. (You know, a little hands-on learning. Or big. Yeah, probably big.)

No.

Not just no, but hell, no.

Her next text had read What about a petting zoo in the city??? (I promise I’m not the animal you’ll be stroking.)

Again he’d replied, No.

Movie? I’ll pay AND share my popcorn w/you.

Another solid No.

She texted him a gif of a cartoon character sobbing.

Avoiding this woman had begun to prick at his pride. He’d once been part of a military unit known as the Ten. Ten soldiers sent on the most dangerous missions—secret missions that would never be talked about in history books. They’d killed the enemy and rescued other soldiers amid impossible odds of survival. Amid it all, Jude, Brock and Daniel had seen and done things no human should have seen or done. It changed them.

Brock now tried to make everyone he met fall in like with him, since he couldn’t like himself. Daniel kept all newcomers at a distance, too afraid of losing another person, and Jude...he tended to numb-out, and live life on autopilot.

He craved autopilot. But Ryanne had twisted him into a million little knots, and none of those knots helped him stay numb.

Despite her—or because of her—he pushed himself to his limits, wanting to get the job settled as soon as possible. As soon as he finished installations, he would make Brock front man. That way, Brock would receive a notice when something went wrong at the bar, and Jude could finally wipe Ryanne from his mind.

Already he’d spoken to Martin Dushku, who’d thrown more shade than a decades-old oak. He’d lied with a smile, misdirected with ease and hid his threats behind false concern.

Jude felt sorry for the man’s wife. The pair had been together for thirty-one years and had two adult children. A twenty-seven-year-old son named Filip and a twenty-three-year-old daughter named Paulina; they also had a four-year-old grandchild named Thomas.

Filip, Thomas’s father, was in prison for manslaughter, with only a year left on his sentence. Interestingly enough, Jude had been unable to find any mention of Thomas’s mother.

When Jude had first walked onto the construction site, two goons had closed in fast to frisk him, as he’d known they would. Of course, they hadn’t found the small metal pins sheathed in the heels of his boots. More than that, Jude himself was a weapon. He could turn any innocent object into a weapon, as well. An ink pen, a keyboard. A paper clip. A chair.

After coming up empty, the men escorted him into a luxurious trailer, where Dushku perched behind a desk. The conversation had been short and anything but sweet.

“Both the Scratching Post and its owner are under my protection,” Jude had said. “You won’t like what happens if you harm them. And keep your stable off Ryanne’s property. The next time someone sells a ride at the Scratching Post, a live stream will be the least of your troubles.”

Dushku had chuckled, not the least bit intimidated. “You must be mistaken. I value women and would never take part in prostitution. And I certainly wouldn’t do so on Miss Wade’s property. I’ve heard about her problems with the local PD.” He’d sighed, as if weary. “If sex and drugs are being sold at the Scratching Post, I’m sure authorities will believe Miss Wade is the one responsible.”

“I didn’t say anything about drugs,” Jude had grated.

The man’s amusement had bloomed into a smirk. “I’ve already looked into you, Mr. Laurent. You were a good soldier once. A husband and father. Now you’re a cripple with nothing to lose—except another leg.”

Behind him, one of the guards had snickered. “What do you call a man with one leg? A pogo stick.”

Laughter had abounded while Jude simmered in his seat. Rage and grief had bubbled in his chest; the two emotions were always there, rooted deep in his heart, but some days were worse than others. How dare this scumbag mention Constance and the twins!

“If you take me on, Mr. Laurent, you will fail.” For a moment, only a moment, Dushku had allowed his true demeanor to surface, his features cold as ice. “I promise you.”

Mere seconds had passed as Jude struggled to control his breathing, though it had felt like an eternity.

“Did the truth hurt your feelings?” Dushku had shaken his head. “I’m not sure why. You are a cripple without a family, and I won’t hesitate to ruin this new life you’ve carved out for yourself.”

More rage. More grief. At the best of times, Jude felt like only half a man. What if he couldn’t protect Ryanne?

He’d mimicked the man’s smirk. “I don’t think you searched deep enough into my background, Mr. Dushku. I’m a hunter, born and bred. When I was just a boy, I learned to stalk and kill deer and wild hogs. As a man, Uncle Sam taught me to stalk and kill men. I’m very good. My victims are never found.” He’d stood. “Again, I suggest you stay on your side of the street, and we’ll stay on ours. I won’t stop you from running your business, but I will stop you from hurting innocents.”

Dushku had said, “I, too, would hate for any harm to come to innocents, especially someone as kind and beautiful as Miss Wade. If she decides to sell the bar within the next couple of months in order to travel the world as she dreams, I’m willing to help her. If not... You might be a hunter, Mr. Laurent, but I’m a ghost. You’ll never see me coming.”

Jude had left, before he broke down and showed Dushku the error of his ways.

So far, there had been only one attempt to strike at Ryanne. Blueberry Hill PD raided the bar, harassing customers as they checked IDs and asked questions about “reported suspicious activity.” Jude had admired Ryanne’s calm in the midst of the chaos, and he’d been surprised by the support of her patrons, almost everyone rushing to her defense, forcing the officers to leave without making an arrest.

“A little help, please.” Ryanne’s sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll voice stopped him in his tracks.

Behind the counter where he’d watched her mix drinks was the entrance to the basement. He watched as the gorgeous woman lugged a large box up the steps. Mason jars clinked together, her infamous fruit cocktail moonshine sloshing inside. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, and he almost—almost—rushed to her aid. While he was good with protecting her and her home, he avoided anything related to the actual buying, selling and marketing of alcohol.

“Is this a test?” he finally asked. “This seems like a test. The moment I help you, you’ll accuse me of setting back feminism a hundred years.”

“Yeah, that sounds exactly like me,” she muttered as she lumbered past him.

He kind of wanted to grin. Usually she was the one teasing him.

No wonder she did it so often. Hello, fun. Long time no see.

For the next hour, Jude worked like a man possessed, installing motion-sensitive lights in the bathroom hallway. Soon the bar would open to the public, and he would have to walk the room for eight hours, on the lookout for any signs of wayward activity. Guaranteed, he would irritate people tonight. His leg had pained him all day, darkening his mood. He needed to rest, but he needed to work and remain distracted more.

When he entered the main area, he found Ryanne doing what she did best, mixing drinks for Lyndie and Dorothea. Considering Brock had a secret thing for Lyndie, a delicate strawberry blonde, and Daniel was almost always attached to Dorothea’s side, Jude expected his friends to be nearby, but...no.

“—negotiated. Said I could have three orgasms a day or one more dog.” Dorothea rolled her big, blue eyes. She was a pretty woman with dark, corkscrew curls, and the soft curves of a ’50s pinup model. “I demanded four orgasms a day and two more dogs, of course.”

Ryanne threw back her head, laughing with abandon.

Lust punched Jude straight in the gut, shocking him, waking once deadened nerve endings. Tingles exploded throughout his entire body, followed by heat and hunger, such clawing hunger.

He gnashed his teeth as he fought the sensations. Want a bartender? No! And yet, the hunger persisted.

“Did he protest or thank you?” she asked. She looked good enough to eat, her silken hair falling in a haphazard braid over her shoulder—a shoulder bared by a lacy pink tank top. Short shorts revealed the long length of her legs while cowgirl boots adorned her feet, stretching up her calves.

Made of sugar, spice and vodka poured on ice.

“Well?” Lyndie prompted.

“He protested...and thanked me,” Dorothea replied with a proud grin.

Ryanne gave her a thumbs-up. “Good girl. Always up the ante.”

Jude bit his tongue to stop a rush of protests.

Ryanne had once claimed she liked to make him squirm, and she’d proven it every day since. Her hips swayed enthusiastically any time she walked past him, creating a sultry, powerful rhythm. Often she cast him coquettish glances and blew him kisses. And she touched him constantly, a brush of her fingers here, a squeeze of his hand there. She cracked jokes, and made lewd innuendos—and he wasn’t sure how to handle her.

Right now, he was sure of only one thing. A relationship with Ryanne wasn’t possible. If his body had finally woken from hibernation, he would maybe think about considering being with a woman, scratching an itch. But he wouldn’t pick her. He would pick someone easily forgettable, someone as uninterested in a relationship as he was.

The moment he did, Constance would no longer be the last woman he’d slept with.

He rubbed the almost debilitating ache in his chest.

He’d never cheated on Constance, even when offers had been made. His teammates, the other members of the Ten—everyone except Daniel and Brock—had mercilessly teased him about it, and had ultimately given him the nickname of Priest.

Ryanne’s gaze landed on him, and her smile fell, confusing him. His mood affected hers?

In a flash, her smile returned and widened. “Jude.” Only she could say his name and sound as if she were moaning in pleasure, delivering another punch of lust to his gut.

He wanted to hate her, but more and more he actually...liked her.

Not only did she have a drink limit for the ultra-potent moonshine, but she cut off anyone who appeared drunk. A legal requirement, yes, but she also kept a cab company on standby.

She made zero exceptions to the rules, even when customers protested, loudly. No one could charm her from her refusal, though some people did—cough Brock cough—manage to get wasted regardless, fooling the seasoned Ryanne into believing he was sober. When that failed, he convinced others to buy drinks for him.

Something else Jude had discovered. Ryanne truly cared about her customers. Her kindness wasn’t for show. She treated everyone with respect and affection, whether they ordered drinks or not. When someone told a story, she listened. When someone flirted with her, she flirted right back. If anyone had a craving for something that wasn’t listed on the menu, she headed to the kitchen to see what she could do.

Smiling again, Ryanne waved him over.

He settled in a chair on the other side of the bar, avoiding her friends.

“I owe you a huge thank you for the list you left me this morning,” she said.

He nodded, his version of you’re welcome. He’d written up a To Do list in case Belle went into labor and he wasn’t nearby.

“Are you hungry? You look hungry.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “Come upstairs later, and I’ll heat something up for you.”

His stomach twisted. “Excuse me?”

“Why?”

Not this again. “What are you planning to heat up?” Do not say you.

“A pie, of course.”

Disappointment hit him. No, no. Relief. Only relief.

“I owe you a thank-you, remember?” Her gaze raked over him. “Or did you want me to heat something else up?”

Fire in his blood, a tightening in his jeans. Too late. He was already burning. “Stop flirting with me,” he grated.

“Hey, what are you guys whispering about? And did I hear you thank him for leaving a list this morning? You don’t usually rise before noon.” Dorothea wiggled her brows. “Or was Jude the one who did the rising?”

Ryanne chuckled behind her hand.

Lyndie snickered. “You don’t have to answer her, Jude.” Even amused, the petite beauty looked like she’d break with the next gust of wind. “We’ll just let our imaginations run wild.”

Knowing anything he said could be misconstrued as an innuendo, he pressed his lips together and sat a few seats away. His patella momentarily rolled out of place, and he had to hide a wince.

“Ignore them.” Ryanne leaned over the bar, and her magnificent cleavage beckoned his gaze... Look at me, look how pretty I am...

He gulped. The scent of strawberries and cream wafted from her and, this time, lust didn’t punch him in the gut; it washed through him like a gentle rain. A far more dangerous occurrence. The punch had mixed pain with pleasure. The rain promised something he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again: peace.

“Are you parched? Let me satisfy you,” she said, and he knew she’d used those particular words on purpose.

He gripped the bar to stop himself from adjusting the growing problem behind his fly. He wished Ryanne would act like the girl he’d first met. The one who’d enjoyed sniping at him.

“I am parched,” he finally said. “I’d like to drink the tears of my enemies.”

A laugh burst from her, her features glowing with amusement. “I’m out of tears. How about sweet tea?”

He gave a brusque nod. “Thanks.”

Motions fluid, she filled his glass then lifted a small plastic tub from behind the bar. A tub she opened and sat in front of him, revealing a club sandwich and hand-cut fries.

Had she reserved both for him?

“Eat now, and later,” she said, and he realized yes, yes she had.

The ache returned to his chest. “I’m not hungry.” Not for food. Not for anything, he told himself.

“Eat anyway,” she insisted. “Boss’s orders. You worked through lunch.”

She’d noticed?

The ache worsened. “Fine.” Determined to end the conversation, he bit into the sandwich—and groaned. The flavors were incredible. She’d used strawberry jam instead of mayo and the combination of salty and sweet blew his ever-loving mind. “This is good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She flattened her hand over his in what should be a simple, friendly gesture. With her, it was a sensual assault, more than his long neglected body could tolerate. “If you ever want another sandwich, it’s called the Do Me Baby One More Time.”

Yes. I’ll do her so—

Wrong.

Inhaling sharply, he yanked his hand from hers and flattened his palm on his thigh.

This was Ryanne. A flirt. Born seducer. Good time girl. But...if ever she’d followed through on her come-hither glances, he didn’t know it. What he did know? He’d escorted a Blueberry Hill resident from the building for calling her a “slut.” Afterward he’d ejected three guys for trying to pick her up. She had no idea he’d done it, and he refused to think about his reasons. Although his mind was more than happy to provide a suggestion: falling for her...

Sometimes his mind was a dumb-ass.

Jude would resist Ryanne. If he had to pick another woman to do so, he would. Anyone but Ryanne Wade.

Thousands of curses suddenly bellowed inside his head. He wasn’t interested in a one-night stand, or a long-term relationship, and he damn sure wasn’t willing to risk an unplanned pregnancy. Children would never be part of his life. No children, no possibility of loss.

In fact, he should make an appointment with a urologic surgeon and have a vasectomy. Then, if ever he had a moment of weakness, he wouldn’t have to worry.

The food in his stomach seemed to turn to lead. He pushed the Tupperware away, saying, “I’ve had enough.”

Ryanne sighed, the enchantress persona evaporating like smoke, leaving a concerned...friend? “You’ve been working so hard but eating so little.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t fall down on the job.” He’d lost his appetite years ago and now fueled himself with protein shakes.

“That’s not—Never mind. Why don’t you take the night off? You can nap upstairs with Belle.”

“I don’t nap.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.” He rarely slept at all. When he did, he dreamed of the car wreck he hadn’t witnessed, watching, helpless, as Constance’s SUV rolled over at least a dozen times, glass and metal shards cutting at his girls.

“I’m sorry.” Ryanne’s nails lightly scraped the pulse in his wrist, jolting him from his heartbreak.

Damn it! When had he placed his hands back on the bar? “Don’t be.”

“If you don’t want to eat, how about you give me a compliment instead?”

“I’m not in the mood to be nice.”

Rather than leaving him alone, as he’d hoped, she studied him with compassion in her beautiful dark eyes. “Is your leg paining you?”

He scowled. Was she making excuses for his waspishness, or had she watched him so intently, she’d recognized the signs of his distress? “Be honest. You’re trying to make me squirm again, aren’t you, Wade?”

“Wade?” She snorted. “Let me guess. By using my last name, you put a little emotional distance between us.”

Yes. Exactly. Nicknames mattered, created a bond. He’d rather die than create a bond with Ryanne.

He’d called Constance “sweetheart” and his girls “Daddy’s little sweets.” He’d settled arguments about who could ride an imaginary pony first. He’d fielded questions about where babies came from when the girls were far too young to ask about such things, and battled monsters in the closet.

When I grow up, I’m gonna be a mom. Bailey had grinned a mischievous grin. Moms are the boss of everyone.

Well, I’m gonna be a dad. Hailey had hugged him. Dads are nice to everyone.

Even when I’m a big girl, I’m gonna love you best, Daddy.

My friend Sally doesn’t have a dad. Will you be her dad, Daddy? I told her you build the biggest fort-castles in the world.

He remembered the day the girls threw pennies in the wishing well.

“What did you wish for?” he’d asked.

Bailey had gazed at him adoringly. “I wished for you to be handsome, Daddy.”

He’d tried not to laugh. “Thanks, little sweet. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“I wished for you to stay home forever, Daddy, and never leave again,” Hailey had said.

He rubbed the sudden burn from his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t like that Ryanne had guessed his intent. But then, he shouldn’t be surprised that she’d done so. The woman had a knack for reading people.

“Well.” She fluffed her fall of ebony hair. “Aren’t you precioso.” Her sassy tone somehow contained both a Spanish and Southern accent. “By the way, I’m calling you cowboy because you always look like you’re ready for a ride.”

Walk away. Walk away now. No good can come from this conversation.

He stood, but remained rooted in place. Her gaze slid down his chest, making him regret—and extol—his immobility.

“Jude, wait!” Lyndie raised her hand like a student in class. “Dorothea, uh, she has a question for you.”

“I do?” Dorothea asked, then cleared her throat. “I mean, yep, I do.”

Not wanting to frighten Lyndie, he forced his posture to soften. The elementary schoolteacher spooked far too easily. He’d noticed her tendency to leave a room whenever an argument kicked off.

He even forced himself to smile at her, and hell, it felt weird to lift the corners of his mouth. Weird, wrong on every level and stilted. As soon as he looked away from her, he returned to his normal expression, the one that said I don’t want to be here, or anywhere.

His gaze landed on Daniel’s fiancée. “Ask,” he said, knowing she didn’t actually have a question for him. He wasn’t sure why Lyndie wanted him to stay, but he wasn’t going to call her out.

Dorothea looked at Lyndie, then Ryanne. Frowned. Opened her mouth, closed it. Finally she said, “Yeah, so...I’m going to be picking bridesmaid dresses soon. Ryanne, of course, is a co–maid of honor with Lyndie. Lyndie is wearing pink chiffon but thinks Ryanne should be forced to wear a trash bag. Do you agree?”

His gaze zipped back to Ryanne, who was now watching him with a thoughtful expression...and upset? “A trash bag won’t detract from her raw sensuality.” The primal admission left him before he could stop it, wiping her upset away.

A grinning Lyndie pressed a hand above her heart. “If you guys were in a movie, female viewers would be sighing dreamily right now, and male viewers would be throwing popcorn at the screen. You just set the bar very high.”

Ryanne peered at him, her lush lips gaping open. “You claimed you were too grumpy to be nice, but I swear I just heard the best compliment of my life.”

“Truth is truth, not a compliment.”

“Well, then, that’s even better.” She beamed at him, so radiant he wanted to take her in his arms and—

Nothing.

Ryanne wasn’t his type, would never be his type. Forget her job. She was too bold, too brash. Too...everything. She drew attention and loved it. Nothing slowed her down. She sizzled with passion and marched through life with no care for the obstacles thrown in her way.

Jude craved solitude, which meant he wasn’t Ryanne’s type, either. Actually, he had no idea what type of man she actually preferred. She was an equal opportunity flirt, charming young and old alike. Hell, charming large and small, tall and short, rich and poor.

Always irritating me, and I don’t know why.

The front door opened, saving him from having to think up an appropriate reply, and the members of Power Trip—the band she hired on Friday and Saturday nights—strode inside.

Daniel and Brock came in behind the drummer, and both males pulsed with a palpable air of anger and frustration they couldn’t hide behind cheerful waves.

Something had happened out there.

The women sensed a problem, as well. As soon as the guys reached the counter, Dorothea threw her arms around Daniel. Lyndie inched away from Brock and glanced at the door, as if planning an escape route.

Ryanne reached out to latch on to Jude’s wrist, the softness of her skin momentarily paralyzing him. Can’t force myself to pull away this time...

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

No doubt Dushku had struck.

Daniel gave an unconvincing laugh. “Who said anything was wrong?”

“Someone trashed the alley outside, spray-painted vile things on the wall, that’s all,” Brock said, and Daniel glared at him.

Dorothea and Lyndie gasped with horror.

Ryanne stiffened. “Show me.”

Jude wrapped his hand around her wrist; she’d held him, and now he held her. It was an intimate pose, and one he wasn’t emotionally equipped to handle. Did he let go? No.

“Stay in here. Please.” He knew his friends, and knew a trashed alley wasn’t the only problem out there. “Let me make sure everything is safe. That’s what you pay me the big bucks for, after all.”

At first, she opened her mouth to protest. Then she looked at her friends. If she insisted on going outside, they would insist on going with her, and they would be in danger, as well. So she nodded, released him.

Silent, he, Daniel and Brock headed outside. His friends led him to the back alley, where he saw bitch, slut and whore, and an assortment of other vile words, spray-painted on the walls. His molars gnashed again, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they turned to powder.

The boys kept going, stopping when they reached Ryanne’s SUV, parked behind the building. Rage sparked.

The tires had been slashed, and the words YOUR NEXT spray-painted over the windshield.

“Idiot,” Jude muttered. “You’re. Not your.”

This was a scare tactic, nothing more, meant to intimidate Ryanne into doing whatever Dushku wanted.

“What do you want us to do?” Brock asked.

“For now, we clean up the mess. Later we’ll give Ryanne the bare minimum of facts.” The less she knew, the better. He would do the worrying for her.

A woman like her should only ever smile.

CHAPTER FIVE

MONDAYS WERE USUALLY Ryanne’s favorite day of the week. She got to sleep in, drink wine, play video games and relax in a bubble bath. Today, however, she hadn’t slept in. Belle had done her cat thing, somehow climbing on the desk, despite the size of her belly, knocking over a coffee mug, pens, a book and even a laptop. During the loud bang that had followed every downed item, Ryanne had lain in bed thinking about the smile Jude had given Lyndie. A kind smile. Humorless, yes, but kind nonetheless. A smile he’d never given Ryanne.

For a moment, she’d been eaten up with jealousy, and she’d hated herself for it. Lyndie deserved all the kindness in the world.

After giving herself a kick in the pants, Ryanne had gotten up, showered while standing for once and dressed in a hurry. The Scratching Post would be hosting the Strawberry Bookcakes today, and she would be serving tea, finger sandwiches and cookies. Despite the twenty-dollar cover charge, a whole gaggle of retired matrons had signed up.

Guaranteed the sweet old biddies would start off discussing their book club selection—a scandalous paranormal romance titled The Darkest Night; it was chosen because Lincoln West, a beloved resident of the town, had designed a video game based on its mythology. Once the discussion ended, everyone would start gossiping about nonfictional people.

Ryanne had a few hours to run a million errands. Still, she texted Jude an invitation to join her.

Want to be my sidekick today? (I know what you’re thinking—your job comes with perks, like spending time with your favorite person. Hint: me!) Pick you up in twenty?

At some point, he had to say yes and their fun times could finally begin.

This wasn’t that point.

His no had come in so fast her head had spun.

Dang it, why? Last night a guy had flirted with her while she’d mixed drinks behind the bar, and Jude had come over like a heat-seeking missile.

“Leave,” he’d snapped at the guy. “Leave while you can still walk. In thirty seconds, you’ll only be able to crawl.”

Ryanne had watched, flabbergasted. “Uh, he did nothing wrong.”

“I didn’t trust him. He could have been one of Dushku’s men.”

Or maybe Jude didn’t want other guys hitting on her?

She ignored a little thrill and checked her extra stash of moonshine in the basement. Time to place a new order. She shot off a quick email to her contact at the brewery and drove into town to check her account at Strawberry Savings and Loans. Every night at closing, she took all the cash from the register, minus the next day’s float, which she left in a safe, and put the money in a special deposit bag with the bar’s account info. Then she deposited it through an after-hours slot at the bank. Last night Jude had insisted on doing the chore for her, not wanting her to drive around with that much cash. She’d finally relented and let him do it. While she trusted Jude—for the most part—money could do strange things to people, turning the honest into thieves. With Jude, she should have known better. Every cent was accounted for.

Next she visited the grocery to buy cat food and kitty litter. From there, she went to the bookstore to pick up a detailed traveler’s guide to Rome.

Every time she climbed behind the wheel of her SUV, she experienced a twinge of disconcertment. Something was different.

Her windshield was clean, not a single speck of dirt or a dead insect in sight, but there was a small crack in the right-hand corner, one she hadn’t noticed before. And she had brand-new windshield wipers. Also, her tires were immaculate, cleaner than the windshield, and taller than usual.

When Jude first returned to the bar last night, his posture had been rigid as steel. “We’re going to clean the alley walls,” he’d said, “but I need to buy a few supplies. I’m going to borrow your car, all right?”

Now she wondered if yesterday’s vandalism “in the alley” had involved her car as well, and he’d fixed it for her?

Yeah. That. Most definitely. How like the man.

Could he be any sexier?

No, no, he couldn’t. Dang him, he always looked like sex and smelled incredible, like dark, aged rum—which was ironic, considering he’d never even sipped her alcohol. As grumpy as he was, he cared about people, helping ensure the intoxicated never got behind the wheel of a car.

Every hour she spent with him, she wanted him more, wanted to know him better. Why had his military buds nicknamed him Priest? When he’d served, he’d been married with children.

More than anything, she wanted to make him smile. The desire had become an addiction, an obsession. His innate sadness hurt her heart.

Over the past week, she’d learned he never rested and rarely ate, relying on protein shakes for energy. The only time he lost his temper? When an intoxicated person resisted aid and said something akin to “I’m okay to drive.”

He would shout about the dangers and end every speech with the same world-rocking question. Do you want to murder an innocent family?

Ryanne had begun to suspect a drunk driver killed his wife and daughters, and a little online research had confirmed it. The college boy who’d crashed into Constance Laurent’s car, killing everyone inside, had gotten a ten-year split sentence. Five years in prison, five years on probation.

At last she understood Jude’s disdain for the Scratching Post. It was a miracle he worked so hard to save the place, and a true testament to his loyal heart.

Loyal...but also broken.

Two nights ago, he’d left his cell phone at the bar. She’d followed him home, intending to tease him, maybe flirt a little before returning his property. Instead, she’d sat in her vehicle, watching as he’d sat in his, banging his fists into the steering wheel, his tears glinting in the moonlight.

He missed his family. Of course he did.

She could empathize—after all, she missed Earl. He’d been more of a father and mother to her than her bio parents ever had.

Sometimes she still expected to see Earl behind the bar, mixing drinks, or hear his booming laughter when she “got her Spanish on” with a customer.

Loved ones left marks on your soul, and when they died, those marks became scars.

As Ryanne’s SUV eased along Strawberry Valley’s town square, she forced Jude the praised one and his loss out of her mind, and focused on the majestic scenery, a true gift from God. Antique lampposts lined the sidewalks, the perfect complement to both the historic and modern buildings. The Strawberry Inn—Dorothea’s home and business—was a sprawling antebellum estate with an array of massive white columns. The local grocery store, Strawberries and More, was housed in a metal warehouse with a tin roof.

On the next street, box-shaped homes had been turned into a café, a hardware shop and a dry cleaner. A whitewashed bungalow contained the Rhinestone Cowgirl, the only place to buy handmade jewelry. The theater was Ryanne’s favorite building, with a copper awning and multiple gargoyles perched along a balcony. Actually, the theater tied with Strawberry Community Church, a white stone chapel with spectacular stained-glass windows. Reminded her of pictures she’d seen in a book about Holland.

Wild strawberry patches grew along the sidewalks and between the shops. During the summer, she could pluck the sweet fruit straight from the plant for a quick snack, any time, any place.

How she loved the charm and enchantment of the town. One of the many reasons she opted to move in with Earl rather than go to Colorado with her mom and brand-new stepdad. Or stepdouche.

When she turned the next corner, she caught sight of a petite blonde walking beside a hulking, tattooed giant Ryanne recognized. Cigarette! The blonde...could she be the prostitute from the van?

Ryanne pulled over a little too sharply and parked at the sidewalk. Both Cigarette and Blondie glanced in her direction. His eyes narrowed, while the woman’s widened. He grabbed her by the arm and picked up the pace, soon disappearing around a corner.

Trembling, Ryanne palmed her phone and fired off a text to Jude. Guess who I just found? Our friends from the parking lot. I’m going to follow them.

She added a thumbs-up emoji and pressed Send.

His reply came only a few seconds later. Do not pursue. I repeat, just in case I wasn’t clear. Do not. NOT. If you do, there will be consequences.

Well, well. Commando was back in action, and more delicious than a bag of Chips Ahoy! I could eat him up. Still, encouraging his power play would only end badly for her and their upcoming sexlationship—because yes, they would have one.

She jabbed her fingers into the keyboard, typing, Aren’t you precioso. Consequences, cowboy? Try. Please.

Then she added a gif of two people jumping up and down, laughing and clapping.

No way Ryanne would do what the big, strong man had told her. How many times had her mother obeyed every whim, command or request of a husband, boyfriend, lover or even potential lover, losing her own identity? Lyndie, too, had lost her identity in her father and husband. Though Dorothea loved Daniel, she had given up a promising career as a storm chaser in order to be with him.

I’ll give up nothing.

Would Ryanne be in danger? No!

Okay, maybe. But probably not. This was a public place. Even if Cigarette decided he didn’t care about their audience, he couldn’t come within ten feet of Ryanne without getting shot. Having gotten her conceal and carry license at Earl’s insistence, she never left home without protection. What truly motivated her to get out of her car, however, was the thought that Blondie might be a sex slave in need of rescue. The way Cigarette had grabbed her...

Determined to ferret out the truth, Ryanne marched down the sidewalk. Cool air stroked her bare arms, causing goose bumps to sprout. In September, or any month, really, Oklahoma weather could change from one hour to another, from sizzling hot to ice cold. Picking up the pace, she snaked around the corner, tense and ready...

Dang it! No sign of Cigarette or Blondie. She checked between the buildings and inside a few of the shops. Still nothing.

With a sigh of frustration, she pivoted—

And smacked into a brick wall. Or at least what felt like a brick wall.

Big hands settled on her hips, pinning her in place. Her mind reacted before her eyes had time to assess the situation. Cigarette? On instinct, she drew back her fist and punched. Pain exploded in her knuckles, but she swallowed a yelp, determined to maintain a strong persona.

Nope, not Cigarette. Jude Laurent rubbed his jaw. “You hit like a girl,” he grated.

Deep breath in, out. Meanwhile, her heart continued to race. “If you put a little more strength behind your blows, you could hit like a girl, too,” she retorted.

The corners of his lips twitched. Rays of sunlight spilled over him, framing him in gold, and oh, wow, he looked good. Like a fallen angel. His hair appeared lighter today, and his tan darker. A storm brewed in his navy blue eyes.

The urge to soften against him was insistent, but she somehow found the strength to step backward rather than forward. Now wasn’t the time for romance.

“How’d you get here so quickly?” Wait. “How’d you know my location?”

A muscle jumped beneath his eye. “I was following the pair before you spotted them.”

Of course he was. Sexy warrior. “Were you able to learn anything about the woman?”

“Nothing. A shameless flirt spy-blocked me.” He flicked a lock of hair from Ryanne’s shoulder, his knuckles brushing against her skin. Warm tingles erupted.

She gasped while he peered down at his hand, as if shocked by what it had just done. Was he experiencing tingles of his own?

Was she getting to him at last?

Little fires ignited in different parts of her body, until every inch of her burned. “Why would I ever entertain shame, cowboy?” A breathless note stole into her tone. “Flirting is fun for everyone involved.”

Before he could respond, Virgil Porter and Anthony Rodriguez rounded the corner.

Virgil—Daniel’s dad—tipped his baseball cap in greeting as he passed. Anthony, owner of Style Me Tender Salon, waved. The two were best friends and daily checkers partners, and while they didn’t stop to chat, they did slow down to eavesdrop.

“Very subtle, Mr. Porter.” Jude threw the universal sign for I’m watching you at Virgil. “But I’m on to your tricks.”

“I told you to call me Virgil, son. And FYI, I have no tricks. I just wish you’d use your outside voice so we could hear your conversation better.” He never even glanced over his shoulder, just kept moseying along. To Anthony he muttered, “Did I use that there acronym right or not?”

“Yep, sure did,” Anthony replied, “but really the only acronyms you need to know are WTF and GOML. Wait! Too Fast and Get Off My Lawn.”

The two disappeared around the next corner.

Adorable old bears.

“I need to speak with you. Privately,” Jude said to Ryanne.

Uh-oh. “Why?”

Determined, he clasped her hand and hauled her into the nearest alley. Then he backed her into the brick wall, looming over her, his narrowed eyes glaring daggers at her. “I told you there would be consequences if you followed a man in Dushku’s employ.”

She tried to focus on his anger, she did, but her brain short-circuited. This was the closest she’d ever been to Jude, and she was having trouble catching her breath. Her blood heated another thousand degrees, and her skin tingled worse than ever before, little quivers rocking her on her feet.

Just then, she didn’t want to make him laugh; she wanted to make him hot.

Led by desire, logic nowhere to be found, she wrapped her arms around his neck and combed her fingers through his hair.

He didn’t jump away. “What are you doing?” His ragged voice was as potent as a caress.

Why not tell him the truth? She licked her lips, reveling as his eyes followed the motion. “I think I’m...seducing you.”

“You think?” he croaked.

“I’ve never done this before.” Others had tried to seduce her, but this was her first attempt. “For a long time, I had serious trust issues and didn’t date. When I decided there were good guys in the world, I wasn’t attracted to anyone...until you.”

He gulped. “How long since your last date?”

“Two and a half years,” she said, toying with the ends of his hair.

He stiffened but still didn’t jump away. “Were you cheated on?”

Growing bolder, she plucked at his collar, her nails lightly scraping his heated skin. “Twice my mother slept with my boyfriends. And the things I’ve seen at the bar...” With a nibble on her bottom lip, she asked, “What about you? How long since you—”

“Two and a half years.” Another croak.

Ohhh. They had more in common than she’d realized. And the fact that they’d remained alone for the exact same amount of time, well, the odds had to be astronomical.

“Jude?” Wait. What did she want to ask him?

For a moment, he ceased moving, perhaps even ceased breathing. Then he took two steps back. Oh, heck no. He wasn’t leaving her, not now. She fisted his shirt and tugged him forward, and the impromptu action caused him to stumble.

She opened her mouth to tell him she was sorry, but suddenly found herself plastered against his chest, speaking a talent beyond her. Their gazes clashed. His eyes sizzled with molten awareness. Again he stopped breathing. And this time, so did she...

“I should go,” he rasped, even as he braced his palms flat on the brick, caging her in. A predator who’d just captured prey.

This prey wanted to be devoured.

Her pulse points hammered and throbbed as his body heat enveloped her. Scorching waves of agony and ecstasy swept over her, destroying her but also making her into a new woman.

Jude’s woman.

This man had suffered for years. He deserved pleasure. While Ryanne couldn’t replace his beloved wife, and didn’t want to, she could help him forget the past, if only for a little while.

Shouldn’t she at least try?

“Don’t freak out, okay?” Her whisper caressed the air. She cupped his face and, not giving either of them a chance to think, pulled him down while lifting on her tiptoes. Her lips pressed against his scar, once, twice. The softness...the sweetness of him...

More.

He stiffened and wrenched from her hold, but again, he didn’t storm off. He glared at her, panting now. She was panting, too, the scent of him teasing her nose. Spiced rum with oranges and a subtle floral note; it wasn’t feminine but strangely—deliciously—masculine.

A whimper escaped her. She was so hungry for him. “You freaked out,” she accused.

He closed his eyes for one second, two, before focusing on her with fury...and fiery lust. “You surprised me.”

If she continued with this, she would stoke both the lust and the fury? Probably. He might like it, but he might not forgive her, either.

She had a choice. Stay here, and risk ruining their relationship before it ever began, or leave, never knowing what could have been.

No contest. Great risk, great reward. If she walked away, she would always regret not taking a chance.

Seduce...

“Did I also turn you on?” Slowly, giving him time to process her intention, she leaned forward to nip at his lower lip. “Because I turned myself on.”

“Ryanne... Wade.”

He had to force himself to put distance between them, didn’t he? It no longer came quite so naturally. “Yes, cowboy.” Yes.

With a growl, he dove down and devoured her mouth, his hunger a perfect match to her own. Their tongues dueled, creating a hot tangle of desire. Her nipples crested, needy, and the apex of her thighs ached, liquid need pooling there. As her bones melted, passion surged through her, flooding her. Move, she had to move. She arched her hips—contact! Her throbbing core rubbed against the long, thick length of his erection, and a groan spilled from her.

In the midst of the earth-shattering kiss, his aloof veneer shed like a winter coat he no longer needed, because the sun had peeked from behind storm clouds at long last. With a hiss born from raw frustration, he seemed to shed a thousand pounds of anger, sadness and pain. She felt their absence, the temperature of his skin heating, arousal ashing everything else.

“More.” He stepped closer to her, forcing her spine flush against the brick wall while smashing his chest into hers.

Ice cold behind her, searing heat in front of her. The warring temperatures bombarded her with sensation, a tornado of lust ravaging her. Inhibitions were the first casualty.

She and Jude were outside, in a public setting, but so what. And so the heck what if this man disliked her most of the time. He kissed her as if she were his last meal or the air he needed to survive.

As if she alone held the key to his happiness.

“Ryanne.” He kicked her legs apart. The action lacked finesse, and yet it electrified her from head to toe.

Can’t get enough of me...

A cry of abandon split her lips as he ground his shaft between her legs. Currents of passion whisked through her bloodstream. She trembled. She craved.

How desperately she wanted to strip and ride him, to feel him deep inside her, moving, thrusting, pounding. Finally she would experience everything a man had to give—everything this man had to give.

“Jude.” She pulled at the hem of his shirt, her knuckles brushing the blistering skin that covered his rock-hard abs. Her knees threatened to buckle.

She might have gone two and a half years without a kiss, but she couldn’t go two more weeks...two more days...two more minutes without Jude Laurent.

“You taste like strawberries,” he rasped. “You smell like strawberries, too. How is that possible?”

“I’ve lived in this town most of my life. I’m shocked I don’t taste and smell like pineapples. Dummy,” she teased, and nipped at his bottom lip.

He chuckled. A husky, rusty chuckle that was ragged at the edges. It shocked them both. In unison, they stilled. Once again their gazes met, clashed. His pupils were blown, what remained of his irises glittering wildly. His cheeks were flushed, and his nostrils flared every time he inhaled.

So beautiful. I’m not ready for this to end. Ryanne traced a fingertip along the seam of his lips. Such soft lips for such a hard man.

“No.” His eyelids narrowed, and he stepped back, leaving her bereft. A scowl darkened his features.

Was he about to blame her for what just happened? Would he vow never to come near her again?

She braced for whatever vitriol he planned to unleash, determined to roll with the punches. She’d known a kiss would upset him, but had plowed full steam ahead, anyway, because she’d wanted him.

She wanted him still.

But all he did was take another step back and wipe his mouth with his hand. Then horror replaced his scowl and he took another step back, and another. The silence cut deeper than a knife.

“Jude,” she said. “Care enough to talk to me about what you’re feeling.” Please.

“I...won’t. I’m sorry, but I won’t talk about feelings, and I won’t let myself care.” He spun on his heel and stalked off, soon disappearing around the corner.

Ryanne remained in place. Her heartbeat refused to slow, and her bones refused to solidify; they were too hot.

Deep breath in, out. Won’t let myself care.

Harsh words, and yet she took no offense. Part of him did care, or he wouldn’t have to fight it.

Did he feel like he’d betrayed his wife? Maybe. Probably. Constance had died two and a half years ago, and he’d gone two and a half years without kissing or touching another woman.

The poor man hadn’t wanted pleasure. Actually, he’d done everything in his power to ensure he couldn’t, wouldn’t, enjoy his life, she realized. Misery had become a treasured friend.

Been there, hated that.

Whether he knew it or not, Ryanne had helped him take a step in the right direction. His body had new life—she’d felt every inch of it. He’d been long, hard and thick. For me. Only me.

Already addicted... One kiss had been too much, obsessing and possessing her, but hundreds...thousands would never be enough.

Hope joined the festivities. All was not lost. If she could turn Jude on once, surely she could do it again...

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?

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