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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 (#u8e81356d-a44a-55f2-b678-241475ff580b)
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.”
