Snickers and guffaws blended, cutting through the night.
“I gave your mom backdoor action last night,” was the reply. “But there was nothing little about it.”
Hooting and hollering now.
“I’m not interested in having fun,” Jude finally told Selma. “I’m here to protect your daughter from very bad men.”
She hmphed. “Don’t act like you care about Ryanne’s well-being. I know your type, and I know better. You want her in your bed until you tire of her.”
His jaw ached as his teeth scraped together. “A man doesn’t get tired of Ryanne Wade. A man gets addicted.” And that was the truth.
Selma gaped at him, as if she’d never heard more ludicrous words. “If that’s true, why are you kind of dating my daughter and not actually dating her? Why haven’t you put a ring on her finger? Why does she look miserable every time she glances in your direction?”
“She has a plan for her life, and I’m not a part of it.”
Would he travel with her if she asked? He wasn’t sure. The thought of seeing the world without his little girls shredded him. But so did the idea of life without Ryanne.
Life? As in, a long-term commitment?
Was he ready for that? It’s what Ryanne wanted. At least, he suspected. Some of the things she’d said...
We want different things. She’d mentioned this one twice. He’d wanted a temporary relationship. She’d wanted...a permanent one?
Why bother? Time is running out. Again, he had to wonder if she wanted more time with him.
The last time she’d mentioned their “short-term affair” her tone had been wistful.
“Plans shmans.” Selma moved in front of him to pat his cheek. “I’ve heard gossip about you. The grumpy widower with no family and no leg. Poor you. Boo-hoo. You waste a lot of time feeling sorry for yourself, don’t you?”
Anger scalded him. How easily she spoke of traumas that had changed him spirit, soul and body. “I grieve,” he snapped.
“Please, boy-o. You fear.”
The anger gave way to rage, rushing through his veins, scorching everything in its path. Dark smoke seemed to fill his mind. “You don’t know me. You don’t know shit.”
“Please. Enlighten me, then.”
Refusing to engage her a moment longer, he pressed his lips together and remained silent, staring off in the distance. Him? Unable to overcome his fears? No. Hell, no.
Maybe.
Damn it, no. He grieved the loss of his family, something this woman couldn’t possibly understand.
“I married a man like you, you know,” she said, having no idea the beast she provoked. Or simply not caring. “He broke my heart every day, and I wouldn’t wish him on my worst enemy. Well, maybe I’d wish him on Edna Mills. We were neighbors once, and she refused to let Caroline play with Ryanne, because she thought I’d try to steal her husband. As if I’d want anything to do with her ground sirloin. I had grade A filet.”
“You slept with Ryanne’s boyfriends. I wouldn’t exactly call you discriminating.”
“I most certainly did not sleep with those boys. I tested them by offering sex. There’s a difference. I never had any intention of following through. I just wanted to make sure they’d remain faithful to my girl. And guess what? They wouldn’t remain faithful. But I knew Ryanne wouldn’t believe me unless she saw their betrayal with her own eyes. She was far too trusting.”
Now she trusted no one. “Is that what you’re doing to me? Testing me?”
Her next smile had bite. “Just so you know, if you hurt my little girl, I’ll cut off your balls and wear them as earrings.” Finally, she sauntered off.
“Don’t act as if you care about her,” he called. “You didn’t exactly protect her as a child. What makes you think you can protect her now, after ignoring her all these years?”
Back stiff, she paused and looked at him over her shoulder. “Maybe I wasn’t the best mother, but I’m determined to make up for the past. From everything I’ve heard, you’ve been good for Ryanne. From everything I’ve seen, she still wants you. But it’s going to take more than physical desire if you two crazy kids are going to get a happily-ever-after.”
Happily-ever-after.
Forever.
Selma wasn’t done. “She loved Earl with all her heart, and you remind me of him. Crankiest bastard ever born. While she stuck to him like glue, she runs away from you. I wonder why.”
For the next hour, Selma’s words plagued Jude. Why had Ryanne loved Earl, the “crankiest bastard ever born”? Why had she stayed with him, but not with Jude?
Earl offered safety, security, she’d once said.
Safety. Security. Exactly what Jude offered, too. So why was he having so much trouble pinning her down?
Although, if Jude had offered only a half-measure of safety and security, and only temporarily, he’d offered nothing more than platitudes. In a relationship like theirs, he had to offer all that he was, all that he would be, and he had to offer forever or he had better just walk away.
Forever. Happily-ever-after.
Life. A long-term commitment.
Maybe Selma was bat shit crazy and knew nothing about her daughter. But then, Jude clearly didn’t know anything, either.
For a long while, he watched the couples around him. Some held hands. Others laughed together. A few shared passionate glances. Fewer argued about this or that, but all presented a united front. Two made one. Envy cuddled up to him, petting him like a long-lost lover. He’d had that kind of bond with Constance, missed it—her—every day. But the truth was, her loss no longer hurt as badly.
As much as Ryanne had tormented him, she had helped ease him.
Brock and Daniel noticed him, and approached warily, as if they were attempting to tame a wild animal.
“Okay, enough,” Brock said. “You can’t go on like this. You want your girl, so go get her.”
“You have a chance to be happy,” Daniel said. “Why embrace your misery when you can embrace your girl?”
Razors seemed to tear through his insides. These guys meant well. They wanted the best for him, but they remembered the old Jude. The guy who smiled and cracked jokes, who used to stare up at the stars, comforted by the fact that the same stars stared down at his girls.
He wished he could be the same man to Ryanne that he’d been to Constance. Any time he’d been home on leave, he’d prepared surprise meals for Constance. He’d given her gifts. Once she’d admired a beaded pillow on a TV show, and he’d had it re-created. Countless times, he’d cut flowers from her archenemy’s garden, an old biddy who’d lived in their neighborhood.
He’d never done anything kind or romantic for Ryanne, and the thought suddenly bothered him. She was a prize, and she deserved to be treated as one.
Why had he stopped fighting for her? Because winning her would be hard, if not impossible? So the hell what. Because they wanted different things? Did he even know what he wanted?
Stop trying and start failing.
Actually, stop doing and start failing. Trying never did shit for anyone, except give the trier a thousand excuses to do a piss-poor job. If Jude continued doing—fighting—he risked getting hurt again. So. The hell. What. He was hurting regardless. What did he have to lose?
He didn’t have to move back to Midland any time soon, or at all. And Ryanne hadn’t yet left for Rome. There was still time to romance her.
A spark of excitement burned inside him. He thought about all the times Ryanne had texted him, asking him to do something with her. He thought about words she’d once rasped at him. Finally we had fun together.
So. She craved fun—with him. He hadn’t made any attempt to amuse her, but that would change. Tonight.
“I’m going after her. If I don’t win her, it won’t
be because I stopped fighting.”
“About time.” Daniel patted him on the shoulder.
Brock was too busy staring at Lyndie to pay any more attention to Jude. She stood underneath a halogen light, talking to a man Jude had never met. Not in person, anyway. But Dorothea knew the guy. Jonathan Hillcrest. A teacher at Strawberry Valley High. A few months ago, Daniel asked Jude to do a background check on everyone the pretty inn owner had interacted with.
“Take your own advice, you fool,” Jude said, patting his friend on the shoulder. Then he propelled into motion, determined to earn his prize.
* * *
“I DREAM OF the day a man looks at me the way Jude Laurent is looking at you,” Lyndie said as soon as Jonathan Hillcrest walked away. She pressed a hand over her heart and sighed.
The sweet girl had opted to stay on the patio with Ryanne, selling towels, pops, beers and CockaMoons. While Ryanne had gotten a catering endorsement that would allow her to sell alcohol in her parking lot as well, she’d decided to stick to the parameters of her license and sell within the boundaries of the Scratching Post—aka the floor plan inside and out. Better safe than sorry with Dushku around.
“How is he looking at me?” Like he wants me? Tremors overtook Ryanne as she collected five dollars from the guy in line and handed him a beer. “The way Brock is looking at you?”
“Brock isn’t... He wouldn’t... Stop trying to distract me. Jude is looking at you like you shine brighter than the stars.”
Really?
Don’t face him. Don’t you dare face him. Not again. Any time she’d snuck a peek, he had been staring at her with a mix of longing and regret, hunger and desperation, and the same sensations had risen in her.
The madness had to end.
Perhaps she needed to say goodbye again?
Nope, absolutely not. He might want her, but nothing had changed between them. The more time she spent with him, the more it would hurt when they parted. So, no more hello/goodbyes. No more Jude, period.
Whoa! Going too far. He had helped her with tonight’s festivities. He’d been enthusiastic and tireless, doing anything and everything she asked, all without complaint.
So, more Jude, but no more hello/goodbyes. She’d go cold turkey, treating his carnal appeal as she would any other kind of addiction. Sure, she’d probably have to endure withdrawals. The shakes, unprovoked crankiness, heck, maybe even more vomiting. She’d gotten sick again this morning, but the stomach pains had ebbed when she’d taken a hot, steamy shower.
“Uh-oh,” Lyndie said. “Incoming.”
Ryanne swallowed a groan as the scent of spiced rum hit her awareness. “Don’t you dare leave—”
“I’ll just give you two a moment. Sorry not sorry,” her friend said, blowing her a kiss and hurrying away.
Traitor!
Doing everything in her power to mentally prepare for the beauty of Jude Laurent, Ryanne turned.
She wasn’t prepared.
Blond hair hung in tangled waves around his rugged face, and the golden stubble on his jaw glistened in the light. He wore a black T-shirt, his muscles on perfect he-man display. His ripped jeans molded to his legs. Blue rubber boots stretched over his knees and cinched in tight so that no mud or oil could leak into his prosthesis.
She gulped. “Hey, Jude.”
“Hello, shortcake.”
Shortcake again. And why hadn’t she realized the word hello on his scarred lips would forever make her shiver?
“By the way, I prefer cowboy,” he said.
Too bad. She’d called him cowboy because she’d planned to ride him into the sunset. “I’m calling you Jude, and that’s that.”
“I understand. You’d rather refer to me as the praised one.”
He deadpanned the line, dry humor at its finest—humor he’d so rarely displayed before—and she had to cut off her snort.
“Do you know why I call you shortcake?” He stood close to her, his head bent so he could whisper in her ear. None of the customers she served had any idea what they were saying to each other.
“Because I smell and taste like strawberries,” she muttered, her heart fluttering.
“Because shortcake is sweeter when it’s slathered with cream.”
Her eyes widened. There was no way on God’s green earth Jude Laurent had just referenced her arousal.
“I really like your cream,” he purred.
He had. He really had. Pleasure flushed her cheeks. He’d also given her a compliment she hadn’t had to request. And such a dirty one, at that, nearly melting her bones.
“I meant what I said earlier. We don’t work well together?” A question now?
“Thanks for asking. We do, and I’d like a chance to prove it. As your long-term boyfriend.”
Boyfriend? Long-term? The words reverberated in her head as her heart kicked into an erratic beat. “Are you a pod person? What happened to my Jude?”
His eyelids hooded in an instant. “Your Jude?”
The flush spread lightning-fast. “Zip it. That was a slip of the tongue, nothing more.”
“Well, I always like when you slip me your tongue. I like it a lot. By the way,” he added, before she had a chance to respond, or melt into a puddle of goo. “I accept your challenge.”
Moving faster than her reflexes could block, he draped her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Ryanne squealed and, going into some kind of erotic shock, beat her fists against his back. “You put me down right this second, you Neanderthal.” Sexy behemoth. “I’m working.”
“I signaled Brock. He’s going to sell the drinks and towels.” Jude continued striding forward, maneuvering through the crowd. When he reached one of the pools, he bellowed, “Everyone out!”
A new chorus of cheers rang out. Catcalls and whistles resounded. People called:
“Get her wet, Jude!”
“New rules, all clothes must come off!”
“Take him down, Miss Ryanne. Girls rule, and boys drool.”
That voice she recognized. Loner. He now worked as Brett’s part-time assistant, and he’d come out tonight to show his support.
“Jude,” Ryanne intoned. “Don’t you dare. If you do, I will personally—”
With a shrug, he dumped her into the oil. Thick slime oozed over her shirt and pants, quickly soaking the material, wetting her skin. Sputtering, she tried to stand, slipped, managed to catch her balance, then slipped again when Jude smiled. Breath exploded from her lungs as her butt hit the ground.
Jude laughed, actually laughed.
Not wanting him to escape her wrath, she acted quickly, hurling two scoops of oil at him. The substance splattered over his face and dripped onto his chest. He spat once, twice, then turned a faux glare on her, but his navy blues glittered with amusement.
First a laugh. Now genuine happiness. Who was this man?
Being without you has been the worst kind of hell.
He climbed into the pool, but Ryanne didn’t give him time to gain his bearings. Remaining on the ground, batting her lashes innocently, she smiled a wicked smile—and swiped out her leg, knocking his ankles together. He tumbled to his butt, landing right beside her.
She should hop out and run, never looking back. This was Jude, and bad things happened when they got together...such bad, naughty things. But she had to beat him at something.
Gasps of horror sounded outside the pool.
“Did Ryanne kick our Jude?” someone called. “Don’t she know he’s disabled?”
“He’s bigger and stronger than any of you,” Ryanne called right back.
Jude smiled at her. A smile without reservation. A radiant smile. Inside, she melted.
Resist!
“Just for that,” he said, “I’ll consider
letting you win.”
Oh, he would, would he?
Ryanne stood, somehow remaining steady, and walked toward him. He reached overhead and removed his shirt, revealing a chest that would forever star in her fantasies. Female spectators cheered. As Ryanne wavered—and okay, yes, ogled him—he removed one of his leather wrist cuffs, revealing a strawberry tattooed underneath.
“I wasn’t going to show you this, but...” He shrugged. “A man has to use whatever weapons he has in his arsenal.”
She gasped. A strawberry. Not for the town...but for her?
He cares about me!
“I love it,” she whispered.
“Good.” He lashed out his arm, using his drenched shirt as a whip. The end wrapped around her wrist, drawing another gasp from her. He yanked, forcing her to slide closer to him. In a flash, he had her wrists tied and draped around his neck.
Before she had time to process what he’d done, he pushed her down. Looming over her, he slapped a palm beside her temple once, twice, three times, splashing oil every which way.
“She’s out,” he shouted, then gifted her with another smile.
Cheers. An announcer calling, “Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. Jude Laurent, everyone!”
“Jude, you gotta teach me that move,” Cooter Bowright pleaded.
Ryanne glared up at her beautiful captor. “I thought you were going to let me win.”
“No, I said I’d consider letting you win. I considered it, and figured it’d be a bad idea. You’re already too pretty and too bossy. We don’t need to add cocky to the mix.”
Seriously. Who was this man?
Well, whoever he was, he needed to learn a valuable lesson. Mess with the bull, get the horns.
Ryanne slid her legs up between their bodies, an easy task considering they were both covered in oil, and flattened her feet on Jude’s chest. Holding his wrists to maintain control, she kicked her legs straight and sent him soaring over her head. Only then did she release him, laughing as he landed on his back behind her. She scrambled to her knees and crawled over him.
One, two, three, she slapped her hand beside his temple, splashing oil over his face.
Can't Let Go--A Bad Boy Romance Page 23