Wet towels--in the hamper.
His clothes--gone.
The condom and its wrapper--in the trash can.
She released a relieved sigh.
"You know," Dorothea said, digging through the box's contents and withdrawing a power drill. "Jude was prowling around the bar, looking particularly stylish in a bikini shirt, and snapping at everyone with a drink in hand."
He hadn't gone home? Maybe later she could watch him on the security feed, the way he'd watched her...
"His hair was wet, just like yours." Dorothea wiggled her dark brows. "Doesn't that strike you as an odd coincidence?"
Poo on a stick! She had no leverage against Dorothea. "All right, detectives. You busted me. I took a shower with Jude. We conserved a little water, had a little sex. Happy now? Great. Help me install the bars."
Both women squealed.
"I knew it!" Lyndie said.
"Daniel owes me five dollars." Dorothea fist pumped the air. "But I'm going to do him a solid and accept payment in the form of orgasms."
Ryanne planted her fists on her hips. "You guys took bets on when I'd sleep with Jude?"
"Of course. Did I mention I won?"
"Wow. I need better friends."
"Too bad. You're stuck with us." Lyndie bumped her shoulder. "So. Tell us everything. Was your first time everything you dreamed? How do you feel? Any different?"
Unable to cut off her dreamy sigh, Ryanne pressed her palm over her heart. "It was better than I'd imagined. He was better. I'm still amazed. And probably in shock. Yeah, definitely in shock. I'm pretty sure I left my body, soared through the heavens, danced with angels, came back to my body and died of acute, intense pleasure, only to have my heart shocked back to life."
Her friends shared a look before bursting into laughter.
"So you and Jude are a couple now?" Dorothea asked, her tone happy, as if she was certain of a positive response.
Ryanne pasted a false smile on her face. No one was going to blame Jude for her desire for a relationship, rather than a one-night stand. "Nope. We had tonight, that's all." At least until she convinced him otherwise.
"Oh, Ryanne. I'm so sorry," Lyndie said. "I know you were secretly hoping for more."
Knows me better than I know myself.
Dorothea patted her shoulder, her big baby blues filled with remorse. "If you want more, you'll get more. He'll be back."
Ryanne gulped. Maybe. Hopefully. "Come on. We've got a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it."
They hopped to, but neither Lyndie nor Dorothea were used to such late hours and soon began to drag.
"Hey. When you came through the door, did Jude ask what was in the box?" Ryanne asked, then bit her lower lip. "Did you tell him? Show him? How did he react?"
"At first he said nothing, just waved us in without even glancing at the box." Dorothea yawned. "Then he chased us down and demanded to know what was going on."
Lyndie lifted her chin. "You would have been proud. I told him we'd be sure to tell him all about it the moment the information was his business."
Dang, Ryanne loved these girls. "Okay, maybe I'll keep you guys as friends."
They worked another hour. Or rather, Ryanne worked. Dorothea fell asleep with her head resting on the edge of the tub while Lyndie fell asleep on the floor in a fetal position.
When a soft knock sounded at the front door, neither woman reacted. Ryanne left them where they were and checked the monitor Jude had installed last week.
Daniel and Brock stood in the hall, no sign of the third amigo.
Was she ready to face his best friends? Didn't matter. The best friends in question wouldn't leave until they'd collected their women.
Deep breath in...out... Ryanne disengaged the lock and turned the knob.
"Your better halves are asleep in my bathroom," she said.
"I have no better half," Brock replied.
Both men marched inside, only to remain in the foyer, watching her. And oh, wow, they were handsome. Not Jude handsome, of course. No one was. But these two exuded strength and animalistic sex appeal. While Daniel possessed good ole boy charm, Brock had bad-to-the-bone down to a T.
T is for tempting.
If anyone could coax Lyndie out of her self-imposed exile, it was Brock. The woman only left her house to teach at Strawberry Valley Elementary School, and to visit with Ryanne.
Brock winked at her before holding up one hand. "Go ahead. High-five me."
Though she was confused, she obeyed. "Why are we acting like teenagers?"
"You rode Jude out of misery, straight into agony." With a smile, he offered her a thumbs-up. "Well done."
She nearly choked on her tongue. "He told you?"
Brock turned his widening smile to Daniel, revealing a bright red smudge of lipstick on his neck. Dang him. Boning girls in the bar bathroom had become his specialty.
Now that Jude had given celibacy the stinky boot, would he follow in his friend's footsteps?
A curse brewed in the back of her throat.
Okay, so. She was a wee bit possessive and jealous. If Jude turned to another woman, she would kinda sorta want to take a crowbar to the girl's face--then Jude's junk--even though he'd made no commitment to Ryanne.
It would have been nice to know she'd feel this way about her first lover before doing the deed, but no matter. She could deal.
"Don't take this the wrong way," Daniel said, shifting from one boot to the other, "but he told us he'd made a colossal mistake."
There was a right way to take that?
"We worked out the details on our own," he added. "His wet hair...your wet hair. Plus, the last time I saw such a haunted look in his eyes, he'd just lost his family. But don't worry. We're not going to ask for details. Are we, Brock?"
His buddy hiked his shoulders, clearly disappointed. "You take the fun out of funniest."
"So Jude is now in agony?" she demanded.
"You misunderstood." Brock linked his fingers with hers, startling her. "This is a very good thing. He's going to be in a dark place for a while, but that's okay. In the dark, he might finally see the light."
A beautiful sentiment, but what, exactly, constituted light for Jude? So far, Ryanne had only seemed to add to his troubles.
"What are your intentions toward my boy, anyway?" Brock's head canted to the side, his attention on her deepening. "He doesn't give his goods and services away lightly. Well, not anymore."
"Brock." Daniel sighed.
"What?" Brock stretched out his arms, acting like the last sane man in a universe gone to hell. "She needs to know the kind of man she's dealing with. And to Jude, sex equals commitment."
Her heart fluttered wildly. Sex means something to Jude.
He waited for me, as I waited for him. We were...fated for each other?
No, no. I don't believe in fate. Do I?
"Look, I'm going to ask him out," she said. "If he says no, that's it. I'm done. If he says yes..." She shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
Please, Jude, say yes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FOR THE NEXT two weeks, Jude was militant about security at the Scratching Post, both physically and digitally.
Dushku's cameras were found and removed; they'd been expertly hidden as Jude had suspected. Every afternoon he dozed lightly in Ryanne's office, a laptop resting on his chest, the screen split to reveal feed from four different areas: three inside the bar, one outside. Every night he worked alongside the bouncers and did his best to avoid Ryanne.
She texted him twice. First she asked him out on a date.
I had fun with you, and would love to see you again. Interested?
He turned her down--and called himself a thousand kinds of fool.
She took his refusal in stride, all no big deal, then asked how they could help Savannah.
He'd messed up, hadn't he? He should have said yes.
No, hell, no. He'd done the right thing.
Sex was supposed to end his unhea
lthy obsession with her porn-star body, whip-sharp mind and wicked smile. Distance was supposed to eject her from his mind.
No luck. He thought about her more often, and craved her harder, so much harder.
What they'd done in that shower...it had been more than a joining of two bodies. It had been the melding of souls.
Shit. He'd sunk so low, he now waxed poetic?
Well, why not? Since he'd lost his family, he'd had only one purpose: to mourn. Yet, as he'd slid into Ryanne's hot, tight depths, he'd exalted, forgetting the past, focusing on the moment...and all the moments awaiting him in the future.
Damn this! Did he even deserve a future with Ryanne? He was slime. Worse than slime. He'd cheated on his wife's memory.
She's gone. I did nothing wrong.
If that were true, why did guilt plague him? Why had the sweetest pleasure led to the bitterest regret? Why had he gone from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows?
For his own good, he should stop the happy shower time play-by-play running through his mind on constant refresh and pretend it had never happened. He should stay away from Ryanne.
Impossible. Dushku would retaliate for what Jude had done to Anton and Dennis. The only questions were when and how. Of course, Jude could guess when--soon.
The stress had left him feeling as if his skin were stretched over his bones tight enough to rip. The few times he'd left the bar, he'd gone home only to shower and change.
He'd tried to distract himself with a background check on Savannah. Though he'd used every trick he knew, he'd had abysmal results. Was Savannah her real name? What was her last name? Where was she from? Men like Martin Dushku often shipped in girls from other countries, then hid their passports and visas so they had nowhere else to go. Was Savannah born overseas? If she had an accent, she masked it well.
Yesterday, Jude asked one of the men who worked in the Oklahoma City offices of LPH Protection to drive down and buy a night with Savannah in order to whisk her to safety, get her a new ID and hide her for good, but Dushku had stopped bringing her around.
So many obstacles. Jude had no idea what to do.
Chatter interrupted his thoughts. Daniel's engagement party had kicked off about an hour ago, but Jude had spent every minute checking his phone, watching--what else--camera feed at the Scratching Post.
Now his attention snagged on the reason for the chatter: Ryanne had arrived.
She stood just outside the tent that had been erected outside the Strawberry Inn, golden light shimmering over her, paying absolute tribute to the deep bronze of her skin. Her dark hair hung in decadent waves, the sides anchored back by two crimson ribbons.
Exquisite.
She wore a skintight black dress with a hem that ended just below her knees. A red bow cinched around her waist. A bow he imagined undoing with his teeth. Four-inch crimson heels only added to her appeal.
She was, without a doubt, the sexiest woman in the world. He knew this for fact. For the military, he'd traveled the world.
Breath caught in his throat when her dark gaze met his. His body vibrated with awareness, and his blood heated. Touch her...
Breath seemed to catch in her throat as well, but she quickly turned her attention to Brock, who stood beside him. She smiled and waved, and Brock gave her a thumbs-up.
Jude bit his tongue until he tasted blood. Going to pretend I don't exist? I'll teach her--
Nothing.
The entire town had shown up for the party, filling the tent. Twinkling lights hung overhead, interspersed with colored flowers and paper lanterns. A sign that read Gettin' Hitched had been nailed to a white picket fence. Tables were set up in every corner, offering an array of casseroles made by local favorite Brook Lynn Dillon.
In one of the dishes, Brook Lynn had mixed peanut butter, chocolate, bananas and bits of bacon. Jude refused to sample the oddity...only to decide he wasn't leaving until he'd gotten the recipe. Ryanne took a bite and moaned with pleasure.
I know that moan. I've caused it. The fire in his blood reignited.
Reignited? Ha! The flames had never died.
Look at me, shortcake. Want me the way I want you.
The endearment floored him, but the thought shamed him. He'd abandoned this woman immediately after sleeping with her, then pushed her away when she was kind enough to offer him a second chance, and now he expected her to cater to his every whim?
Again she turned her attention elsewhere, exactly what he deserved.
Had she thought of him at all? Did she regret sleeping with him?
Had he taken her virginity?
More and more the question troubled him. Just as soon as he would convince himself she'd been with other men, doubts would surface. Jude's initial entry had startled and pained her, and she'd been so tight, barely able to fit him inside.
Did he want to be her first?
Not even a little, he thought, even as a sense of possessiveness grabbed him by the neck and placed him in an undeniable chokehold.
She's mine. No one else is allowed to touch what's mine.
If he'd taken her virginity and abandoned her afterward...
She was someone's daughter. If his girls had lived, and a man had ever treated them so shabbily, Jude would have been killing mad.
I should be shot.
No, I should apologize. He should sweep Ryanne into his arms and carry her to a room in the inn.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled over his spine.
What would Constance say about the man he'd become? A man who'd treated his lover as if she were disposable, unimportant. A man so afraid of impregnating another woman he'd paid a doctor to cut into his testicles.
"Staring like a creeper," Brock said, placing a cup of strawberry lemonade into Jude's hand. "Not cool, dude."
"I've never cared about being cool." He drained half the cup, the coldness of the drink registering more than the sweetness, soothing his dry throat...but not for long.
A tall man approached Ryanne. He exuded the kind of arrogance usually found on Wall Street. Jude's grip tightened on the cup, crinkling the plastic.
Smiling with her customary flirtatiousness, Ryanne shook Wall Street's hand.
Rage burned inside of Jude, driving out every other emotion, leaving no room for guilt, remorse or tenderness. Clearly, she'd taken his words to heart. Sex without commitment. One time only. She was free to enrapture any other man she desired.
"Good. I see you've noticed someone is making a move on your girl," Brock said.
"She's not my girl." Believe it. Accept it. "She's my boss."
Wall Street hadn't been to the bar since Jude had started working there. If ever he showed up, he'd leave with a black eye and broken nose.
His dark hair was cut and styled to perfection, and his face shaved. The suit he wore had no wrinkles while Jude's button-down had seen better days--several years ago. No doubt Wall Street had both of his legs, and he could make love to a woman while standing up.
"Do you know what's sad?" Brock's pale green eyes were wary as he confiscated Jude's drink. "I'm a total screw up, it's all I've got going for me, and yet you've somehow turned me into the voice of reason. It hurts, man."
Guilt flared. He'd worried his friend. "Not true." Brock had an off-the-charts IQ, a bank account the size of Texas thanks to a trust left by his grandfather, and a heart of solid gold. "Your problem is your zipper. It's open for business 24/7. The little guy's tired and needs a vacation."
Smiling a genuine smile, Brock flipped him off.
Daniel and his father, Virgil Porter, stepped from the crowd to join them. Through pictures, Jude knew Virgil had once been as tall and strong as his son. Today, not so much. Age had left its mark. His shoulders were slumped, his bones fragile. He'd lost a good deal of hair and had more wrinkles than a discarded prom dress.
Most days, Virgil was grumpier than Jude. But underneath his bluster was a deep love for his son, his town and, really, everyone he met. Which struck Jude as
odd. Virgil lost his wife in an accident years ago and had struggled to recover.
Was recovery even possible?
Virgil patted him on the shoulder, saying, "Came to tell you that you're looking at our sweet little Ryanne Wade the way a serial killer looks at his next victim. You planning on locking her in your basement, boy? Maybe wearing her skin?"
"Told you," Brock muttered.
"No, sir, I'm not." His gaze returned to Ryanne, unbidden.
Wall Street smoothed a strand of hair from her face and hooked it behind her ear, throwing new kindling on Jude's rage.
Ryanne took a step back, at least, stopping the guy's next caress. What she didn't do? Walk away.
Who was the man? Besides dead. What was he doing here?
Damn it, Ryanne should know better than to trust a newcomer. What if this one worked for Dushku?
"A little advice from an old man," Virgil said with a sigh. "Fight for what you want, while you can. If you don't, someone else will win your prize, and you'll have no right to complain."
The old man didn't understand. No one did. Not even Jude.
He wanted Ryanne, but the moment he took her, fresh guilt would raze him. Worse guilt, because he'd already been there, done that, and should know better. He would end up hurting her all over again.
"Dad gave me the same advice," Daniel said, "and if I'd heeded him, I would have settled down with Thea a lot sooner. I would have been happy a lot sooner."
Jude didn't think he'd recognize happiness if it kicked him in the balls.
"Sorry, boys, but I've got to go. I'm being summoned by my damsel in distress." An eager Daniel rushed off to join Dorothea, who'd been cornered by her mother's book club. The old biddies loved romance novels, and had no qualms asking everyone in town about their preferred sexual positions.
Yeah. They'd once asked Jude if he'd ever tried "that S and M stuff." He'd nearly stepped in front of a bus--willingly, gladly--as he'd made his escape.
His gaze returned to Ryanne. Still with Wall Street, her fingers toying with the bow around her waist. A bow highlighting the flatness of her stomach.
The rubber. It broke. Damn it, I knew the water would be a problem. He'd known, but he'd proceeded anyway, out of his mind with desire and desperate to have the woman before she changed her mind.
The timing is wrong, yes?
Only if you mean I'm ovulating right now.
Ryanne was on the pill, hadn't missed a single dose. There was no need to worry.
So why was he still fucking worried?
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