Читать книгу Can't Let Go - Gena Showalter - Страница 11
ОглавлениеMONDAYS 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...
