Gena Showalter - Can't Let Go

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.