Gena Showalter - Can't Let Go

“If you take me on, Mr. Laurent, you will fail.” For a moment, only a moment, Dushku had allowed his true demeanor to surface, his features cold as ice. “I promise you.”

Mere seconds had passed as Jude struggled to control his breathing, though it had felt like an eternity.

“Did the truth hurt your feelings?” Dushku had shaken his head. “I’m not sure why. You are a cripple without a family, and I won’t hesitate to ruin this new life you’ve carved out for yourself.”

More rage. More grief. At the best of times, Jude felt like only half a man. What if he couldn’t protect Ryanne?

He’d mimicked the man’s smirk. “I don’t think you searched deep enough into my background, Mr. Dushku. I’m a hunter, born and bred. When I was just a boy, I learned to stalk and kill deer and wild hogs. As a man, Uncle Sam taught me to stalk and kill men. I’m very good. My victims are never found.” He’d stood. “Again, I suggest you stay on your side of the street, and we’ll stay on ours. I won’t stop you from running your business, but I will stop you from hurting innocents.”

Dushku had said, “I, too, would hate for any harm to come to innocents, especially someone as kind and beautiful as Miss Wade. If she decides to sell the bar within the next couple of months in order to travel the world as she dreams, I’m willing to help her. If not... You might be a hunter, Mr. Laurent, but I’m a ghost. You’ll never see me coming.”

Jude had left, before he broke down and showed Dushku the error of his ways.

So far, there had been only one attempt to strike at Ryanne. Blueberry Hill PD raided the bar, harassing customers as they checked IDs and asked questions about “reported suspicious activity.” Jude had admired Ryanne’s calm in the midst of the chaos, and he’d been surprised by the support of her patrons, almost everyone rushing to her defense, forcing the officers to leave without making an arrest.

“A little help, please.” Ryanne’s sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll voice stopped him in his tracks.

Behind the counter where he’d watched her mix drinks was the entrance to the basement. He watched as the gorgeous woman lugged a large box up the steps. Mason jars clinked together, her infamous fruit cocktail moonshine sloshing inside. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, and he almost—almost—rushed to her aid. While he was good with protecting her and her home, he avoided anything related to the actual buying, selling and marketing of alcohol.

“Is this a test?” he finally asked. “This seems like a test. The moment I help you, you’ll accuse me of setting back feminism a hundred years.”

“Yeah, that sounds exactly like me,” she muttered as she lumbered past him.

He kind of wanted to grin. Usually she was the one teasing him.

No wonder she did it so often. Hello, fun. Long time no see.

For the next hour, Jude worked like a man possessed, installing motion-sensitive lights in the bathroom hallway. Soon the bar would open to the public, and he would have to walk the room for eight hours, on the lookout for any signs of wayward activity. Guaranteed, he would irritate people tonight. His leg had pained him all day, darkening his mood. He needed to rest, but he needed to work and remain distracted more.

When he entered the main area, he found Ryanne doing what she did best, mixing drinks for Lyndie and Dorothea. Considering Brock had a secret thing for Lyndie, a delicate strawberry blonde, and Daniel was almost always attached to Dorothea’s side, Jude expected his friends to be nearby, but...no.

“—negotiated. Said I could have three orgasms a day or one more dog.” Dorothea rolled her big, blue eyes. She was a pretty woman with dark, corkscrew curls, and the soft curves of a ’50s pinup model. “I demanded four orgasms a day and two more dogs, of course.”

Ryanne threw back her head, laughing with abandon.

Lust punched Jude straight in the gut, shocking him, waking once deadened nerve endings. Tingles exploded throughout his entire body, followed by heat and hunger, such clawing hunger.

He gnashed his teeth as he fought the sensations. Want a bartender? No! And yet, the hunger persisted.

“Did he protest or thank you?” she asked. She looked good enough to eat, her silken hair falling in a haphazard braid over her shoulder—a shoulder bared by a lacy pink tank top. Short shorts revealed the long length of her legs while cowgirl boots adorned her feet, stretching up her calves.

Made of sugar, spice and vodka poured on ice.

“Well?” Lyndie prompted.

“He protested...and thanked me,” Dorothea replied with a proud grin.

Ryanne gave her a thumbs-up. “Good girl. Always up the ante.”

Jude bit his tongue to stop a rush of protests.

Ryanne had once claimed she liked to make him squirm, and she’d proven it every day since. Her hips swayed enthusiastically any time she walked past him, creating a sultry, powerful rhythm. Often she cast him coquettish glances and blew him kisses. And she touched him constantly, a brush of her fingers here, a squeeze of his hand there. She cracked jokes, and made lewd innuendos—and he wasn’t sure how to handle her.

Right now, he was sure of only one thing. A relationship with Ryanne wasn’t possible. If his body had finally woken from hibernation, he would maybe think about considering being with a woman, scratching an itch. But he wouldn’t pick her. He would pick someone easily forgettable, someone as uninterested in a relationship as he was.

The moment he did, Constance would no longer be the last woman he’d slept with.

He rubbed the almost debilitating ache in his chest.

He’d never cheated on Constance, even when offers had been made. His teammates, the other members of the Ten—everyone except Daniel and Brock—had mercilessly teased him about it, and had ultimately given him the nickname of Priest.

Ryanne’s gaze landed on him, and her smile fell, confusing him. His mood affected hers?

In a flash, her smile returned and widened. “Jude.” Only she could say his name and sound as if she were moaning in pleasure, delivering another punch of lust to his gut.

He wanted to hate her, but more and more he actually...liked her.

Not only did she have a drink limit for the ultra-potent moonshine, but she cut off anyone who appeared drunk. A legal requirement, yes, but she also kept a cab company on standby.

She made zero exceptions to the rules, even when customers protested, loudly. No one could charm her from her refusal, though some people did—cough Brock cough—manage to get wasted regardless, fooling the seasoned Ryanne into believing he was sober. When that failed, he convinced others to buy drinks for him.

Something else Jude had discovered. Ryanne truly cared about her customers. Her kindness wasn’t for show. She treated everyone with respect and affection, whether they ordered drinks or not. When someone told a story, she listened. When someone flirted with her, she flirted right back. If anyone had a craving for something that wasn’t listed on the menu, she headed to the kitchen to see what she could do.

Smiling again, Ryanne waved him over.

He settled in a chair on the other side of the bar, avoiding her friends.

“I owe you a huge thank you for the list you left me this morning,” she said.

He nodded, his version of you’re welcome. He’d written up a To Do list in case Belle went into labor and he wasn’t nearby.

“Are you hungry? You look hungry.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “Come upstairs later, and I’ll heat something up for you.”

His stomach twisted. “Excuse me?”

“Why?”

Not this again. “What are you planning to heat up?” Do not say you.