Gena Showalter - Can't Let Go

“Please,” she said, “threaten me again. I’m not sure the camera captured your best angle.”

The door in back of the van suddenly swung open, a man wearing tighty-whities falling out. With the rest of his clothes clutched against his chest, he sprinted past Ryanne and down the street. The alleged prostitute—blonde, pale and thin, with wide eyes full of fear—remained inside and shut the door.

“You okay in there?” Ryanne called.

Silence.

Cigarette took a menacing step toward Ryanne.

“Stop! Anything happens to me, and the world will know who’s responsible.” As a tremor swept through her, the phone fell from her grip and thudded on the concrete. Crap! At least she still had her gun.

“We know who you are, and we know the cops hate your guts. They’ll blame you if anything happens to us,” he replied.

How did he know about her fears?

Thumping footfalls sounded in the distance, growing closer by the second. She tensed, unsure what was about to happen, when—

Jude appeared in front of the vehicles, his hands balled like sledgehammers. He squared his shoulders and braced his legs apart, his posture rigid. A precombat stance. He wasn’t panting, but he was making some kind of low growling noise, as if he were a rabid animal who’d finally found a meal.

Commando likes the taste of blood. And oh, wow, she liked this side of him. In the moonlight, he was a god. A warrior without equal.

Still, her tension spiked. If he were hurt...

To her astonishment, Cigarette and Snake immediately backed up. Cigarette slid into the sedan, and Snake climbed behind the wheel of the van. All without a word. One after the other, the vehicles shot out of the parking lot.

Ryanne lunged forward, intending to follow. On foot? Idiot! But the girl...

Jude latched on to her wrist, keeping her in place. “Don’t,” he snapped. “You’ll only get yourself killed.”

Was he mad at her?

No, no. Couldn’t be. He was mad at the world. Always.

She swiped up her phone, intending to dial 911. Instead, she paused. “Who are they? Were they selling that girl?”

“They work for a man named Martin Dushku, and yes. They were selling that girl. Have been for the past two weeks.”

The answers hit her like twin jabs to the gut. Why would Mr. Dushku sell a girl on her property rather than his own?

To blame Ryanne and get her shut down? Why not call the cops on her, then?

Maybe he only wanted to scare her so she’d sell?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “And why didn’t you call the cops? We need to help that girl.”

“I know all about your history with the Blueberry Hill PD. And I was handling it. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

Had he tried and failed? “Clearly you weren’t handling it well enough.”

Malice radiated from him as he bared his teeth. The fact that they were straight and white made him no less intimidating. “You know there are Eastern European gangs in Texas, right? I dealt with them when I lived in Midland. They’ve migrated into Oklahoma, and like I said, the two assholes you threatened work for Martin Dushku, the guy building a club across the street. He isn’t known for his sharing and caring but his fervor to own everything. He’ll try to force you to sell or shut you down, whichever comes first.”

Gang members? Here? No freaking way.

Maybe Mr. Dushku wasn’t involved at all. He might have been a little creepy when he offered to buy her out, but he hadn’t been pushy. “How do you know this?” she asked, one brow arched. “Let’s face it. You could have arranged this little show in an attempt to scare me into hiring you.”

He stepped toward her, far more dangerous than Cigarette or Snake, and yet she wasn’t afraid. “I don’t want your business, Ryanne. I’ll never be your biggest fan, and I despise your bar. Frankly, I’d rather let it burn to the ground. If you weren’t friends with my friends, I would. And I know about Dushku because I investigate everyone who moves to my town.”

She believed him. One thing she couldn’t doubt—his loyalty to his friends, Brock Hudson and local hero Daniel Porter. The three had served in the military together, and had each other’s backs without fail.

And she wasn’t hurt by Jude’s I’ll never be your biggest fan crack. The man had terrible taste.

“I’m sorry,” she said, fear suddenly clawing at her insides. A gang had come to Oklahoma, and the leader wanted her bar. Her home.

She’d taken care of Earl here. Happy memories abounded. If something happened...

Who was she kidding? Something would happen. Martin Dushku and his associates were bad people, willing to do bad things. What if they hurt her patrons, innocent people who’d done nothing wrong?

Biting the inside of her cheek, she sheathed her gun and extended a shaky hand to Jude. “Congratulations, Mr. Laurent. You’re hired.”

CHAPTER TWO

JUDE LAURENT IGNORED the delicate hand being offered to him, his mind remaining on high alert. He’d provoked two predators tonight. At some point, both men would return, and they would act out in an attempt to save face.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he told Ryanne. “Nine a.m. We’ll go over details and prices then.”

Sputtering, she dropped her arm to her side. “Nine a.m.? No way, no how. I don’t go to bed until four a.m., and I’m never up before noon.”

“Nine a.m., Miss Wade.” When their meeting concluded, he’d have to make a two-hour drive to the city to purchase whatever equipment they’d agreed upon. And, to be perfectly blunt about the matter, he didn’t care if she got her beauty z’s or not. “Not a minute later, or you’ll be on your own with Dushku.”

A cool breeze blew in, caressing strands of inky hair over the delicate rise of her cheek. Motions clipped with irritation, she hooked the strands behind her ear. “Remind me who will be paying whom.”

“Remind me who will be saving whom.”

Now she anchored her fists on her hips, the picture of feminine pique. “Well, this is just freaking perfect, isn’t it. We’re not going to drive each other crazy at all.”

“If you do what I say, when I say, we’ll get along fine, guaranteed.”

She bristled, pricklier than a porcupine. Perhaps she believed he was acting like a hard-ass. Too bad. He wasn’t acting. People could take him or leave him. He didn’t care about that, either.

“How about we split the difference and meet at ten thirty?” Once again she offered him a fine-boned hand. “Deal?”

This time, ignoring her hand proved more difficult. Her nails were square-tipped, painted soft pink and glittered in the moonlight. A surprise. As tough—and sexy—as she was, he expected bloodred or jet-black.

A series of calluses marred the tips of her fingers, and on her wrist was a small but elaborate tattoo. An antique lock without a key, surrounded by emerald ivy, as if her arm had a hidden doorway to paradise.

His wayward gaze traveled over the rest of her, unbidden, as if drawn by an irresistible force. Her hourglass figure sizzled with carnality, and he suspected everyone who’d ever looked at her imagined her stripped naked and spread over a bed. Or any flat surface, really.

He certainly had, and he hated himself for it. Desire Ryanne Wade? No. Hell, no. The twenty-five-year-old single woman was the bane of his existence: a bar owner who threatened his control. But he’d told her the truth. His friends loved her. She was close to Dorothea Mathis, who was engaged to one of his buds, Daniel Porter. She was also close to Lyndie Scott, who was desired by Brock Hudson, Jude’s only other bud.

That made Ryanne Wade a double whammy.

At the end of the day, Jude would do anything for Daniel and Brock, who had served with him overseas, saving his hide more times than he could count. Which was why he’d added their names to the massive tattoo on his chest.