Can't Let Go

  "It's perfectly legal to put cameras in the hallway outside a bathroom. Also, you need at least two men at the front door. Someone to monitor who enters, and someone to monitor who exits. The latter can issue Breathalyzer tests to anyone planning to drive."

  A customer signaled her from the other end of the bar, but Ryanne held up a finger, asking for a moment. "Hello. I'm a walking Breathalyzer. And as much time as you've spent here, you should know it. The things you're suggesting will only tick off loyal patrons, costing me business and money."

  Every spare cent she made went into her travel fund.

  As a little girl, she'd escaped her rocky home life inside the pages of travel books, imagining she was somewhere--anywhere--else. Now she longed to visit those places for real.

  Last week, she'd purchased her first ticket. In two months, twenty-eight days and seven hours, she would be on a first-class flight to Rome, where she would spend four weeks biking through the city and its surrounding countryside, touring the Vatican, oohing and ahhing over famous artwork, eating fresh cheese and homemade pasta, and tasting wine at different vineyards.

  Muscles jumped beneath Jude's navy blues. "For Ryanne Wade, monetary profit comes before other people's lives. Got it." He turned on his booted heel and stalked away.

  Dang him! He always had to have the last word. But...was he right about something bad happening in the parking lot?

  She hustled to the waiting customer and, for the next hour, managed to push Jude from her thoughts as she mixed drinks. It was Saturday, but only 6:30 p.m. Still, the bar was crowded, her waitresses rushing from table to table.

  After her full-time bartender, Sutter, clocked in, Ryanne made the rounds, making sure customers were happy and no crimes were being committed. The regulars smiled and waved at her.

  Most came from Strawberry Valley, where she'd lived the bulk of her life.

  Her mother, born and raised in Mexico, had moved to the United States to marry a Texan. However, the two soon divorced, and a pregnant Selma Wade--once Selma Martinez, now Selma Wade-Lewis-Scott-Hernandez-Montgomery--moved to Oklahoma City, where she later met and married a prominent Blueberry Hill businessman. Like husband number one, he hadn't kept her attention long, and she'd divorced him in favor of marrying a pillar of the Strawberry Valley community. When those two divorced, Selma married Earl, another Strawberry Valley resident, only a far less reputable one. All too soon she'd divorced him, as well. She dated around before marrying her fifth husband and moving to Colorado, where she still lived.

  That's when newly minted eighteen-year-old Ryanne made the quality decision to move in with Earl, her third stepfather. He'd owned the bar, but he'd had trouble running it after his cancer diagnosis. And though she'd come here to help him, the wonderful man had helped her, supporting and encouraging her the way a father should, even when people accused him of falling for a "cheap Lolita."

  A pang in her chest, Ryanne blew a kiss to his picture, which hung above the bar, right alongside postcards of every country she'd ever dreamed of visiting. Greece. Egypt. Finland. Iceland. Actually, all the lands! Ireland, Greenland, Switzerland, the Netherlands, Thailand, and England. Australia. Africa. Costa Rica. France. Germany. Israel. China. Mexico. Russia. The Virgin Islands. Basically, she planned to travel from one end of the earth to the other, and everywhere in between.

  Throughout the rest of the building, she'd preserved Earl's country-western motif. The walls had patches of exposed brick, and above the dance floor were the words Wild West, every letter surrounded by colorful neon lights. For bar stools, saddles were welded to metal bases. In the corner, swinging saloon doors partitioned off the bathroom hallway.

  Do you have any idea what's going on in the parking lot?

  Jude's words rolled through her mind, and curiosity got the better of her. With her favorite .44 holstered inside her boot, she marched to the rear exit. In the alley, cool night air couldn't mask the pungent scent of garbage due to be dumped. The overripe smell hadn't driven away the people who sat along the wall.

  At the end of every shift, she liked to give leftover food to the homeless, and word had spread.

  "Hey, guys," she said with a wave. "Anyone seen anything suspicious going on out here lately?"

  A man known only as Loner stood to wobbly legs. Dirt streaked his skin and caked his hair while stains littered his ragged clothing. Her heart ached for the man. She didn't know his story, only knew his eyes were dulled by hopelessness. Life had given up on him, and he'd given up on life.

  "There's been a young man skulking through the shadows," he said. "Tall, blond. Looks constipated all the time. We thought he worked for you 'cause he paid us to report any drug sightings or--" Loner tugged at his collar "--flesh peddlin'."

  Constipated? Only Jude. The man hated every second of his existence.

  Why did Jude care what happened on her property, anyway? Why did he think people were selling drugs and sex? Oh...crap. What if people were selling drugs and sex? Acid churned in her stomach, quickly burning a path up her throat.

  "And did you have to report anything to him?" she asked.

  Loner shifted from one foot to the other. "Past few nights, different men have climbed inside a van and, uh, it started rocking soon after. Those men took off about fifteen minutes later." Again he pulled at his collar. "Not sure if no money was exchanged, though."

  Poo on a stick!

  Ryanne had heard so much cursing on a daily basis, she'd decided to keep her words and thoughts, like, superclassy. Snort.

  She sooo did not want to call the cops about this. While she loved the hardworking, honorable men and women who worked for the Strawberry Valley PD, she didn't fall under their jurisdiction. Instead, Blueberry Hill PD would be sent out, and one of their officers--Jim Rayburn--wanted her shut down by fair means or foul. Sometimes he showed up at the bar to card and question her patrons. Other times he pulled them over for suspicion of drunk driving. Ryanne suspected Jim was the one who'd written "Ryanne Wade is a slut" and "For a good whore call Ryanne Wade" on the men's room wall.

  He despised her, all because she'd helped her friend and ex-stepsister Lyndie Scott leave her husband, Chief Carrington, Jim's former boss.

  The abuses the chief inflicted on the delicate Lyndie, turning a buoyant young girl into a woman with crippling shyness and constant panic attacks... For the first and only time in her life, Ryanne had contemplated cold-blooded murder.

  A jealous husband did it for her, giving the beater and cheater a taste of his own medicine. In Jim's mind, Lyndie and Ryanne were responsible. What if he blamed the sex and drugs on Ryanne? What if he jailed her?

  Can't risk calling for help. "Thank you, Loner. Please report any other shady activity to me instead of the constipated man. Okay?"

  He nodded. Determined to hunt down the van, she surged into the crammed parking lot. As she wove in and out, peeking into windows, the loud wail of a jackhammer registered. Her gaze zoomed across the street, where halogen lights were posted around a construction site.

  Not too long ago, a man named Martin Dushku had come to see her. Though he'd had violent tattoos on his neck and hands, he'd worn a sophisticated suit that probably cost more than her SUV.

  He was opening a strip club nearby, he'd said, and hoped she wouldn't mind having competition.

  She'd smiled and said, "What competition? I run a bar, not a strip club." Besides, economic theory suggested two competing businesses being located right across from one another was actually better for each business, because the competition fueled more activity and therefore more business.

  He'd laughed. "And your place is low end while mine will be high end. But," he'd added, "I'd prefer to buy you out and run both businesses, which would free you up to travel."

  Her desire to travel wasn't a secret, but he'd still managed to creep her out. She'd refused his offer. She wanted to travel, yes, but she also wanted a home to return to, something she hadn't had as a child. More specifically Earl's home. A
lso, she enjoyed providing meals for the homeless. Mr. Dushku struck her as the type of man who would treat the less fortunate like dirt.

  She'd expected a fight, but he'd accepted her refusal gracefully and taken off.

  Mind on the task at hand. He's not my worry tonight.

  Right. Almost done. Only a few more cars to check. In fact, she was about to breathe a sigh of relief that there was no sign of the van or foul play when she came to a shadowed corner in back, with only two vehicles. One--a van. The other was a sedan. Her stomach sank. Both vehicles had tinted windows and, just as Loner reported, the van rocked back and forth.

  What should I do?

  Light suddenly flooded the sedan, allowing her to lock eyes with the man behind the wheel. He was smoking a cigarette, casual and unabashed. Beside him sat a man with a snake tattooed on his jaw.

  I should...run? They had to be pimps or bodyguards, because their charge was clearly doling out goods and services in the van.

  Run? No! Fury sparked inside Ryanne, tempered only by dismay.

  Calling the cops was no longer a should-she-shouldn't-she situation. She should. She would. First, she needed proof of her innocence, just in case Rayburn tried to turn the tables on her. So, despite possible dangers, Ryanne withdrew her phone and took pictures of the men and the license plate on both vehicles. No one would be pinning a crime on her.

  When she stood at the rear, the passengers decided now would be the perfect time to emerge. Well, crap. She began to stream a live video on her phone. A weapon in and of itself: it proved her innocence, while ensuring the guys couldn't do anything violent without a boatload of witnesses.

  "Say hello to the world," she said, and grabbed her gun as a just in case.

  Cigarette was over six feet tall while Snake topped out at about five-five. Both males were muscled, heavily tattooed and glaring at her.

  Ryanne stood her ground. How many times had she been forced to break up fights involving big, scary men? Countless.

  Cigarette slapped a hand against the van, once, twice, and it stopped rocking.

  "You and your crimes aren't welcome here." She was proud. Her voice, like the rest of her, held steady. "Leave, and don't come back."

  Snake looked her over slowly, leered and licked his lips. "You might want to watch your mouth, little girl. You don't, and bad things are likely to happen."

  "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 str
ands 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.

  They, along with a rare few others, were the only people who mattered to him.

  Jude forced his gaze to lift at last, meeting rich brown eyes so often filled with joy he could no longer understand. Those eyes were framed by curling dark lashes somehow sweet and sultry at once. Long raven hair surrounded a face that belonged in a movie. She had smoky eyes, high cheekbones, a pert nose and pouty red lips.