Despite her—or because of her—he pushed himself to his limits, wanting to get the job settled as soon as possible. As soon as he finished installations, he would make Brock front man. That way, Brock would receive a notice when something went wrong at the bar, and Jude could finally wipe Ryanne from his mind.
Already he’d spoken to Martin Dushku, who’d thrown more shade than a decades-old oak. He’d lied with a smile, misdirected with ease and hid his threats behind false concern.
Jude felt sorry for the man’s wife. The pair had been together for thirty-one years and had two adult children. A twenty-seven-year-old son named Filip and a twenty-three-year-old daughter named Paulina; they also had a four-year-old grandchild named Thomas.
Filip, Thomas’s father, was in prison for manslaughter, with only a year left on his sentence. Interestingly enough, Jude had been unable to find any mention of Thomas’s mother.
When Jude had first walked onto the construction site, two goons had closed in fast to frisk him, as he’d known they would. Of course, they hadn’t found the small metal pins sheathed in the heels of his boots. More than that, Jude himself was a weapon. He could turn any innocent object into a weapon, as well. An ink pen, a keyboard. A paper clip. A chair.
After coming up empty, the men escorted him into a luxurious trailer, where Dushku perched behind a desk. The conversation had been short and anything but sweet.
“Both the Scratching Post and its owner are under my protection,” Jude had said. “You won’t like what happens if you harm them. And keep your stable off Ryanne’s property. The next time someone sells a ride at the Scratching Post, a live stream will be the least of your troubles.”
Dushku had chuckled, not the least bit intimidated. “You must be mistaken. I value women and would never take part in prostitution. And I certainly wouldn’t do so on Miss Wade’s property. I’ve heard about her problems with the local PD.” He’d sighed, as if weary. “If sex and drugs are being sold at the Scratching Post, I’m sure authorities will believe Miss Wade is the one responsible.”
“I didn’t say anything about drugs,” Jude had grated.
The man’s amusement had bloomed into a smirk. “I’ve already looked into you, Mr. Laurent. You were a good soldier once. A husband and father. Now you’re a cripple with nothing to lose—except another leg.”
Behind him, one of the guards had snickered. “What do you call a man with one leg? A pogo stick.”
Laughter had abounded while Jude simmered in his seat. Rage and grief had bubbled in his chest; the two emotions were always there, rooted deep in his heart, but some days were worse than others. How dare this scumbag mention Constance and the twins!
“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