Can't Let Go--A Bad Boy Romance Read online

  “Tell me about her,” he said, to keep her talking and distracted.

  “Well, she’s ruthless but adorable. Destructive but cuddly. She hisses when I pet her, but glares at me when I don’t. More than once she has perched in my lap, purred happily, then bitten my finger when I reached for her.”

  Her description amused him, which irritated him. Desiring Ryanne Wade was one thing. Constantly being amused by her—charmed by her—was another matter entirely. “Basically she’s you in feline form,” he grumbled.

  Her lips quirked at the corners, as he’d intended, and some of the tension left her. “Maybe she is. But unlike Belle, I haven’t bitten anyone. Yet.”

  An image flashed through his mind. One of Ryanne on her knees before him, her straight white teeth nibbling on his inner thigh...as she worked her way up to his shaft.

  He cursed and made a mental note to call his doctor, and beg, if necessary, for the surgery to take place this week. No waiting until October.

  “Where are your towels?” he asked with a little more force than he’d intended.

  “Right here.” Ryanne tossed him the desired item.

  He cleaned the rest of the kittens, then used the suction bulb to remove any excess mucus from each baby’s nose and mouth. While he worked, Belle birthed two more babies, making seven total.

  After she expelled the placentas, he took care of the newest additions, then helped the entire group feed from Belle. “They’ll want to—and need to—eat a full meal every one to three hours. You’ll need to make sure Belle is fed as well, so she keeps up her strength. Wet food will be easier for her to digest.”

  “Me?” Ryanne squeaked. “On my own?”

  “Who else? Unless you have a roommate I don’t know about.”

  “Maybe I’m like Cinderella and live with talking mice.”

  “Say goodbye to those mice. They’ll be a nice snack for Belle.”

  “Good, then there will be plenty of room for you to move in and help me. Just for a few days.”

  The thought of spending even one night here...

  Every muscle in his body tensed. “Nope. You’re on your own.”

  What little color Ryanne had regained suddenly vanished, leaving her waxen. He almost shouted, Never mind, I’ve changed my mind, I’ll stay as long as you need me.

  As gently as possible he moved Belle and her crew to a clean blanket. Then he ushered Ryanne into the living room, where he urged her to settle on the couch.

  “Breathe in, out,” he instructed as he pushed her head between her legs. Hard to believe this was the same woman who’d so boldly yanked him close for a world-rocking kiss. “Good, that’s good.” When he realized he was tracing his fingers down the length of her spine, he ended the contact and gripped his knees. “Better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Her voice was weak, thready.

  He headed to the kitchen, washed up and dug through the cabinets until he found a glass. The first time he filled it, he drained the contents. The second time, he returned to the living room and crouched at Ryanne’s feet.

  The position hurt his knees, but he hid a grimace and said, “Here. Drink.”

  Radiating concern, she jackknifed into a sitting position and patted the area beside her. “I’ll drink. You sit.”

  She was so aware of him she’d noticed his discomfort?

  He eased onto the couch, careful to maintain a bit of distance—nearing her had been a mistake. Her sweet scent teased him, beckoning him closer. “Tell me about your upcoming travels,” he said in an effort to distract them both.

  Slight tremors shook her as she drained the water and clutched the empty glass to her chest. “I’ve never even been to another state, but I plan to travel the world. I’ll be starting with Rome. I leave in roughly three months, and I’ll be gone for four weeks.”

  Four weeks without her smile? Something dark razed his chest. Ignore it! “Why did you select Rome for your first outing?”

  “Honestly? There are so many places I want to go, I ended up spinning a globe and pressing my finger into a random location.”

  “The globe served you well. You’ll fall in love with Italy. The Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Piazza Navona. St. Peter’s Dome. The churches. The Vatican. Museums. The food.”

  “You’ve been?” Excitement pulsed from her, and she leaned toward him. “Tell me everything!”

  The urge to reach out, comb his fingers through her hair, smoothing the errant strands from her cheeks, bombarded him. No doubt she would misconstrue the offer of comfort. And rightly so.

  Comfort? Ha!

  “I took my family while I was on leave. Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel blew my mind.”

  Her dreamy sigh left him breathless.

  He added, “Be sure to stand at the top of the Castel Sant’Angelo. There’s a spectacular view of Vatican City and the Tiber, and you can see the Ponte Sant’Angelo with Bernini’s carved marble angels.”

  “Sounds absolutely heavenly.” Her eyes closed, as if she were imagining every location, a smile playing at her lips.

  Desire—and his lack of resistance—nearly gutted him. He’d seen that look once before, after they’d kissed.

  His muscles clenched, his entire being ready to give and to take. To possess. For a moment, he let his mind revel in what could be. He would strip her, strip himself and give her everything they both wanted. Passion, pleasure. Connection.

  They would stay in bed until she left for Rome.

  As if his desire for her could be satiated in three months. Please. It was planted too deeply, the roots too strong. He had a sinking suspicion every touch would only make him want more of her.

  In his mind, and this stolen moment, she would invite him to travel with her. He would say yes, and experience her delight as he escorted her to all his favorite places. He would make love to her on hilltops, verandas and, hell, against any flat surface he could find.

  Longing joined desire, a double punch to his solar plexus. He popped his jaw, killing a groan. He had no business feeling this way, even in his fantasies, and he wouldn’t stand for it. Returning to Italy without his girls would be too painful.

  “Uh-oh.” Ryanne tsk-tsked, watching him through hooded lids. “You’re thinking about our kiss, aren’t you?” She leaned toward him, as if she had a secret to impart. “Guess what. So am I.”

  In an instant, his shaft hardened beneath his fly. “I most certainly wasn’t thinking about our kiss,” he grated, only to admit, “Not anymore.”

  “Too bad.” Folding her legs underneath her, she offered him an innocent smile. The seductress knew how to play demure. Noted. “We should probably discuss what happened between us...and how it’s going to happen again.”

  He fisted the edge of the couch—don’t reach for her, don’t you dare reach—and swallowed the barbed lump in his throat. Another mistake. The barbs sliced and diced his stomach. “I don’t want to be with you, so there’s nothing more to say.”

  Hurt crossed her features, then suspicion. Her gaze roved over him, seeming to burn through his clothing. Satisfaction radiated from her. “Well, well. The man who says he never lies is lying. You’re hard as a rock right now.”

  Not so demure anymore, was she. No other woman would dare point out the battering ram in his pants. “You’re right, so let me rephrase. I don’t want to want you.” Not her, not anyone. Constance was no longer the last woman he’d kissed, but she would be the last woman he’d slept with.

  Why are you so determined to get that vasectomy, then, hmm?

  The dark something returned, only sharper.

  “I like you, cowboy, and I like spending time with you.” She traced her fingertip along the seam between his lips, then his scar, dragging a moan from his deepest depths. “I’m not looking for anything serious or long-ter
m. I just—”

  “Stop.” Please. Already his mouth watered for another taste of her, and his hands itched to touch her every luscious inch. Need and want clawed at him, his newly awakened body throbbing. “You’re a bar owner. The bane of the world.”

  He expected another flash of hurt, or a flinch. A curse or a slap. Instead, she offered him a gentle smile, as if she understood the worst of his pain, and said, “Conversation isn’t going to help either of us. We need to act first and think later.”

  True to her word, she flattened her palm on his chest, the heat of her seeping through his shirt. Jude jumped to his feet. He had to leave. He had to leave now. Withstanding her charm had been difficult. Withstanding her touch would be impossible.

  Silent now, he stalked to the door.

  She called, “Don’t walk away from this, Jude. Give me a chance to prove we’re good together.”

  His step faltered, but he didn’t look back and he didn’t stop.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PERHAPS I CAME on too strong?

  Ryanne didn’t see Jude for nine days. He failed to report for bouncer duty, always sending Daniel or Brock in his stead.

  The first day, she almost called or texted a thousand times to reprimand him. I’m paying for your services, not theirs! Like a big girl—or superhero, yeah, definitely a superhero—she controlled herself and only texted him once, and only to return to their light, teasing relationship.

  Want to go swimming with me, praised one? The pool at the Strawberry Inn is ready to go. I promise to wear my swimsuit...most of the time.

  He never responded. No matter, though. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her absentee employee monitored the bar from afar...and his cameras clocked her every move.

  Bad, naughty boy. She decided to teach him a valuable lesson. You can run from your desire, but you can’t hide from it.

  And he did desire her. For him to stay away this long...yeah, he had to be tempted by her, and fear he couldn’t resist.

  A slow grin bloomed.

  Throughout the week, Ryanne did everything in her power to vamp it up for Mr. Peeping Tom. At first, she was a little shy about it. Like she’d told Jude, she’d never tried to seduce a man before. For goodness’ sake, she was still a virgin! But honestly? Over the years, she’d seen other women go all out, so she knew what to do—and soon she grew to love the chase. Also, she discovered she had a talent for it. Maybe because she wanted Jude in a way she’d never wanted another man—desperately, madly.

  Day one was all about the hair flip. Slow, sensual and just like a shampoo commercial. Day two, she practiced her shimmy. Any time she had an opportunity to shake her butt, she shook her freaking butt. Day three, she focused on her cleavage. Or rather, she made certain Jude focused on her cleavage. She wore a low-cut top, her breasts pushed up until she was pretty sure she’d asphyxiate. Day four, she put her finger to her mouth at every opportunity. A lick here, a nibble there. Day five, she forgot to wear a bra. Oops!

  A text came in early that evening.

  Cowboy: Stop this!

  Ryanne replied: Make me.

  Cowboy: How can you be so at ease...so happy and carefree when your livelihood is at stake?

  I choose to focus on the good. Give it a try, cowboy. You might like it.

  Annnd once again he opted not to respond.

  For day six, she decided to up her game, and wore a short skirt but no panties. Walking to her office, when no one else stood in the hallway, she accidentally dropped a pen and bent down to pick it up.

  Her phone buzzed, but she didn’t check the text until she sat behind her desk, no cameras nearby.

  Cowboy: I think you dropped something else.

  A laugh bubbled from her. Grumpy Jude Laurent had just teased her sexually!

  Soon after the exchange, Brock had stormed into her office and snapped, “Whatever you’re doing to Jude, stop. He’s miserable.”

  Miserable...without me? A girl could hope. “Sorry, but the blame for his misery can’t be heaped on my amazing shoulders. I’m not doing anything wrong.” Well, maybe the light torturing wasn’t right, but it was for his own good!

  “Exactly! You’re not doing anything. So call him for phone sex. Text him nudes. I’m happy to be your photographer. Maybe wear nothing but a smile and a temporary tattoo—and definitely make sure I’m home when you do. Just get your ass in gear and do something. The past has a knife at Jude’s throat, leaving him in a constant state of fight or flight. He either needs to be sliced, or released. Limbo sucks.”

  In other words, he’d gotten stuck in survival mode.

  She wanted to help, but how?

  When Dorothea first crushed on Daniel, she’d had to overcome his PTSD before a relationship could work. He’d worried about falling for her and then losing her, about being unstable, unable to sleep without having violent nightmares, and disappointing his family if their relationship tanked. Jude had served as an army ranger, too, and clearly suffered from his own form of PTSD, but Ryanne suspected his deepest worries and fears began and ended with the family he’d lost.

  Realization slapped her upside the head: being with Jude, even for a little while, would require major time and energy—from Ryanne. Look how much she’d had to give already. Why pour so much of herself into a temporary fling?

  Because...just because! Jude wasn’t just a pretty face or hot body, though he certainly had both. Actually, no. He didn’t have a pretty face; he had an interesting face, and it was sexy beyond imagining. He was smart, witty despite his sadness and fierce about protecting the people under his care. He had a good heart. No, a great heart. He deserved to be happy, dang it.

  The rest of the day, he texted her on and off, but only ever to ask about Belle and the kittens. Brett had checked on the new family just this morning, and had given everyone a clean bill of health.

  As Belle recovered from the birth of her litter, she revealed different nuances of her personality. The little darling was more mischievous than Ryanne had realized.

  Eight a.m. was her favorite time to walk across Ryanne’s face. Belle loved a certain brand of food, until Ryanne bought a new bag. Then she hated it. She wanted to play with the laptop, but only when Ryanne had to work. If she could knock something down, she knocked it down without hesitation. If the toppled items shattered, even better.

  When Belle—or Hells Bells, as Ryanne had affectionately nicknamed her—was back to her pre-pregnancy self, she would destroy everything in her path, guaranteed, the way Jude was destroying Ryanne’s peace of mind.

  Days seven and eight, Jude opted to ignore her again, so she decided to disregard the cameras...and ended up agonizing about her cowboy. What if she’d miscalculated his desire for her? After all, he’d run away from her like a Victorian maiden afraid of ruining her rep. What if Brock had things wrong, and Jude was miserable because Ryanne had come on to him, and he didn’t want to hurt her?

  Or did he fight his attraction to her because a drunk driver killed his family, and Ryanne just happened to schlepp drinks?

  I don’t want to want you. You’re a bar owner. The bane of the world.

  Yeah. That. Somehow, she had to prove she was more than her job.

  For Ryanne, no other man would do.

  She took her place behind the bar, helping Sutter serve drinks to the steady influx of customers. It was time to resume Jude’s torture. This was day nine.

  Maybe she’d call him, strike up a sexy conversation filled with innuendos?

  Old Coot approached, saying, “’Nother CockaMoon, please.”

  “How about a coffee?” The bar had been open only a few hours, but he’d already reached his limit.

  “Add whiskey to that coffee and you’ve got a deal.”

  “A splash of whiskey.” She checked the video o
n the baby monitor she kept with her at all times, allowing her to spy on Belle and her kittens. The little milk mongrels had finally opened their eyes. Soon they would be crawl-machines, causing nothing but trouble. And okay, okay, probably delight.

  “Deal. Hey, are you gonna sing?”

  “Not tonight, but maybe next week.” Her emotions were too raw, her longing for Jude too great, and if anyone picked up on it—especially Jude himself—she would die of embarrassment.

  “Well, sheet. You don’t ever sing no more, which is a cryin’ shame ’cause you got the pipes of an angel.”

  She poured herself a shot of whiskey, and quickly downed it. Rinse, repeat. The alcohol burned going down, but settled nicely in her stomach.

  A text came in, and she checked her phone.

  Cowboy: Stop drinking on the job.

  Defiant, Ryanne poured another shot, saluted the nearest camera and drank.

  “Miss Ryanne?” Coot asked, and swayed on his feet. “What about my whiskey?”

  Whoa. He’d had three CockaMoons, and he was wasted? Worse, she’d agreed to give him more alcohol.

  No way, no how.

  She could guess what happened. He’d brought two marine buddies tonight, and had snuck sips of their moonshines.

  She finished off the bottle of whiskey. “Sorry, Coot, but I just ran out.”

  He pouted.

  His friends joined him, and they, too, were swaying. Both males were in their late sixties. One had a comb-over, while the other had a full head of silver hair. Deep-seated wrinkles spoke of time spent in the sun, an abundance of laughter and lives lived rather than sidelined.

  “Who’s the designated?” she asked, filling a mug with coffee.

  The three shared a look, all what’s a designated driver?

  Lord save me. Two more coffees, coming up.

  “Come on, Twigs. There’s another bar about fifteen miles away.” Silver ignored the steaming mug she offered him. “Let’s go.”

  Twigs? There was no way she was letting any of these guys get behind the wheel of a car. “Hold up a sec, gentlemen.” Ryanne leaned forward, her forearms pressed against the bar, allowing her biceps to smash her breasts together to create more noticeable cleavage. Though the men were not looking at her eyes, she batted her lashes. “Coot mentioned you served together in the military, and I’d love to hear the story behind the nickname Twigs.”