Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter

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       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.

      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.

      Beauty, brains and bravery. The whole package.

      “Well?” she demanded. “Judging by your silence, I can only guess you’re blown away by my brilliance.”

      “I’ll meet you at nine a.m. and not a minute later,” he croaked. Then he backed away, and motioned for her to get her ass inside. Any time she brought her “sassy tone” into a conversation, he had only one option: retreat. That tone twisted him up, and sometimes even hollowed him out.

      She stood in place for a long while, different emotions sweeping over her exquisite features. Anger, irritation, frustration, but finally resolve. Decided his services were worth the hassle, after all?

      When she trudged into the bar, he followed close on her heels. As he moved, phantom pains shot through the calf he no longer possessed. He should go home, remove his prosthesis and relax for the first time in...never mind. СКАЧАТЬ