Asha glanced about the room in a disinterested fashion, her hair rippling like silk down her finely arched spine. Golden brown: Jago deemed that label pathetically inadequate. Asha’s locks shimmered with a thousand golds, fiery to pale auburns and vibrant browns. That mane provoked an appetite to see it spread across a pillow as he drove himself into her slick, welcoming body, to feel it draped and cool over his burning skin. A hunger that would force a throwback like him to howl.
A wicked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when the jukebox changed tunes and the singer began ah-ooing about “The Werewolf of London.” Given a British passport was in the glove box of his leased Jeep Cherokee, and the fact Asha provoked him to consider howling, he chalked one up for odd quirks of fate and timing.
It was fascinating to observe the emotional shifts on male faces as they watched Asha pass. Clearly, they wanted her. Oh, did they want her! Nonetheless, Jago doubted any would approach her. She stared men in the eye, dismissing them with a bat of her long lashes with a poise that would send all but the most voracious meat eaters running. They would look her up and down and lick their chops, but the power, the regnancy radiating from her would humble all. Most would feel guilty for even daring to look, to wish, knowing they were unworthy. Only sheer morons with nothing to lose would take the risk.
Or a man as assured of himself as Jago.
Asha’s aloof scan of the dining room finally reached him. Her tawny-brown eyes widened as their stares collided. The witchy force of those cat eyes rocked him, stole his breath. Lightning sizzled along his nerves as the odd moment in time lengthened. All else faded. Never had he felt so connected to anyone.
Then, with a sweep of her lashes, she pretended not to notice him.
“Nice try, Asha,” he said under his breath, then took a long draw of his beer to kill his parched throat. Jago Luxovius Fitzgerald Mershan, you’re one lucky sonofabitch—or cursed, he mused.
Asha spoke to the hostess, her words lost to restaurant chatter. Evidently, she requested the blinds be dropped, for the woman did just that, plunging the diner into shadow. Asha went ahead and seated herself in a booth about halfway back, on the side opposite of the long row of windows.
Jago’s position on the stool at the counter was dead center on the aisle, affording him a splendid show. Oh yeah, this Scottish miss had one sweet ass! The way she moved sent his blood into a low, rocking thrum, similar to a Harley-Davidson jump-starting in his chest. Yep, that’s what Asha reminded him of—his classic ’67 Harley Electra Glide in black—all sleek curves and lines, created so a man craved to climb on for the ride of his life. He contemplated if Asha made love Harley-style: zero to a hundred mph in the blink of an eye.
It would be riding thunder.
He nearly laughed aloud, realizing if he told her that—in all sincerity meaning it as the ultimate compliment—she’d probably deck him. Only a man would think comparing a woman to a Harley—not just any bike, mind you, but a Harley—was the highest praise. He recalled that old Robert Palmer song “Bang a Gong,” and the stanza about a woman being built like a truck. Females just didn’t get what Palmer wailed about. Men did. It was one of those Men are From Mars kind of stalemates. Few things born of man could bring Jago to his knees faster than a vintage Harley or the perfect woman.
And Asha Montgomerie, without a doubt, was the perfect woman. A man’s hottest fantasy come to life. His fantasy for far too long. Over the years he had studied dozens of photos of her. Then back in May at her grandfather’s funeral in England, he’d seen her from a distance. Brief glimpses that little prepared him for the up close effect this woman had on his system. It took all his control not to get to his feet, go to her, put a hand behind her neck and devour that small, pouty mouth.
Jago wanted her as he’d never wanted a woman before. Without hesitation he’d take her, possess her, brand her and never look back. Damning all consequences. Because like her, he too was a throwback. Too bad he was here to tear her safe, secure world apart. Before the dust settled, she’d likely hate his guts, despise him just as powerfully as he craved her.
Jago prayed he didn’t destroy them both before it was done.
CHAPTER TWO
Asha stared at the menu—not that she needed to read it. The Windmill served Cajun gumbo on Thursday, fresh halibut on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, a grilled New York strip that would melt in your mouth every day of the week, along with BLTs, club sandwiches and burgers and fries. She was aware Kentucky catfish was no longer a specialty on the menu, thanks to the sprawling suburban population of Lexington polluting the Kentucky River with their sewage. She knew the prices. Wouldn’t have to ask for availability. Small wonder since she ordered the food supplies each week.
She usually ate after the supper crowd thinned for the evening. Only, she had spent the day on the horse farm and was now ravenous, even though it was barely five. She’d eat early and be ready to handle the cash register, leaving Rhonda free to concentrate on seating customers as they shuffled in.
The long fingernails of her left hand tapped out a restless rhythm on the Formica tabletop while she feigned attention with the plastic covered menu. Asha tried to block out the man sitting at the counter, drinking a beer. Her eyes had spotted him the instant she came in, though she affected pretense that she hadn’t. Inside, her heart bounced against her ribs with a bruising force. Men like him were hard to miss. A female sensed their presence as much as saw them, some basic animalistic instinct that set off alarms.
“What’ll you have, Boss Lady?” Netta asked, setting a glass of ice water on a paper coaster. With a grin, she pulled a Bic pen from behind her ear, popped her gum, and waited.
“You ever wonder why we put paper coasters under our drinks when it’s a Formica top?” Asha asked blandly. She knew Netta was waiting for more than her order. The waitress wanted to gossip about Mr. Tall, Dark and Potently Sexy sitting on the stool.
Netta shrugged. “The Windmill has always put paper coasters under glasses.” She snapped her gum again and lifted her eyebrows. “You know what happens if you try to change anything around here. More than the natives get restless.”
Ignoring the comment, Asha folded the menu and handed it to the blonde. “New York strip, medium-rare, and a salad with French dressing. I’m famished.”
Netta spun exaggeratedly on her New Balance sneakers, her eyes sweeping over the man at the counter. “Hmm . . . I’m famished, too.” Giving Asha a wink, she took the order to the small window to the kitchen. She attached the ticket to the wheel, spun it around for Sam, then dinged the bell to get his attention.
The stranger on the stool again drew Asha’s gaze, compelled her to look at him. Dared her to look at him. She tried to mask her glance, nonchalant, as though bored and seeking diversion, letting it sweep the whole room until it finally reached him. She failed. Their eyes locked and Asha nearly flinched as she felt the focus of his mind. A throb of radiant sexuality sent a shiver of physical awareness through her body, slamming into her womb with a force she’d never experienced.
This man unnerved her. Rarely did men do that to her. Actually, no man had. With her intense catlike eyes, she could look down her nose and set even the strongest ones to feeling like slugs. The ability was second nature to her, she turned on the frost and glared as if he were something she’d stepped in.
As a rule, that sent them running. Not this one. As though he not only knew the rules to the game, but also had a cheat sheet, the stranger leaned back against the counter with a wolfish grin and looked his fill. Not even pretending to do anything else, he just stared at her. It was damn unsettling. She couldn’t even pretend to gaze out the windows at the pastoral scenery of the horse farm across the road; she’d asked Rhonda to close the blinds against the harsh afternoon glare.
“Here you go.” Netta set an iced Pepsi, a salad and a basket of rolls before her. She stepped so that her body blocked Asha from the stranger’s view. “You know that man at the counter?”
; Thankful Netta had given her the perfect excuse for taking her eyes from the invader, Asha broke a roll and buttered it. “What man?”
Netta gave a mocking laugh and popped her gum a couple times. “Nice try, sugarplum. Men like that are impossible not to notice.”
“Never saw him before in my life.” Asha sipped the cola. Oh, she would remember this man had they met.
A master gossip, Netta excelled at knowing when to tell all, when to hint. With her smart mouth and flashing baby-blue eyes, she’d charm a person’s life history from them in a wink. The Windmill likely had higher profits this past year and a long line of regulars due to Netta’s down-home charm. What she knew about the stranger would be forthcoming.
The only way to play the game, Asha mused, was to answer a question with a question. “Why would you think I know him?”
“Sexy Lips has a foreign accent. British I think, like yours. Gives a gal shivers.” Netta hugged herself and then chewed her gum. “Also, I get this sense he was waiting for something . . . maybe you. My granny knew things. She passed that on to me.”
“Steak’s up, Netta,” Sam, their cook, called through the open space, setting a plate up on the warmer.
“Back in two shakes.” Netta went to pick up the inch-thick steak and returned to place it before Asha. “Eat up, sugarplum.” She glanced sideways at the black-haired visitor and raised her eyebrows. “Looks like you’re gonna need all your strength.”
“I sure enjoyed that dinner. You tell Sam that, eh, Asha?” Melvin Jackson said, picking up a peppermint from the bowl at the side of the register. He unwrapped the cellophane and then popped the candy into his mouth, waiting for her to ring up his ticket.
Sam poked his head up in the small window. “Sam heard your big mouth flappin’. So, you liked the gumbo?”
Melvin patted his round stomach. “Damn fine meal—though just a pinch too much sassafras and not enough filé powder.”
“Bah. It was perfect.” Sam frowned and waved in dismissal. “My granny, born down on the Bayou Teche, was teaching me how to make gumbo while you were barely an itch in your daddy’s britches, you old coot.”
“Who’s an old coot?” Jackson snapped, though it was with a twinkle in his eye.
Asha counted out Melvin’s change, only half listening to the routine these two went through every Thursday night. Each week, Melvin came in for the gumbo dinner; each time he and Sam fussed over the filé powder and sassafras. A running game between the two. Tonight, however, she could barely keep her attention on them. She felt the stranger watching her. Perturbed, she tried to tune him out, ignore him as if she remained unaware of his presence. It was impossible. Her skin tingled, knowing his eyes followed her every move.
“’Night, Netta, Sam, Asha!” Melvin waved as he opened the door and stepped out into the warm October night.
Asha had just stuck the receipt in the basket by the register and closed the till when Sexy Lips leaned across the counter and asked, “May I have another Coors?”
A shiver slithered over her body, a cross between female fear instinct and instant turn-on. Wow! An image of that deep voice whispering sweet nothings to her in the middle of the night was enough to give her a hot flash.
As yet, Asha couldn’t determine what color the man’s eyes were, due to the recessed lighting, but their power rocked her to her toes. Forcing herself to turn to the glass-doored cooler behind her, she removed a Coors. She used the Pepsi-Cola wall-mount opener to snap off the top.
“Twist-off my arse,” she grumbled, then handed it to him.
As his fingers closed around its neck, hers flexed in a spasm about the brown bottle. Did beer have salt? Her grandmother had taught her and all her sisters never to pass a warlock salt. Asha now wondered if that included salt as an ingredient. Maeve had been Scottish, born on Falgannon Isle in the Hebrides, where the past wasn’t so distant and superstitions were the norm. Maeve believed if you passed a warlock salt, you’d open yourself to obeying his suggestions. When Asha had pressed why, Maeve said it was an old warlock’s trick, a test if you’d bend to his will. Asha guessed she should’ve clarified if that was salt in all forms.
The stranger’s black brows lifted, questioning her hold on the bottle. Perplexed amusement twinkled in those penetrating eyes, eyes the shade of green garnets, nearly so dark one might take them to be deep brown or black. They held a power, a force that rattled her.
Again, Falgannon Isle came to mind, where her sister BarbaraAnne lived. The island was under an ancient curse, which could only be broken if her sister—the Lady of the Isle—married a green-eyed man with black hair. She couldn’t help but think of B.A.’s curse as she stared this man in the face. Maybe she should pass B.A.’s address to him. He had black hair, green eyes and his voice held a sexy hint of Ireland—all three requirements to fulfill the dictates of B.A.’s curse.
A burning flare of jealousy exploded in the pit of her stomach. Strangely, she didn’t want her sexy blond goddess of a sister anywhere near this man.
Dismissing the weird thoughts, she released the beer.
“Thank you.” A hint of laughter touched his words. “For a moment I thought you were going to arm-wrestle me for it . . . though I can’t say I’d be averse to the idea of a tussle.”
She opened the till again, and set about arranging the bills so that the faces all pointed in the same direction. Any excuse to avoid those probing eyes. “Not for a beer. I don’t drink beer.”
“Beer, or alcohol in general?” he asked.
“Beer.” Asha closed the register, trying to think of some other chore she needed to do. An escape. There wasn’t anything, so she drew a cola from the fountain and held up the glass. “I’m a Pepsi addict.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question. Drink anything besides Pepsi?”
“The occasional whisky—without the E.” Asha forced herself to appear cool, calm and collected. Then why did her heart pound so erratically? No male had ever caused this reaction within her, on par with sticking her finger into an electrical socket.
“What’s wrong with beer?” the stranger pressed.
“I don’t care for the taste.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Sue me.”
His dark eyes danced with mischief. “Have you ever drunk a Coors?”
“No, I once drank a Dark Isle and a Wee Heavy.”
“Dark Isle? Wee Heavy?” he inquired.
“Scottish ales.”
“Ah, room temperature ale. You should try Coors. Big difference between American beer and European ale.” He pushed the bottle toward her. “Try it.”
She stared at the container, once again worrying if beer contained salt. This was too much like the Wicked Witch offering Snow White the poisoned apple, but instead of a witch she faced a warlock. Damn! She regretted now that she hadn’t paid more attention to her grandmother’s warnings.
He remarked, “First, you almost won’t let me have the beer, now you stare at it as if I’m offering you a cobra.”
“I’m working.” Asha grasped at the convenient reason.
He laughed softly. The low sexy rumble wormed its way under her skin, spreading goosebumps across her body. “Chicken.” His brows lifted in a dare.
Damn, she really wished she knew if they used salt in brewing beer. “I don’t drink with strangers.”
He leaned forward and stuck out his right hand. “Jago Fitzgerald.”
Asha stared at it. A beautiful hand. You could tell a lot about a man from his hands. The fingernails were clean and manicured, not a nail biter, saying he wasn’t the nervous sort. No calluses, yet they weren’t soft. She judged he had some sort of indoor job, but used those strong hands on weekends to exercise. The fingers were long, elegant. Hands of a magician. Hands of a lover—hands of a bloody warlock trying to trick her into doing his bidding!
“Jago?” She tested the resonance of his name. Though his accent was British, he pronounced it with a long a Irish sound. Instead of Jag-o, it was Jay-go.
“It’s Old English for—”
“James, I know. I just never met one walking around before.” He waited for her to accept his hand. When she didn’t, his left brow arched. Well, damn him, no man called her chicken twice! She took his hand. It was warm, dry. “Asha Montgomerie.” A shiver went up her arm, lodged in her shoulder, then her neck. Yeppers, he was a ruddy warlock.
His handshake was firm. His thumb traced a small circle on her palm three times before releasing it. What? Was that some sort of old warlock school handshake? Asha wondered.
For an instant something hot flickered in his dark eyes. Asha had the odd inkling he thought about using that hand to pull her to him and kiss her. Then it was gone. She chalked it up to a trick of the recessed lights.
He let go. She thought she’d passed the test rather well, outside the electrical shock and imagining he’d wanted to kiss her. Then his left hand waggled the Coors by its long neck. Caught up in thinking Netta was right—he did have sexy lips—Asha blinked, recalling he had goaded her to take a drink of his beer.
She slowly accepted the Coors, saw a smug smile almost escape before he reformed his face to seriousness. Taking the brown bottle, she turned it around and stared at the label.
“What? It’s a Coors.” He laughed.
Oh, she liked that laugh. “I was looking for a list of ingredients. Every bloody thing has ingredients and daily nutritional requirements these days—even bottled water. But not beer. T.M.”
“T.M.?” he queried.
“Typically Male. Don’t mess with male bastions like beer.”
“What’s to know? Barley, hops, water and yeast?”
She hesitated and then admitted, “I wondered if there was salt in it.”
Riding the Thunder Page 2
