Riding the Thunder

by Deborah MacGillivray

Clan Montgomerie’s motto was Look Well. Though he assumed that meant Be Vigilant, in this instance it also applied to the appearance of the striking males and females of Sean’s line. If the scientist who’d cloned Dolly the Sheep ever got around to cloning human beings, he needed to look up the Montgomeries.

  Jago recalled how Desmond had stared at BarbaraAnne the whole time. Once she had turned and looked directly at Des. To Jago, it seemed the whole world had held its breath as the two stared at each other. Needless to say, he hadn’t been surprised when Desmond announced he’d be the one to go to Falgannon Isle to handle that end of the business for Mershan International and Trident Ventures. Jago had never said anything to Desmond, but he was aware his brother had carried a picture of BarbaraAnne in his wallet for nearly fifteen years, cut from some magazine. Desmond likely thought of it as a goal, as a reminder of what drove him. Jago figured his brother failed to recognize that he went to Falgannon for more than his role in taking down Montgomerie Enterprises. He wondered how long before Des recognized that fact.

  “‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,’” Jago muttered, then flicked the ashes off his cigarillo.

  At the funeral, much to his irritation, Asha had never turned around, so he’d spent the whole of the service staring at the back of her head. It was hard from that distance to tell her from her twin sister, Raven, or for that matter from her elder sisters, Katlynne and LynneAnne. The four women were dead ringers, variations on a theme, with only small differences in their height and hair. Asha had the lightest auburn locks, with pale almost blonde streaks.

  Jago had been outside in the parking lot before he finally got a good look at her face. Quite vividly, he recalled standing by the car, watching Raven and Asha coming down the steps of the ancient kirk. They were twins, and yet, Asha had seemed unique somehow. Maybe being a twin himself had endowed him with a perception attuned to recognizing finite differences others missed.

  As he hadn’t been surprised when Desmond booked a flight to Scotland, Jago had fathomed in that breathless instant that he would be the one to come here to Kentucky.

  “Destiny, the bitch, sure plays cruel tricks with people’s lives.” He laughed softly, mockingly.

  Jago took one last draw on the Swisher Sweet, the taste going flat. He dropped it and ground the butt beneath his boot. Instantly, the disquietude was back.

  The light in the living room of Asha’s bungalow winked out, increasing the penned animal mood within him. Like a big cat in a zoo, Jago wanted to break free of this invisible cage that caused his edginess. No, that light going off didn’t help the situation one bit. Was Asha in bed? Did she sleep nude? Were the sheets soft flannel, crisp linen or sleek silk? What material rubbed against those full breasts? Images filled his mind of them locked together in full-tilt, ride-’em-cowboy sort of sex. How would she taste? Would she want—as the Pointer Sisters crooned—“a lover with a slow hand,” or would she give measure-for-measure, as sudden and wild as a spring thunderstorm?

  A fresh vision flashed in his mind: him holding her body spooned against his, lazily listening to the rain on the roof as they drowsed. It was a vivid picture devoid of his gnawing restlessness, and for a moment, an intangible sense flowed through him, spreading in gentle waves of tantalizing warmth. The sensation shifted through his veins, then lodged in his chest, both unnerving and welcome in the same breath.

  Then the old hunger returned, tenfold, nearly overwhelming him. That damn wanting and yet not knowing what his soul cried for.

  Giving up, Jago stalked disgustedly toward his bungalow. He wondered how many times this night he would get up, go to the refrigerator, stare for a few minutes and then slam the door—coming away with nothing.

  “For a change there’s a good excuse for that bit of nonsense—I don’t have any food in it yet.” His mood brightened. “I’ll just have to get Asha to show me where to shop tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Asha came out of the motel office and pulled up short. The black Jeep Cherokee sat, engine running, at the end of the walkway. “Bloody warlock read my mind?”

  Jago leaned over the passenger seat and opened the door from the inside. “Hop in, Asha, you’re getting wet.” He flashed that killer, mega-watt smile. Asha wanted to slap the smug expression off his handsome face.

  Exhaling, she unslung her purse from her shoulder, slid into the Jeep and closed the door. There was no scent of cherry smoke, just clean male and the light hint of citrus, bergamot and wood found in Armani’s Pour Homme. Last year, while searching for the perfect Christmas presents for her brothers, Asha had fallen for the scent, even bought it for cousin Edward. She adored it, and had almost purchased a bottle for herself, just to keep and smell. She’d eventually nixed that idea, thinking the fragrance required the body heat of a man to make it complete. Having no male around, it would only serve to torment her. That Jago wore that cologne—or one similar—flustered her.

  “Good morning, Asha. Have you breakfasted yet?” He shifted the Jeep into gear, pulled down the motel drive and turned onto the narrow outbound road, wipers swooshing in a soothing rhythm.

  “Actually, I’m not much of a morning person, so I don’t usually have breakfast.” As she fastened the seat belt, her eyes took in the details of the sexy man.

  Jago wore a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans and a camel-colored, suede bomber jacket. His right hand rested lightly on the gearshift between them. The small gold ring on his pinkie matched his Rolex. Elegant. Understated. His effect on her system was anything but.

  “Ever notice you have a habit of evading direct replies?” Jago coasted the sedan to the end of the short lane and waited to pull onto the highway. “Which way? Or are you going to ply me with another evasive answer?”

  She fought a smile. “Left. To Leesburg.”

  “Can we shop for groceries in Leesburg? While I look forward to meals at The Windmill, I’d like to have basic staples for my off hours. Sandwich stuff. Some utterly fattening Krispy Kreme donuts. Never know when a wicked hunger can strike a man in the middle of the night.”

  She saw the long black lashes on those intense green eyes bat once, then he glanced to gauge the reaction to his thinly disguised double-entendre. Think, silly woman, the man is expecting a reply. Something witty, droll, preferably! Her problem: she was of two minds. Miz Goodie Two-Shoes sat, her knees clamped together, trying to ignore how her womb had contracted into a hard knot from the impact of this man on her senses. Yet, deep inside was a wild woman yearning to be set free to indulge in all the wild fantasies slipping into her mind whenever she looked at him, at those beautiful hands she wanted on her body. A small voice whispered that this man was the one to grant all those wishes.

  Taking the easy way, the coward’s way, she said, “Leesburg has a decent-size grocery. In the mid ’60s the town had a Kroger and a Gateway—back when gas was little more than a quarter a gallon.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You weren’t alive back then.”

  His comment gave her pause. How did she know these things? She could clearly summon the two stores to mind, could see the Texaco station with the sign showing gasoline at 22¢ per gallon. Memories of lazy summer evenings, people out for a sunset stroll, some gathering around the Dairy Queen to exchange pleasantries. Strange, these images were in shimmering sepia, devoid of all other color. But he was right—that had been over a decade before she was born. So strange, she could see the tableaux so clearly, as if she had lived them.

  “You know small towns—everyone’s always talking about the good old days,” she lied, at a loss to explain the vivid montage in her head.

  “How about a trade? I’ll feed you breakfast, and you show me the best places to shop. A nice way to pass a rainy morning, eh?”

  Asha hated to admit it, but she liked Jago. He was sex and sin, with a dash of humor and a jigger of mystery. She couldn’t recall the last time a man so intrigued her, lured her, despite her mind screaming to keep as far away from him as possible. She’
d always had problems of zigging when she should be zagging, but what the hell? What was the worst that could happen—he’d be a total bastard like Justin St. Cloud, her ex-fiancé? She glanced over at the black-haired man who waited for her answer. Jago Fitzgerald was many things, all hazardous to her heart, but she sensed a deep streak of honor running through him. She realized now she had never sensed that in Justin.

  “Deal, but I need to stop at the bank. The Windmill is low on change and I want to make a deposit while I’m there.”

  Jago frowned slightly. “I hadn’t considered it, but you have to drive quite a distance to make large cash deposits.”

  “Not much cash these days. Everyone uses debit or credit cards; still, sometimes I have a large deposit when Keeneland Racetrack is open—as it is now. Take a left up here and we can go down to the river and eat at The Cliffside. They have a marvelous breakfast.”

  “Avoiding my questions again.”

  She laughed. “You didn’t ask a question that time.”

  “Love, you alone are reason enough for some yahoo to come at you one night after closing, but add in a bank deposit—”

  “Don’t get your macho up. No one would dare bother me.”

  Jago made the turn and headed down the winding road toward the Kentucky River. The countryside was gloriously colored in brilliant oranges, yellows and reds—autumn at its peak. The gray mist of the light rain only amplified the dazzling beauty, each turn in the road showing another painter’s delight. Jago didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were on her as much as the road.

  “This time I’ll ask a question. Why would you assume no one would bother you?”

  She shrugged. “Because I carry.”

  “A gun?” Surprise registered in his dark eyes.

  She nodded. “I have a permit, and I’m a crack shot.”

  “So, what do you tote, Pistol-packin’ Mama?” He chuckled, as if still not believing her claim.

  “A Colt Python Elite, four inch barrel, blue carbon finish.”

  “Geez, Louise—that’s a .357 Magnum, ‘the Rolls Royce of handguns.’ Ever had to use it, Annie Oakley?”

  “Nope. Gossip spreads around this neck of the woods like wildfire. I’m a crazy foreigner with a Magnum. They leave me alone.”

  Shaking his head, Jago smiled. A smile that was both a warning and a promise. “Well, Asha Montgomerie, don’t count on that cap pistol keeping you safe from me.”

  Staring at Jago Fitzgerald, safe wasn’t a word that came to Asha’s mind.

  “Wow,” Jago exclaimed in surprise as they pushed through the double doors of The Cliffside Restaurant. He put a hand to the small of Asha’s spine, rubbing lightly as he paused to take in the long café. “It’s like stepping back in time.”

  “The Cliffside was built in the 1930s when tourist trade and river traffic kept this place hopping. Barges ferried coal and other stuff up and down the river. There used to be several marinas for pleasure boats,” Asha informed him.

  Noticing the Wurlitzer to one side he said, “Hey, they have a jukebox like yours.”

  The comment caused Asha to chuckle. “No, not like The Windmill. No one has a Wurlitzer quite like ours.”

  The waitress behind the counter looked up from reading a newspaper. “Well, lookie who’s come to slum. Morning, Asha. What can I do you for?” Taking a couple glasses from the rack, she filled them with ice and water and put them on a tray. The buxom redhead—with a hairdo that made her resemble a Bubble Cut Barbie come to life—looked Jago up and down. “And what can I do you for, handsome?”

  “Don’t make me get out my cattle prod, Ella,” Asha kidded.

  Ella Garner patted her over-teased hair and shrugged with a disappointed sigh. “I don’t blame you. I’d slap a brand on his cute little tush, too. Where would you like to park that sexy rear?”

  “Since Jago is new to the area—,” Asha started only to be interrupted.

  “Jay-go? Oh, be still my beating heart. I ain’t never seen a Jago on the hoof before.”

  “—I thought we might eat on the porch, Ella,” Asha finished. “Let him have a gander at that breathtaking view of the river.”

  “Sure thing, honey.” Snatching up a couple menus, Ella led them to the side dining room, which had three walls of windows. She waited until they were seated before placing the water and menus in front of them. “Only, I think you need your eyes checked, Asha Montgomerie. What leaves one breathless is sitting across from you, silly woman.”

  Jago’s eyes skimmed the menu, and then he looked to Asha. “Any suggestions?”

  “Country ham, eggs as you like them, Ernie’s buttermilk biscuits and hash browns.” Asha folded the menu and passed it back. “For us both. My eggs sunny-side up, please, and a tall glass of grapefruit juice.”

  “Same on the eggs and juice,” Jago agreed, passing his menu to Ella. “And coffee, black.”

  “You want grits?” Ella asked, tapping the order book with her pencil, waiting for his answer.

  Jago blinked. “Grits?”

  Being perverse, Asha suppressed a giggle and said, “He’ll have the grits.”

  “I will?” Jago looked puzzled.

  “Oh, you have to eat grits,” Asha insisted.

  “Okey-dokey . . . coming right up.” Ella swiveled on her white waitress shoes and sashayed away.

  Jago turned partway to watch the show Ella provided. Just a little ticked, Asha sighed and pursed her lips.

  “‘Like Jell-O on springs,’” he quoted Jack Lemmon’s line from Some Like It Hot.

  Asha took a sip of her water, put the glass back on its coaster and then slowly pushed it around on the table for distraction. Rolling her eyes, she muttered ominously, “Strike three.”

  Jago gave her an easy grin and unfolded his cloth napkin from around his silverware. “Strike three? Sounds like I’m in trouble. What were my first two transgressions—just so I know why my head is on the chopping block?”

  “Being a developer and a smoker.” Asha unrolled her napkin and arranged her knife, fork and spoon, trying to ignore his incisive stare.

  “I only smoke on the rare occasion, and being a developer is a job, not who I am. There are good developers and bad developers, don’t you think?” He stretched out his legs and deliberately trapped hers between them. His dancing green eyes were playful.

  Ella returned with the glasses of juice, Jago’s coffee and a basket of warm blueberry muffins. “Compliments of the house, sugar,” she informed with a Cheshire Cat smile.

  Asha took a sip of the tart juice. “Ella, you never gave me complimentary muffins.”

  The waitress howled with laughter. “Honey, what do they teach you children over there in England?”

  Asha took a hot muffin and broke it open. “Actually, I went to school in the States more than I did in Britain.”

  “What? Some Catholic girls’ school?” Ella snorted. “You poor thing.”

  When Jago’s stare once more followed the redhead moving away, Asha almost tossed her muffin at him. “I’d waste a perfectly good blueberry muffin.”

  “You’re muttering to yourself and glowering at me. Should I move the knife out of your reach?” he teased.

  “Might be a good idea at that, but I’ll need it to butter my toast.” She flashed him a wide, fake grin.

  “I think you’re jealous, Asha Montgomerie,” he accused, clearly liking the idea.

  “I think you are arrogant and irritating. Remind me never to have breakfast with you again.” Asha knew she was overreacting, and she really wasn’t jealous. Not of Ella. One simply did not get jealous over a vintage Barbie doll come to life. Still, the whole situation touched a raw nerve she didn’t know she had.

  Men looked. Men always looked. Tall, short, fat, thin—it didn’t matter how the woman appeared or even if she were pretty—men looked. Only, following her dealings with that jerk Justin St. Cloud, the fact suddenly irritated her when it shouldn’t. Her problem. Nevertheless, the past left her leery of pretty
men. Women tended to go after them rather voraciously. Once she had dumped Justin, she’d made a vow never to set herself up for that heartache again.

  “Men look. It—” Jago began.

  Asha knew too well what he was going to say. “Doesn’t mean a thing. Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” Justin had said the same—frequently. Naively, she had believed him. Stupid her. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake. “Word-for-word.”

  “She’s a character—like Netta. Colorful, amusing. I don’t take either of their flirting seriously.”

  “No one’s like Netta. She has heart,” she defended.

  “She’s flirted a lot more than Ella has, yet you didn’t take umbrage with her. You just joined in the laughter.” He polished off one muffin and reached for another. “Mind telling me the difference?”

  Asha hadn’t been piqued with Netta’s come-ons to Jago, instinctively knowing her friend would respect imaginary boundaries, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. As long as Asha had any interest in Jago, Netta might play at flirting, but it was merely teasing and nothing more; Netta flirted as she breathed. Ella was not so respectful of unspoken female territories. She bet anything that Ella would slip Jago her phone number along with the change from the bill.

  Evasive, she allowed her eyes to sweep the panoramic view of The Palisades and the winding, muddy river below. The view was majestic; still, her attention was divided. Though she didn’t like it, her gaze was unwillingly drawn back to the dynamic man seated opposite her in the red vinyl booth. She was saved from having to reply to his question as Ella returned with the plates full of food.

  Jago suspiciously poked a spoon into the grits and eyed Asha. She stared blankly at him, then in challenge, daring him to try them, so he finally took a spoonful and put it in his mouth. He half-choked, his eyes flashing daggers, but finally forced his throat to work. Desperate, he reached for something to gulp down the mush, and she impishly pushed his coffee saucer closer.

  Grabbing the cup, he took a big swallow, strangled out, “Hot,” and then snatched up her grapefruit juice. Once he was done with his Trial by Ordeal, he frowned, though his eyes twinkled with humor. “You’re a wicked woman, Asha Montgomerie. Remind me never to royally piss you off. Grits? They’re sand!”