“Let go of the lady—now,” Jago growled from behind her.
A surly look crossed Faulkner’s eyes, but Asha saw he was backing down. Bullies always did when they couldn’t shove people around. They were only strong when they had someone weaker at their mercy. The man swallowed hard.
Faulkner bluffed it by rising in the booth. “Or you’ll what, Fancy Pants?”
Suddenly, the jukebox turned on and Ray Peterson’s voice sang out, “Laura and Tommy were lovers . . . He wanted to give her everything . . .”
Faulkner turned a ghastly shade of gray and released Asha’s wrist. He looked at her strangely, and then his head jerked to Jago, the alarm growing to one of terror. “No. It can’t be.”
“Tell Laura not to cry . . . My love for her will never die . . .”
“This is some sick joke.” Faulkner pushed himself from the booth, shoving Asha aside. Jago caught her, then moved to stand before her.
Faulkner shoved past them and rushed to the door. He yanked on it, but found it oddly stuck. As he rattled the knob, he kept staring as if the jukebox were a metal monster from outer space come to munch humans. In desperation, he kicked at the door as the song built to a crescendo and ended. Immediately, the player launched into a new song, “Last Kiss” by J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers.
A swirl of wind ruffled the tickets by the register, causing Faulkner to jump. Like a cornered rat, he glanced around, searching for another exit. There was one through the formal dining room, but he’d have to get past Asha and Jago in the aisle between the booths. Another was through the office, but Liam and Netta were at the end of the counter blocking him. He started toward the kitchen, only to have Sam’s face pop up on the other side of the circular pane of glass, again brandishing a spatula. Faulkner spun and backtracked to the front door. As he reached it, the straw dispenser started shooting a flurry of paper-covered straws at him. The jukebox played on.
“Never forget the sound that night . . . The cryin’ tires, the bustin’ glass. The painful scream that I heard last . . .”
Faulkner wailed, yanked the door open and ran into the night.
Jago looked at Asha and lifted his brows. “Impressive. Would someone like to tell me what the bloody hell just happened?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“What the bloody hell was that?” Jago repeated for anyone willing to answer. No one did. Ruddy cowards. The instant the words were out of his mouth, Asha and Netta scurried off, muttering they had closing chores to start. Jago had a hard time believing what he’d seen. Something really strange—look for-Rod-Serling-time strange—had just occurred, yet no one wanted to speak about it. Obviously, they were going to pretend it hadn’t happened, and hoped he’d do the same.
“You’re going to ignore my question, too?” Jago’s eyes targeted Liam.
Asha’s brother strolled around the counter and fetched two bottles of beer from the cooler. Perching on a stool, he handed one to Jago. “What’s to tell? The man’s a vulgar creep. An aging town bully. I wouldn’t put it past the jerk to sneak up behind you and stick a knife in your back. While old man Faulkner was still alive, Monty got away with a lot—and I mean a lot. In the manner of all serial killers, he started small by shooting animals, pets, and then later, car windows of passing vehicles. No matter what he did, daddy dearest bought him out of trouble, right down to Montague committing rape when he was barely fifteen, with no charges ever being lodged—so it’s told. He’s been gone for a long time; most people assumed he’d moved away. Then he showed up again about three years ago, just after Dr. Faulkner died. Residents of Leesburg cross to the other side of the street when they see him coming.”
Jago wasn’t diverted. “That’s not what I asked and you know it.”
Pretending not to hear, Liam kept his eyes on Netta and Asha preparing to close up for the night. “I get the impression, Fitzgerald, you want to court my sister.”
“Court? A quaint way to put it.” His turn to play cagey, Jago tilted his beer and looked at the label. “If this is a dry county, how is it The Windmill can serve beer?”
“Oooo, nice duck. I’m impressed.” Liam grinned, lifting his ale in salute. “The old icehouse on the edge of The Windmill’s property originally straddled two counties. Some mapmaker goofed. When boundaries were drawn, there was this very narrow strip, a No Man’s Land that each county claimed. They battled over it in the courts for decades. Outside of any incorporated lines, there were no laws to rule what happened here. With the two counties fighting over which one The Windmill actually sat in, and each wanting the taxes, our mother Mae put her foot down, said the only way she’d support either side was if they grandfathered The Windmill and let it continue to serve beer.”
“Thank goodness for grandfather clauses.” Jago rotated on his stool to observe Asha and Netta filling salt-and-pepper shakers on the tables. “And thank heaven for little girls.”
Sam came from the kitchen, wiped steam from the dishwasher off his face with his apron, and then helped himself to a Budweiser. “Amen to that,” he said. With an exhausted exhale, he joined Liam and Jago on the stools. The three sat and watched the ladies. “Two mighty fine women.”
“Represents the breed.” Liam sighed his admiration.
Jago glanced at Montgomerie, unused to men ‘prettier’ than he was. Asha’s brother was as handsome as Asha was beautiful, though not in a plastic way like many models tend to be. Both Montgomeries were earthy, vital, sensual creatures.
Over the years, Julian Starkadder—Desmond’s right hand man—had compiled extensive files on all the Montgomeries in preparation for his brother’s plans. Jago knew that Liam was only a few months older than he. Had they attended the same school, Liam and he would’ve been in the same classroom—maybe even good friends, judging by his instant liking of the man.
“Represents the breed? Hmm . . . never heard the expression before. I’d say it applies though.” Jago fixated on Asha’s mobile rear, as she stretched across the tables to gather sugar, salt-and-pepper containers. The curves in those tight, white jeans made his hands itch. He took a draw on his beer; the icy cold Coors did little to stem the rising heat in his body.
“It’s a horse breeders’ term. You hear it a lot on the farms around here. That one special horse above all others, when their confirmation is so perfect, that the contours just make you want to run your hands over their sleek body, ache to get them between your thighs.” Liam sighed, his eyes seeking Netta.
“A horse, hmm?” Jago consider the metaphor. “When I watched Asha last night, I thought of my Harley. I own a ’67 Electra Glide. The bike’s design, the sound when you start it—nothing can compare to it. It’s riding thunder.”
“A horse? A motorcycle? You young-uns.” Sam scoffed. “When I look at a good woman I think of boats. I was in Florida for my vacation last year. Some guy had one of them high-priced, cigarette boats they race, tied up at a dock. This baby was neon blue and black—a Tiger XP, the owner said it was. He was nice enough to take me for a ride. Opened those engines wide. Wow. Talk about riding thunder.”
Derek Whitaker, busboy at The Windmill, pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen and went behind the counter, untying the folded apron around his hips. “Don’t tell Asha, but I’m stealing a beer.”
“We’re mum. We men have to stick together,” Liam replied unconcerned.
“You think of a good horse, Liam,” Derek said, clearly having overheard. “Our new Brit here thinks of a Harley. Sam—a cigarette boat. You’re all wrong. A good woman is like a Shelby—quality throughout and damn few of them about. You slide into that tight driver seat, shove the key in the ignition . . . now there is riding the thunder.”
Liam rotated halfway on his stool. “What’s that, Derek, wishful wet dreams talking? I hear Winnie MacPhee has been shooting you down for the last month.”
“Forget Winnie, she’s crazy.” The tall, strawberry blond man offered his hand to Jago. “I’m Derek Whittaker, assistant cook and
busboy. You’re Jago Fitzgerald, mystery man. Not much happens in this wide spot in the road that isn’t common knowledge in an hour.” He sat and took a swig of his beer. “Now my Shelby—that’ll make a grown man get down on his knees and cry. It’s clean, man. Runs like a scared deer. Sad sorry shame I have to sell it.”
Jago stared at Derek, incredulous. “Sell a Shelby? That might be considered grounds for an insanity claim.”
The young man shrugged. “I want to be a vet. Asha pulled some strings and got me into Auburn University. Not an easy trick, even with good grades. It’s the only veterinarian school in about a five state area. I’ll have to travel back and forth between Kentucky and Alabama frequently, to make sure mom is doing okay on the farm and such. It’s a ten-hour drive each way—the Shelby deserves better treatment. I figured it’d bring enough money to get a dependable car for me and have some cash left over to help out my mom. The problem is no one around here can afford it. I have it up on eBay with a buyer’s reserve of $35,000. So far, no bid has come close. This car is mint, cherry. Black interior, black exterior, a little red pin-stripe on the fenders . . .”
Liam chuckled. “Yeah, you so much as put a hand on the door and he has to wash and wax it.”
Jago took out his box of Swisher Sweets. “Okay if I smoke?” All the men nodded, so he lit up and passed the package around, each of them taking one. “What year?”
“Same as your bike—’67.”
“I haven’t seen it in the lot.” Jago glanced through the plate-glass windows. “I’d have noticed a Shelby.”
“Leave it in the lot to get dinged or for Monty to gouge its length with a key? Bite your tongue. I drive mom’s truck to work.” Derek shook his head.
“Have breakfast with me in the morn. Bring the car and let me take it for a test run,” Jago suggested, exhaling the smoke. “If it’s as cherry as you say—”
Liam butted in, “It is. A sweetheart. I’d buy it in a New York minute, only I’m saving up to purchase a horse farm—before someone else can.” His scowl at Jago was done in play.
Eyes bright with hope, Derek asked, “You’re interested—seriously?”
“Your car lives up to what you say, you have a deal.” Jago leaned back against the bar and folded his arms over his chest. “Though I prefer round numbers. $40,000 okay?”
Derek nearly choked on his beer. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I rarely kid about bikes, cars or women.” Jago knew what it was like to have a working mother, struggling to get by. Though the two looked nothing alike, Derek suddenly made Jago think of his brother, Desmond. He recalled how his older sibling had worked long and hard to make a better life for Trev and him, to see they wanted for nothing.
He and Derek would both be getting a good deal. He figured the young man could use a helping hand—and he wanted that Shelby.
Just as he wanted Asha.
Derek laughed. “In that case I won’t rat to Asha and Netta you guys were comparing them to horses, bikes, and boats.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A rainy Friday night, and not yet eleven o’clock, saw Asha restless, edgy. She didn’t want to go home and watch the telly, but there was damn little else to do around this neck of the woods. Everyone had eaten, or she’d suggest they could all go to her bungalow, put on some DVDs and she’d fix them a late meal. Ordinarily the staff went up the hill to the drive-in on Friday and Saturday nights after work, kicked back, relaxed and enjoyed a few laughs. With the rain pouring down that was a no-go.
“’Night, Asha, Netta,” Derek called, going out the door after Sam.
“’Night, Derek.” Asha cut the overhead lights on the booths, still running options through her mind.
As Netta pushed the condiments cart toward the kitchen, Liam jumped to his feet to open the door for her. Asha watched as their eyes locked for an instant, desire crackling in the air. For some time, she’d suspected that Netta had a serious crush on her brother. Tonight, Asha had noticed how Liam’s hazel eyes tracked Netta with a banked fire. Searching her memory, she failed to recall ever seeing that expression on his face when he’d looked at other women. Being a Meddling Montgomerie, Asha itched to play matchmaker.
Also, she didn’t want the evening over, longing to be near Jago, drawn like the proverbial moth to a flame. The man hit her senses hard. Still, she remained leery of being alone with him—afraid of the wild woman lurking just under her skin, waiting to break free. Having Netta and Liam with them would provide a convenient buffer.
Liam rose, collected the empty beer bottles and dumped them in the trash. “Asha, you have a bungalow empty?”
“Always for you, brother dear.” Asha saw Netta’s head snap up, the blue eyes fixed on Liam, hope banked in the crystalline depths. It dawned on Asha why her brother wanted to stay at the motel. “You’re concerned about that creep Faulkner.”
Liam shrugged. “He’s a bully. That sort never comes at you straightforward. However, he gets liquored up—one of his favorite pastimes—he might try to jump you in the dark. Too much the coward, he won’t dare bother Jago or me, but he would come after a woman. I want you on your toes, lass.”
“I’m always careful, Liam. He doesn’t scare me.” Asha shifted her glance, seeing her brothers concern reflected in Jago’s stare. Fighting a sigh, she realized she could stare into those penetrating eyes all night. That bloody connection again. Unable to stand her vulnerability, she went to stack ashtrays.
“While I have your attention,”—Jago snatched back the one he was using and flicked his cigarillo into it—“how do I get access to the swimming pool? Laps before bed would make me sleep better. It’s still early and I’m restless.”
Restless is the key word tonight, Asha thought. “I don’t have a lifeguard. I use college kids from the University of Kentucky during the summer; I haven’t been able to hire a replacement.”
“I don’t need a lifeguard, Asha. I promise not to run around the pool or start water fights.” He crossed his heart and held up his right hand. “I’d just like the exercise.” Suddenly taking her wrist, he examined the marks left by Faulkner, his thumb brushing gently over the bruises already forming. His touch sent Asha’s heart slamming against her ribs.
Liam championed Jago’s request. “Come on, Sis, it’s glassed-in and heated. You use it. Netta uses it. I use it.”
“You would aid and abet your enemy? He’s here trying to buy your horse farm,” Asha pointed out. “Besides, neither Netta nor you will sue me.”
Jago reached across the counter for a pen and paper, quickly scribbled something and pushed it toward her.
“What’s this?” Asha blinked at him.
He arched an eyebrow and exchanged longsuffering glances of male understanding with Liam.
Grumbling “T.M.,” she picked up the paper and read it aloud. “‘I shan’t sue Asha Montgomerie if I drown in her swimming pool.’ Cute.”
Netta took off her apron and wriggled her shoulders clearly to ease the stiffness. “It makes me feel positively ancient to go home on a Friday night and curl up with a hot water bottle. We should kick up our heels and live a little. Of course, around here that’s hard to accomplish. The drive-in is the only action for miles.”
“A drive-in in the rain sounds like a good idea,” Liam teased with a wicked smile.
Asha suddenly envisioned the hushed interior of a car, Jago in the driver’s seat, the windshield wipers slapping while the movie played unnoticed. The intoxicating scent of his citrus and bergamot cologne would mix with the heat of pure Jago Fitzgerald, wrap around her and drive her mad with wanting.
Maybe she’d be better off going to bed and reading a good funny romance or a sinister vampire tale. Dawn Thompson’s The Ravening waited on the nightstand. If she were near Jago and those dark green eyes for too long, she might do something foolish. Maybe do it twice. Three times.
“We could call it an early night—” Asha started, only everyone practically screamed at her.
“No!
”
They couldn’t have timed it more perfectly had they rehearsed it. Asha smirked, seeing their faces, all innocent grins.
Though Netta had flashed a dazzling smile, pleading was in her blue eyes. “We could . . . go for a swim,” she suggested hopefully, “and save the drive-in for tomorrow night.”
Liam nodded. “A swim sounds good. The drive-in can hold.”
Asha almost licked her finger and drew an imaginary hash mark in the air. Score one for the sassy blonde. Not only had she maneuvered Liam into a swim, she’d lassoed and was ready to brand him for Saturday.
Asha studied his countenance. Clearly, Liam wanted her to play the vanilla filling between the Oreo cookies of Netta and himself. Asha also was beginning to suspect he wasn’t above tossing little sister under Jago’s nose, hoping to influence the man over the purchase of the horse farm.
Another time she’d have been ticked at her brother seeking to use her in such an underhanded fashion. Since it involved Jago Fitzgerald, it didn’t have quite the sting.
Yeah, baby, use me!
Asha watched Jago cut through the water with the grace of a Selkie. He turned under the surface, pushed off the wall and shot a third of the way down the pool before his next stroke. His legs were long, strong, his sculpted arms sliced forward rhythmically, showing he was an expert swimmer who could keep up that tempo endlessly. Pure poetry in motion. The man had the most beautiful shoulders she’d ever seen. A fool, she could stand here all night and watch, with hardly a thought in her head—except those of wanting.
Netta came up and hung an arm over Asha’s shoulder. “Hmm, see something you crave, girlfriend?” she asked, grinning.
Both women cringed as Liam suddenly did a cannonball off the diving board, the splash from the pool spraying them. He surfaced, kicked off the wall and paced Jago, mirroring the man stroke-for-stroke.
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