CHAPTER TEN
Sitting on the rock retaining wall that ran around the bungalows, Jago smoked a Swisher Sweet. He should be pleased. Not once all night had he gone to the refrigerator and stood aimlessly searching for something he craved.
The last piece of the puzzle had finally clicked into place: What he craved was Asha.
He’d gone to bed, slept a couple of hours, then awoken to his body on fire with need. Strange, they’d only known each other two days, but now his whole life seemed empty, shallow without her nearness. His yearning for her was a fever in his blood that no laps in the pool or cold showers could assuage.
Oh, he’d done the right thing in sending her running from him. Asha was affected by him, his sexuality, but deep down she wasn’t ready to take that step of letting him in—in her bed, in her life, in her heart. She wasn’t the type to sleep around. Her emotions would have to be fully engaged before she’d open the drawbridge and permit him into her inner world.
A soft breeze swirled around him, oppressively hot for this time of year. It whispered All Hallows Eve, despite the holiday being nearly three weeks away. Fallen leaves scurried along, carried on the wind . . . restless ghosts bound for nowhere.
He glanced toward the restaurant, imagining a jack o’ lantern on the porch, carved and aglow, wondering how Asha celebrated the old pagan fire festival. Strangely, faint notes of music floated on the night wind, the rattle of the leaves in the trees almost masking them. He cocked his head, trying to hear the direction from which the sounds came. If Asha were awake and as keyed up as he, she was asking for trouble; he could only play the knight in shining armor so long.
But the music came from the restaurant, not Asha’s cottage. Tossing the half-finished cigarillo to the walkway, he ground it out under his boot, and then headed to see who would be playing music in a locked restaurant at this time of the morning.
There was no way to see into the old overseer’s house from the back, so he walked around to the front to the diner. The blinds were closed along the row of windows except for one looking in behind the register where a night-light lent an orange glow. It was enough to see inside.
A man and a woman were over by the jukebox, slow-dancing. Gene Pitney crooned how true love never runs smooth while the pair seemed lost in the music. Jago glanced around the parking lot to see if a car sat off to the side. Nothing. So, the lovebirds had walked here? Maybe they were staying at the motel. He didn’t want to be Mr. Buttinski, but he didn’t think Asha would care for anyone just wandering in and using the restaurant for their own private party.
Jago strode to the front door and tried the handle, found it locked. Frowning, he rapped his knuckles on the glass, trying to draw their attention. No response. The couple kept dancing as if they hadn’t heard. He tapped harder.
“Well, you both can’t be hard of hearing,” he muttered, and started around the far side of the restaurant.
He entered the motel, intent on finding the night manager. The man—who oddly reminded him of an aging Obi-Wan Kenobi—was at his post, sound asleep. Jago dinged on the little bell twice, but the manager snored along undisturbed.
Sighing, Jago headed back outside and toward the bungalows. “Great! Here I am trying to be honorable and stay away from Asha, allow her time, and what does Fate do? Gives me a Kentucky Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and an aging Jedi on the lam, who wouldn’t awaken if the bloody building was on fire. Worse, I’m starting to talk to myself.”
Something brushed his legs. Glancing down, he discovered the fattest cat he’d ever seen, pure black and with gleaming orange eyes. The tagalong beast nearly caused him to trip several times on the path to the cottages.
He knocked on the sliding glass door of Asha’s cottage. “If she doesn’t answer my knock, Cat, I’ll think Rod Serling is lurking about. ‘Submitted for your consideration . . . a man trapped in the nowhere burg of rural Kentucky. He’s about to discover that being seen, but not heard, has dire drawbacks—dum dum dum—in The Twilight Zone.’”
The light flipped on and Asha came to the door, pulling the curtain back partway. Dressed in a blue silk robe, her long auburn hair was neatly braided and over one shoulder. Her huge eyes stared at him with such longing, yet with a flicker of female skittishness. He wanted to kiss her senseless. For hours.
“Come on, Asha, open up. Trust me.” Jago smiled when she unlatched the door and slid it open. “Despite wanting to kiss you ’til the cows come home, I’m here for another purpose. There’s someone inside your restaurant.”
“Someone?” Asha echoed blankly.
“The doors are locked, but the jukebox’s blaring. I don’t think they’re trying to rob the place . . .”
Without a word, Asha turned and walked back into the darkened bungalow, leaving him and the cat standing there. Jago glanced down at the feline. Its amber eyes looked up at him, then to the wide-open door. The beast almost shrugged as if saying, She left the door open—it’s an invitation, then went inside.
Jago shifted on his feet, then muttered, “Well, hell . . . the cat’s smarter than I am,” and entered Asha’s domain.
Though in shadow, he could tell the bungalow’s floor plan was a mirror of his own. His space had a motel ambience, while Asha had obviously made this small apartment into a home. He wondered at that, just as Desmond likely wondered about Asha’s sister BarbaraAnne, why these Montgomerie women eschewed the fancy elegance of Colford Hall in southern England, with its fifty bedrooms, staff of servants, and near royal splendor in favor of a smaller more middle-class lifestyle. Such behavior was puzzling to say the least. The women could live in the lap of luxury, never raise a finger to cook or clean, and yet, from Julian Starkadder’s reports, B.A. seemed to love her small island life on Falgannon, and Asha had deliberately set out a year ago to bring The Windmill under her total control.
He moved through the shadows, toward where she had disappeared. Light came from the room, and since the door was open, he used the cat’s rule of thumb—viewed it as an invitation—and followed her. The black beast rematerialized, rubbing against his leg as he stared at Asha. She was halfway into a pair of jeans, the gown bunching up on her thighs, then waist, as she shimmied into the tight denim.
He swallowed hard as she pulled the gown off. Her back was beautiful, finely arched with strong, square shoulders. He’d like nothing more than to go down on his knees and trace that graceful spine with his tongue. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe and simply drank in her perfection. The fat cat twined around his ankles, but he was barely aware.
She pulled on a teal sweater, then tugged her long hair. Only then did she turn and see him standing there. Barefoot, she walked to the door, expecting him to move. Jago remained where he was, deliberately blocking her way, pheromones bouncing between them to where he could hardly think straight. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned.
Instead of looking scared of him, those haunting eyes traced the lines of his face. “Am I?”
“Damn straight. One of these days I’ll stop behaving like a gentleman and show you.”
The corner of her small, full mouth quirked up. “Maybe one of these days I’ll let you.”
He glared at her feet. “Shoes?”
She made a grumpy face and slid on a pair of old ballet slippers, then snatched up her keys off the nightstand.
As they moved around the side of the restaurant, music floated into the night: Peter & Gordon—crooning about a world without love. “Your jukebox is stacked deep with music from the 1960s. You have a passion for that era?”
“Ah . . . hmm . . . it’s an . . . acquired taste, you might say.” Asha looked down at the cat, who was trailing along with them. “Your familiar?”
“I figured he was your cat.”
“Never saw him before.” She paused at the restaurant door and rattled the handle. It was locked. “Hardly looks a stray, being that fat.”
Tail
twitching, the cat gave her a stare that said he resented the remark, that he was just pleasingly plump, thank you.
Jago peeked over her shoulder and saw the shadowy figures, still there dancing. “I knocked on the door; they ignored me.”
Asha fiddled with her key ring until she found the right key. The lock turned easily, and then the glass door swung inward.
Jago nearly plowed into her back when she stopped just inside. His stare went right to where the couple had been. Nothing. The iridescent silver jukebox with the red lights still played, but now it was Chad & Jeremy wailing about yesterday being gone.
“Yesterday isn’t the only thing gone,” he grumbled, stumped where the couple had vanished. “Well, they didn’t slip out through the kitchen. I tried it before.”
Asha went through the swinging door to double check. “Yep, locked tight,” she confirmed upon her return.
“Could they’ve gotten out through the main part of the house where it connects to the motel?”
“They’d have to go past Delbert.” Asha shrugged in doubt. “Of course, if he is napping, Sherman could march the Union army through the lobby on the way to Georgia and not wake him. Poor dear is quite hard of hearing.”
She went past the jukebox, up the steps and into the main part of the house, the glass atrium opening into the rear of the motel lobby; Jago and the cat followed on her heels.
Delbert looked up as she entered. “Hey, Asha, what you doing up? Something wrong with our counterfeiter’s bungalow?”
“Counterfeiter?” Jago echoed, eyeing Asha.
She had the grace to blush. “All those hundred dollar bills you toss about.”
“Mae always thought she’d be a writer. Good imagination our Asha has.” Delbert chuckled. “Just sometimes a bit too fanciful.”
Asha stuck out her tongue at him. “Did anyone come through this entrance?”
“Well, you did—”
“Anyone else, Delbert?”
“Nope, been quiet all night.”
“Except for the jukebox playing?” Jago pressed.
Delbert eyed the younger man guardedly. “Uh . . . yeah. Tends to do that from time to time.” Seeing the black cat rubbing against Asha’s legs, he clearly seized upon the kitty as a change of subject. “That cat belongs to our counterfi—to Mr. Fitzgerald? You have to pay a deposit when you have a pet. What’s his name?”
“No idea,” Jago replied, but the beast rushed back to him, purring loudly.
Delbert frowned, confused. “You don’t know your cat’s name?”
“I don’t have one.” Jago tried to step back, but the cat wound around his legs.
Asha sniggered. “Seems he’s not on the same page as you. ’Night, Delbert.”
“’Night, Asha, Jago—Kitty.”
Asha sped off, back into the restaurant, so Jago hurried to catch up. He waited until the door to the lobby was closed before insisting, “I did see a man and a woman in here dancing. So where did they go?”
She didn’t reply, just shrugged.
He caught her arm, pulling her around. “I didn’t imagine them, Asha.”
“I never said you did. And I don’t have an explanation. At least . . .” She hesitated.
“At least what?”
“At least one you’re willing to hear,” she finished lamely.
The jukebox suddenly switched to another Pitney tune, a haunting ballad. “Something’s gotten hold of my heart, keeping my soul and my senses apart . . .”
All questions about the intruders vanished as Jago was caught in the power of the moment. The reddish glow from the Wurlitzer lent a decorative feel to the dim restaurant. But it little mattered; he couldn’t see anything but Asha. She drew him, mesmerized him, made the world new again. There was some strange bond, a connection between them. Something ancient, primitive.
He sensed she was aware of it and as puzzled by it as he. His besotted mind searched for words to define his feelings. Love? Oh, it was love. He was falling hard, and at a speed that was utterly terrifying. This fey link made him feel as if he’d known her all his life, all that had come before was merely a waiting game, passing the days until they met.
“Auld souls,” he whispered, reaching out to run the side of his thumb back and forth across that faint cleft in her chin, as he’d envisioned doing when he first stared at her two days ago.
Asha’s eyes locked with his. So many things were there: surprise, awe, intrigue . . . a glitter of a tear. Damn, Jago thought. He’d never considered a half-formed tear could bring him to his knees.
“Auld . . . souls?” she echoed, as if she wanted to know more yet in the same breath was terrified of his answer.
He nodded and took her wrist, pulling her into an embrace, slow-dancing to the music. “You feel it, too. As if we’ve known each other before. Always.”
The Pitney song ended and was replaced by the soft voice of Dionne Warwick crooning. “. . . could you be the dream that I once knew . . . ?”
Jago lifted a brow. “See, even the damn jukebox knows.”
Asha nervously licked her lips, trying to smile. “That Wurlitzer has a mind of its own. I actually got fed up with it, sold it once. Had an offer of $35,000 for it and its wallettes. When they came to uninstall it, they ran into . . . hmm . . . trouble. It damn near electrocuted them every time they tried to take it out.”
He chuckled. “Why didn’t you just cut the power?”
“We did. It kept coming back on. So it stays here . . . playing all these tunes from the ’60s, along with a handful of others it deems worthy enough.” Determination was behind her words as she added, “Where it belongs.”
He chose to ignore the challenge in her eyes, daring him to say he would buy The Windmill. “When you dance with the devil, lass, there’s hell to pay.”
“I hadn’t kenned I danced with Satan himself.”
“Live ‘n’ learn, lass, live ‘n’ learn.”
Jago loved how they fit: Her height perfect as if she were crafted just for him. He wouldn’t have to bend far to capture that small, full mouth. He stopped dancing, just rocked with her as he sang along with Dionne, then lowered his head to hers.
Knowing it was madness, he brushed his mouth against hers. She tasted sweet, with a tart hint of lemon. She tasted exotic, she tasted . . . familiar.
He should never have kissed her, not even this light brushing of lips. The fathomless hunger that had prowled within him for the last ten months sprang to life. He needed her more than air, needed to brand her as his to claim her in the most primitive way, as a man claimed his mate.
His hands slid up and down her back, urging her against him. She melted, pliant, molding those lush curves against his hard planes. That blew his mind. He inched back, trying to find something solid to lean against, finally coming against the front of the Wurlitzer with a jolt that jarred the song to end abruptly.
He spread his legs and pressed Asha closer, a sigh rolling through his thoughts, a whisper of I’m coming home.
“I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE, AND I BRING YOU . . . FIRE! I’LL TAKE YOU TO BURN . . .”
Startled, Jago leapt up off his feet, knocking them both off balance. The cat squalled as Asha stepped on its long tail, sending the creature scurrying under the table of the nearest booth. Out of danger, the beast watched as the humans went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Asha tossed her head back, laughing; tears came to her eyes and she had trouble catching her breath.
Jago leaned on one elbow. His other hand on his heart, he rubbed his chest. “Jeez Louise! What the hell is that?”
“The Crazy World of Arthur Brown’s ‘Fire.’ Asha named the ’60s song.
The jukebox screamed, “YOU’RE GONNA BURN!”
“Well, I was on my way to doing just that”—he glared at the machine—“before you scared me out of ten years of my life, you possessed pile of junk!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Asha glanced out the restaurant window, watching the steady rain. It had stopp
ed just after she returned to the bungalow from swimming last night, but this morning came down as if settling in for the rest of the day. She looked forward to rainy days, relished the smells, the sounds, the lazy pace. In Scotland they called it the soft, and it made her want to go walking aimlessly for hours. It soothed her soul. Renewed her. She was aware most Kentuckians didn’t share her delight. When she gave in to the urge and strolled through the pouring rain, locals observed her with a jaundiced eye. “Crazy foreigner,” they muttered and shook their heads.
Typical for a rainy day, the customers stayed away from The Windmill, as though they were made of sugar and would melt should raindrops hit them. The restaurant was virtually dead, which pleased Asha. She enjoyed leisurely days in the diner. They had a special feel.
Even the jukebox had been quiet.
Winnie MacPhee sat in the corner booth with two dozen scratch-off lottery tickets, working her penny furiously. At least, that was her excuse for still being here. She kept glancing out the plate-glass windows, same as Asha. Asha looked for Jago. Winnie looked for Derek.
An hour earlier, Winnie’s yellow Beetle convertible had zoomed up, and she’d sashayed her tight little buns into the restaurant, claiming to be starving for one of Sam’s biscuit-and-sausage gravy breakfasts. The meal had been unhurriedly eaten and the dirty dishes removed, though to Winnie’s disappointment it wasn’t Derek but Mike clearing them away. Tuesday through Friday Derek worked afternoons and nights; on weekends he pulled a double shift, doing mornings as well, augmenting his savings for veterinary school. Winnie was aware of this routine. Except this morning, Derek had sent word through Delbert that he would be late. So, Winnie sat, one eye on the parking lot, scratching lotto tickets.
Asha admitted she was in a grumpy mood. She’d anticipated having breakfast with Jago, only his bungalow was empty, his car gone when she’d gotten up. Hoping he would still show and they could share a morning meal, she’d skipped eating. Now, her tum was rumbling due to the smell of Sam’s cooking. He was preparing crawfish etouffee and grumpy about being forced to use crabmeat.
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