Riding the Thunder

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “Ignore her, she’s drunk.” Asha flopped forward to pick up the bottle, dislodging the cat. Jago’s hand closed over hers and removed her fingers from around the glass.

  “I think you’ve both had enough for one evening.” He held The Macallan out of her reach as she followed it up, snatching at it.

  “Hey, I’m toasting my new hostess—Netta.”

  “Congratulations,” Liam said behind her. “A fine choice.”

  Jago held the bottle to the side, his long arm keeping it away from Asha’s grasp. She finally stilled as she realized in reaching for the bottle, she was flush against his chest. Her eyes narrowed on him in that mix of female skittishness and a plea of I’m yours for the taking, which hit like a blow to his solar plexus. Breathing was impossible.

  This self-imposed abstinence was going to short circuit his brain, and would push him into doing something very foolish before he considered all he faced in falling for this woman. Well, if he was going to suffer, then so could she! He lowered his head slightly, to where the scent of Asha filled his senses. She wore a light perfume with a touch of lemon and jasmine, which did little to cover the scent of the female underneath; silly woman had no idea how it made him want to toss back his head and howl like a wolf in rut. He let her feel his warmth, let her drink in his male pheromones, then watched as her pupils dilated with a hunger that matched his. Saw the power of surrender unfurled within her eyes.

  Leaning close so that his mouth was against her hair, he said lowly, “Auld souls whisper ever so softly when they’re near.”

  “And what do they whisper?” Asha almost swayed, and he thought it from the sexual buzz between them, not the whisky. The corner of his mouth crooked up.

  “They whisper that little girls who go around without shoes get their tootsies stomped on by fat cats.”

  Glancing down, Asha finally noticed the black puss standing on her bare feet and rubbing against her calf. She smiled crookedly.

  “Jago’s coming out to the farm in the morning,” Liam announced, reminding them both that they weren’t alone. “He wants a tour of Valinor.”

  Asha stepped back. Worse, Jago saw her withdrawing from him mentally as well.

  “So he can get a better idea of the price tag?” she asked pointedly.

  “Sheath your dagger, little sister. I invited him. He likes horses, and I’m always willing to show off my stock.” Liam chuckled, turning to face Jago. “A warning, my friend. Our grandmother Maeve was of old Pict blood and lived on Falgannon Isle in the Hebrides. The women of the Picts carried these strangely curved daggers. After a battle with the Vikings, they’d go around with that arched knife and castrate prisoners. Maeve had copies of an original cast, and presented them to each of her granddaughters when they turned twenty-one. My sisters are warrior women. Tread carefully around them.”

  Jago bent down and patted the cat, who was trying to climb up his leg. “Warning heeded. Thanks. Asha has a tendency to lose her cool when someone mentions me buying things. I guess that explains why prickles creep up my spine when she eyes sharp objects.”

  “I thought you ladies might like to join us. I could fix breakfast,” Liam suggested.

  Netta smiled brightly. “Sexy as hell and can cook. You’d make someone a great wife.”

  “Is that an offer?” Liam asked, challenge clear in his words.

  “Laura and Tommy were lovers; he wanted to give her everything . . .” the jukebox began in the other room.

  Everyone groaned.

  Liam pulled Netta to her feet. “Shoes on, ladies. We’re out of here. Colin is showing a Vincent Price-Roger Corman film festival. If we hurry, we’ll be in time for The Haunted Palace and Masque of the Red Death.”

  Jago frowned. “Aren’t those films from the ’60s?”

  Liam shrugged. “Ask Asha. She’ll know. She’s the film buff in the family.”

  “1963 and ’64, respectively,” Asha said, sliding on her shoes. “Why?”

  “It just seems everything is from the ’60s around here,” Jago commented, following her from the office.

  Asha waved at Delbert. “Close up for me, please. I’m off on a hot date with our counterfeiter.”

  “Hot date? Counterfeiter?” Liam echoed, opening the front door for Netta.

  “Hey, what about your cat, Jago?” Delbert called. “You want me to put him in your bungalow?”

  “Stick him wherever you want. He’s not my cat.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The chubby black cat was stretched out on the Jeep’s dashboard, pretending to sleep. The only sign the thing was alive was an occasional snap of the long tail, generally when the speaker, hanging from the passenger window, grew too loud. The Haunted Palace reached the point whereVincent Price ties up Debra Paget as a sacrifice to the monster from the pit and then the growling creature comes for her. In true horror flick fashion, she screams—and screams! The feline opened one eye, glared at the speaker and then at Jago, with the telepathy of do something.

  Asha finished the last of her food and washed it down with the icy Pepsi. Not that she’d been hungry, but after she mentioned the concession stand served a mean chili dog, Jago had insisted on having a couple. She gathered he was a bit of a junk food junkie. When he returned, he’d had one for her. Smart man. One whiff of the tantalizing aroma and she was thankful he’d gotten an extra—she might’ve pulled her gun on him and hijacked one.

  The cat lifted his head and sniffed the air again.

  “Don’t even think about it. You move, Fat Boy, and you’re going to fall off the dash,” Jago addressed the feline before he stuffed the remainder of his second hot dog into his sexy mouth.

  “I’m not sure he’s comfortable there,” Asha commented. “The dash isn’t really wide enough for him.”

  “The silly creature put himself up there. He can get down, climb into the back seat and stretch out, if he wants—after I finish eating. You were right—they are super chili dogs. I fear I could become addicted. Guess the good concession food is one of the reasons you’re packed even on a rainy night.”

  “The drive-in fills a lot of bills. Parents and grandparents come to catch the magic of memories. Young people are finding it’s a neat place to hang out. It’s a super value. If you go into Lexington and see a movie at a cinema, it’s over eighteen dollars for a guy and a gal—just for the tickets. Then they soak you at the concession stand. Wisely, we keep prices reasonable. It’s one price for a carload. So two couples can double date and have plenty of treats for less than half the price of a cinema. Plus, you’re getting three movies instead of one. You don’t have to get dressed up. No need for a babysitter; the whole family can come. They can talk all they want without someone shushing them. A whole evening of entertainment instead of two expensive hours. It’s the best bargain going. Most of the younger people haven’t seen many of the old movies we show so they get a kick out of them.”

  “Not to mention you can steam up the windows and ignore the movie, if you wish.” He laughed lowly.

  “Hmm, there is that.” Thoughts of steaming up the windows with Jago suddenly saw her body temperature spike.

  “How’s the setup? You still use films?” Jago seemed truly interested.

  “No, we’re high-tech—DVD projection. I deal with a firm that packages the movies, and they have a large selection. They send us the intermission and movie lead-ins you used to see at the drive-ins in the ’60s—you know the one with the hot dog doing tricks? They even include old Woody the Woodpecker cartoons. The old way, you had to buy films outright or rent them. Shipping and handling was murder. This is so simple now. We plan ahead what we want, place our order and they are shipped in little packages, licenses all handled for us.”

  “No worrying about the film breaking, eh?”

  “Nope, the whole thing’s very efficient. In fact, they’re currently producing portable screens and offer them to places that have seasonal parking lots, such as fairgrounds, churches and lodges, big open spaces t
hat aren’t used all the time. Halloween weekend we’ll close and won’t reopen until March. Of course, they use your own car’s FM Radio to broadcast the soundtracks instead of the pole speakers we still maintain. We did a survey if people wanted the better FM sound or the full drive-in experience. It was nearly unanimous that everyone loved the old-time speakers.”

  Jago’s eyes skimmed the grassy lot. Built on a hillside, the rows were terraced so that each line of cars was higher than the one in front of it. An efficient layout, it took up less acreage than a flat lot and had good viewing from any slot. “You have what—room for four-hundred cars?”

  “Near that. We generally average a hundred-fifty on a good night. The capacity with the DVD and satellite projection is around four hundred for a single projector, so I think drive-ins may come back slowly—at least in this limited fashion.”

  “At ten bucks a car . . . plus refreshments, three nights a week, thirty-eight weeks a year. Not a bad chunk of change. I can see the portable drive-in idea catching on with those sorts of figures. I might be interested in investing venture capital for this. I’ll have to look into it.”

  Jago gathered up the trash and stuck it in the thin paper box, then leaned between the seats to place it on the backseat floor. Before she realized what he was doing, he shifted, nearly leaning against her. For a second he stared into her eyes, his breath fanning over her face. It was the first time she’d ever ranked the smell of chili dogs as sexy. Just as she figured he was going to kiss her—and she was going to let him—he reached past her and released the lever, reclining her seat back.

  Raising up, those dark eyes flashed. “I missed something.”

  Asha could only lie there craving chili dog kisses and inhaling his potent male scent as he loomed over her. So close. Too close. Not close enough. “What?” she croaked.

  “This.” He lowered his head to kiss the corner of her mouth, his tongue lashing out to swipe her lips. “Mmm . . . chili sauce. Tastes better on you than on the hot dog. Of course, I might need a little more comparison.”

  His lips brushed hers. Soft, savoring, the contact sent a deep shiver scurrying over Asha’s skin. Oh, how she wanted that kiss! The scent of Jago and his cologne was a lethal combination weaving around her, intoxicating as a $5,000 bottle of The Macallan. His high male heat radiated from him, sinking into her, snaking under her skin with a consuming need.

  He pulled back, his eyes studying her. She stared up into his beautiful face, knowing this was true love. Fire rockets, Mardi Gras, dark and dangerous nights of hot sex, the scare-you-down-to your tippy-toes, forever kind of need that makes you so vulnerable. Makes you want to do the wild thing right here in the front seat at a drive-in, she chuckled to herself.

  Jago Fitzgerald terrified her. He was a throwback, a dark-age warrior who could claim, conquer. Despite that terrifying prospect, she could no more pull back from sticking her finger in the socket than command herself not to breathe.

  “You’re not going to warn me and start counting are you? Because I’m not walking home in the rain.” Her words were nearly a whisper.

  He grinned. “Between the steering wheel and the gearshift, I think you’re reasonably safe.”

  “Sort of the male version of a chastity belt?” Asha laughed. “Men have been getting around those obstacles for decades.”

  “We lads relish the challenge. Kiss me, wench—you’ve been dying to for days.”

  “Me?” she squeaked.

  That was all she got out before his warm lips closed over hers again.

  He was right—chili sauce tasted better on him than on the hot dog. She just didn’t kiss Jago; she experienced him—his flavor, the warm scent of his body, the feel of his hard muscles. She moved her hands up his spine, chafing at the obstruction of his soft sweater, craving to feel them on his flesh.

  Sexy Lips was a good kisser. Oh, was he good! As her arms slid around his neck, he nibbled, licked and sucked with a warlock’s magic, sending waves of pleasure down to the tips of her toes. That sensation rushed right back upward, hitting her womb with a punch. Her breasts tightened and her brain . . . well, her brain was suddenly focused on the stupid gearshift obscenely in the way. Maybe if they could switch seats, then she could turn to straddle him. At times like these a woman wished she could twitch her nose like Elizabeth Montgomery on Bewitched and have gearshifts and clothing vanish in a poof.

  Insistent knocking pounded on the glass. “Hey, Asha! Come on, roll the window down.”

  They glanced up at the face, nose nearly pressed against the glass, peering in the passenger’s side window. Jago’s eyebrows lifted and he gave her a quirky smile.

  “Um, Asha, not sure—either JohnWaters or Steve Buscemi is rapping on the glass. Neither prospect is comforting.”

  Asha laughed and pressed the window button on the door to roll it down.

  “Should you do that?” Jago teased. “Maybe he’s that guy in the hockey mask. Remember how when a guy and gal make out in those slasher flicks, some fruit loop—who looks just like him—goes berserk and hacks them up.”

  “I heard that,” the ferret-faced man snapped, but his nasally tone was playful. “Just remember, buster, to sleep with one eye open from now on. Sorry, me and my machete interrupted the great make-out scene here, but I wanted to give you the list of the movies I got for Halloween weekend, Asha. Sorry, I couldn’t track down the license for The Maze. I really wanted to see that frog guy. He sounds cool. But they were able to get all the others for us. A super lineup, even if I do say so myself.”

  “That’s fabulous, Colin. Thank you. It should be great fun for everyone,” Asha complimented.

  “Hey, a Hammer Halloween. Chris Lee and Peter Cushing ride again.” The thin man leaned in halfway through the window, and stuck his hand out to shake. “Hi, Jago. I’m Colin Hughes. Call me Oo-It. Everyone else does.”

  Jago’s eyes shifted to Asha in amusement, then back to Colin, as they shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Colin.”

  “You can call me—”

  “Oo-it,” Jago finished.

  “Yeah, everyone—”

  “Else does.” Once again, Jago finished Colin’s sentence.

  “Yeah. Sorry I haven’t been down to the restaurant to say a welcome, but I was busy tracking down these movies for Halloween. We’re having a big bash. You still going to be here?”

  “Yeah, I plan on it.”

  Colin spied the cat sprawled on the dash and his eyes lit up. “Wow, what a great cat! Hadn’t heard you had a cat, Jago,” he said, scratching the beast’s chin.

  “I think it’s more like he has me.” Jago chuckled.

  Colin asked, “What’s his name?”

  “I’m not sure.” Jago shrugged. “He hasn’t deigned to tell us yet.”

  “You should name your cat. Cat’s gotta have a name.” Colin stopped scratching the purring feline and smiled sheepishly. “Well, I’ll let you get back to the ‘hot and heavy.’ Night Asha. Nice to meet you, Jago.”

  “Nice to meet you, Colin.”

  “Thanks again, Colin.” Asha waved. “I appreciate all the effort to get the movies.”

  “Sure, anytime.” He stuffed his hands into his pocket and shrugged. “You know I’d do anything for you, Asha.”

  Jago watched the strange man pull up the hood of his sweatshirt and trot off into the rain, back toward the concession stand. He raised his brows. “Oo-it?”

  Asha chuckled. “Colin stuttered from childhood. Not bad, mostly when he became excited. When something put him into a dither, he’d go ‘Oo Oo Oo-it’ over and over again before he calmed down enough to get anything else out. He’s been Oo-it since he was six. Mostly he’s outgrown the stutter, but the nickname stayed.”

  “He doesn’t mind?”

  “It’s done in love and he knows it. He’s sweet. He’s the first one there to shovel your drive after it snows or to cut your lawn. He runs the drive-in and maintains the grounds around all the businesses. Quite handy with anything el
ectrical. My guess is he’s a borderline genius, but few ever paid attention. We’re lucky to have him.”

  “Hmm. Where were we?” Jago started to lean toward her, but the black cat jumped off the dash and in between them. He bounced on his hind legs, then butted Jago’s chin with his forehead, and not gently either. Asha heard the crack. Jago dodged as the purring cat kept trying to bonk him again. “Oww, you bloody feline.”

  “He loves you.” Asha sniggered.

  Taking hold of the pest, he held the cat still, and glared into its eyes. Then Jago turned his head slightly and said, “I’d rather you love me.”

  Caught off guard, Asha’s heart dropped as she stared at him. There was just enough light from the dash to show he’d uttered the words in seriousness. She wanted to summon a jest, but she couldn’t think of anything, other than I’d rather you love me, too.

  Things were moving too fast for her to reveal that. You just didn’t fall in love so quickly. Could you? She feared the answer. Did she dare trust this man—a man so self-assured, a pretty man used to big-city lights? Could he fall for someone who was happy here in this quirky little spot so far from the beaten path? Foolishly, she’d let down those cocooning walls, permit him into her safe little world with no reservations, blindly surrender to the passion shimmering between them. Love him. But for how long? How long would Jago Fitzgerald be content to stay in her Nowhereville?

  She jerked when a blaring car horn shattered the spell. It kept on in a long stream as if stuck. With a sigh, Asha looked to row H, slot thirteen. Sure enough, there were tail-lights of a truck that had just pulled into the empty space regulars had long ago learned not to choose. Soon everyone was honking horns in protest.

  A shadowy figure played across the screen as Oo-it held up his raised middle finger in front of the projector in added protest.

  Jago laughed. “Is this some sort of drive-in ritual? An insiders’ joke?”

  Asha couldn’t answer. She stared through the rain at the red taillights of the black truck, suddenly feeling so far away.