Riding the Thunder

by Deborah MacGillivray

  The cat squealed, bringing back sanity. Every muscle tensed within Jago as he reined in his out-of-control emotions. His mind swam, dizzy from wanting her, as he brushed his lips once more over hers. Asha nearly caused him to come undone as she opened her mouth, giving him access to her warmth. Leaning down, he scooped her and the cat into his arms and then carried them to the bed.

  Setting her down, he pondered where the bloody hell all this chivalrous nature came from. “Tonight, I just want to be near you—make sure you are all right.”

  The cat stomped happily across the duvet, long claws puncturing the material. The silly beast was smiling again.

  “I’m glad one of us has something to smile about,” Jago muttered.

  Jago wasn’t getting much sleep.

  Just as his body stopped going off like an Asha Geiger Counter and he’d start to doze, she’d shift in her sleep, bump some sexy body part up against him and it’d cause his groin to stir to life with an insistent ache. This time she rolled when he was on his side, shoving that cute little tush up against his loins. To make matters worse, as he was trying to keep from gritting his teeth until they cracked, the blasted cat stalked up his body and decided to perch on his hip. As long as Jago kept his eyes open, the bloody feline stared at him, smiling. Giving up, he pulled the sheet over his head and pretended to sleep.

  After several minutes, the animal shifted and lay down, still on his hip and thigh. While he knew the thing didn’t weigh fifty pounds, it sure felt like it. The longer they both remained in that position the heavier he became.

  He considered dumping the pest, but he’d have to move to do that and he rather liked lying spooned against Asha. It would be snug, cuddling like this on snowy winter nights. The vision was easy to conjure with the wind still blowing outside. Some sort of shrubbery was at the back of the bungalows; the breeze forced the small limbs to scratch at the bedroom window. In his mind snow howled, piling up deep, stranding Asha with him—and the cat—for days. Maybe at Christmastime.

  He smiled at the dream. Nearly echoing his mood, the cat noisily purred. Absently, Jago reached out his hand and patted the pussycat’s head, oddly finding comfort in ruffling the animal’s fur. Maybe having a kitty was a good thing.

  A discordant note filtered through his dreams, causing him to awaken. He listened, trying to pinpoint what had pulled him away from something beside chestnuts roasting before an open fire. There was nothing. Nothing but the scratching of the bushes against the glass. Not a sound he heard normally, still the winds had been going on for several hours. Why did the scraping bother him now?

  Almost holding his breath, he lay there listening. The refrigerator in the kitchen kicked off, so the silence was stronger. Nothing but the non-rhythmic scraping of the bushes. Scratch . . . scratch . . . scratch. Feeling as if he was listening for something that wasn’t there, he sighed and started to relax again. He smiled in the darkness. Maybe if he was lucky, sexy Asha would wake up horny and want to have her wicked way with his body.

  The dissonant noise came again. And it wasn’t just his mind conjuring the sounds; the kitty heard. He’d stopped purring and his head turned toward the window, ears alert. What finally convinced Jago something was not right: the cat’s ears laid back and he growled lowly, similar to a dog.

  Carefully pushing the cat off his leg, Jago slid from under the sheet and out of the bed. Trying not to disturb the sleeping Asha, he moved in silent steps to the window. His instinct was to yank the shutters wide and confront whatever dared intrude upon his domain. Instead, being his usual careful self, he tried to peek through the cracks of one panel. The scraping stopped. It left him holding his breath and waiting for the noise to come again. He stood frozen for a minute, then decided to beard the devil and snapped open the louvers.

  The gray light of dawn greeted him. His eyes strained, trying to see in either direction to the edges of the building. Nothing. The European snowball bushes provided a splash of autumnal color, but blocked him from seeing if there were footprints on the ground.

  His head snapped around as he heard a faint tapping near the front door, almost like a bird pecking. “‘Only this, and nothing more,’” Jago muttered to the cat, who still lay on the end of the bed, also looking in that direction.

  Quickly crossing the bedroom, Jago headed through the living room. Asha’s purse on the counter caught his eye, and he recalled that she carried a gun. Opening the handbag, he found the revolver, the weight feeling as if it was made for his hand. Quickly checking to see it was loaded, he walked straight to the patio doors and silently unlocked them. With a jerk he pulled them open.

  Again, there was just the wind lowly whistling through the trees. Jago glanced in both directions, but spotted nothing out of place. No footprints on the walkway, but since the wind had dried off the dew that wasn’t atypical. Barefoot, he stepped out into the damp morning. Going to the corner of the bungalow, he looked toward the rear of the cottages. He paused, listening. No odd sounds. A beat-up truck puttering along the road in front of the restaurant was the only manmade sound.

  Walking toward the other end of the cottage, near his own, he tried to put a finger on the vague feeling gnawing at him. Before, when he’d heard the noises, he almost sensed something off, a danger lurking close. Now there was a void. Nothing.

  He glanced down to see the cat curving around his leg. “Maybe just my imagination,” he said to the feline, and he might have accepted it as truth but for the cat’s attitude. The puss was calm, curious and just tagging along. No laid-back ears, no growling. “Oh well, the riddle remains unsolved. Come on, race you back to bed. There still might be a chance Asha will wake up and want to abuse my cute little bod.”

  As he placed his hand on the door to her bungalow, he heard the phone ringing in his cabin. He looked back and frowned, wanting to ignore it. There would only be three people calling him—Des, Trev or Julian. Des wanted regular check-ins, progress reports. Trev would want to gloat, which Jago could do without. But there was also his mother to consider. Always in frail health, she seemed to be slipping away from them both mentally and physically. Though Des refused to admit there wasn’t anything his money couldn’t fix, Jago feared she was slowly losing her battle with cancer. Sighing resignation, he headed back to answer the call.

  Snatching the phone off the table, he barked into it, “This better be good. It’s not yet six a.m. here.”

  Not wanting to leave Asha alone in her bungalow, and yet thinking it best she didn’t hear any of the call, he moved to the front door, where he could watch Asha’s cabin. He was still uneasy about the earlier noises.

  “My, you’re chipper this morn. Sorry, did I wake you? It’s time for elevenses over here.”

  Trevelyn sounded too damn smug. He was lucky he was several thousand miles away or Jago might be tempted to make his twin look a little less like him. Sometimes it was damn irritating to share the same face with one so totally opposite in temperament.

  “I suppose there’s some purpose to this call other than to piss me off?”

  “Grouch. Isn’t it enough to want to know how my twin is doing in Hicktown?” Trev chuckled, only it grated on Jago’s nerves.

  “Don’t call them that.” He didn’t snap, but his tone sounded short. He was irritated, defensive and really didn’t feel like putting up with his twin’s arrogance.

  “Oooh, touchy. Tell me little brother”—Trev referring to the fact that he’d been born first, by a whole twenty-one minutes—“are you falling under the spell of Asha Montgomerie?”

  “You know, I’d really like to punch your face right now, Trev,” he said, but it lacked real force, just typical brothers fussing.

  His twin laughed. “It’s been a while since we had a donnybrook. I’ll give you a rain check, how’s that?”

  “You’re on. And for your information—I’m not under the spell of Asha.”

  “That’s good to know. The Montgomerie sisters descend from the Cait Sidhe—so I am told by R
aven—a race of witchwomen from the Picts. Looking into her eyes, I can believe it. They light a fire under a man’s skin, set flames to licking at his brain. I was concerned you were not strong enough to withstand their witchy magic.”

  “No spells, no magic,” he stated flatly. “I’m in love with her, and if all these Machiavellian plans don’t ruin my chances, I want to marry her.”

  “You’re daft, man!” Trev’s disbelief was clear, his tone derisive. “You don’t even know her. What? How long? Four days? You been pulling at some jug of Kentucky moonshine, Bubba?”

  “No moonshine. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “She must be one hot lay—”

  “Again, be thankful you’re on that side of the Atlantic, Trev, or I’d mop the floor with your pretty face. Of course, it won’t be so pretty after I finish rearranging it, but then you’ll appear handsome—all scarred like a warrior true.”

  “Bloody hell. You haven’t gone to bed with her yet, have you—”

  “Goodbye, you SOB.” Jago punched the end-call button, breaking the connection. When the phone started ringing in his hand again, he stabbed the ringer-off button, and then looked at the cat. “Just be happy you don’t have a twin brother. They’re the bane of life.”

  As he started back to Asha’s cabin, he glanced up the hill toward the drive-in. He noticed that on the far end of the last row, you could see down onto the bungalows from there. The black truck—at least he thought it was the same one that had gone up the road a few minutes ago—was parked there, motor off. Jago stared at the vehicle for several minutes, then went back to his cabin to slip on shoes and a sweater. He tucked Asha’s gun into his belt, intent on going up the hillside, checking out who owned the truck, and what he was doing in the drive-in at this hour.

  When he came out, the truck was gone, no sign of where it had vanished.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jago’s head hit the pillow, a sigh and a smile on his lips. He had driven demons away from the door—with the aid of his trusty sidekick . . . What’s His Name—vanquished an irritating brother with his rapier repartee, and now both the conquering heroes were ready for a well-earned nap.

  Rain now lashed at the window, but it was a soothing sound, nothing like the noise that had come before. Sleepy, Jago rolled over and pulled Asha back against him, the action natural, as if he’d done it a thousand times. The heat in his body instantly escalated; his poor aching groin complained. Still, he did his best to ignore that hard cramp of lust, reminding himself, after the last ten months of feeling little more than apathy, it was oddly enjoyable to experience this voracious need.

  Asha rolled in his arms until she was facing him. The minx was awake. Uh oh, visions of gasoline and lit matches came to mind. She wiggled her toes, performed a small, drowsy stretch and then rubbed her ankle against his. She asked groggily, “Where did you and your shadow sneak off to?”

  “We went chasing monsters away from the door.”

  “Ah, knights in shining armor are so sexy.” She gave a low, throaty chuckle that nearly made him come undone.

  “This is nice.” He hooked his leg over hers and used it to nudge her closer. “Rainy, lazy morn. Just us cuddling.”

  The cat waddled up his thigh and rumbled a deep purr, causing them both to chuckle. He butted against the back of Jago’s arm. If he were human, he’d be saying, What about me?

  “Just . . . nice?” She ran the tip of her index finger over the edge of his upper lip, then his lower. Her glowing eyes studied his face, hungrily taking in every detail of his reactions to her.

  “Okay . . . very nice.”

  Stroking her thumb over his eyebrow, she said, “You know, the cat will need a rabies shot and all the childhood kitty disease shots and boosters so you won’t have to worry about him getting sick.”

  The feline’s head jerked up at the mention of shots and he glared at Asha.

  Jago laughed. “I don’t think he’s keen on the idea of someone poking him with a needle. Can’t say I blame him. I don’t like needles either. Big bad Trev nearly faints at the sight of them. It’s so funny.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Only, why am I expected to foot the expensive bill of his continued existence? He seems to have done very well before showing up here to adopt me.”

  Annoyed, Asha started to shove away from him, but he held her firm. She struggled in his arms. “Oh, yeah, I can see where a cat would crimp the style of Mr. Jetsetter—”

  “Whoa, Asha, I was teasing. The ridiculous beast is growing on me.” He glanced at the cat, who was settling down to take a nap on his hip. “Literally. I’m playfully protesting—adjusting—to something new, unfamiliar to me. We can find a vet Monday and haul his sorry arse there, and I’ll happily pay the bill. Things are moving a little fast—for us both—but we know something rare, something special is happening between us. I’m sure each of us has been burned in relationships before. It would be nice if we came programmed to go straight to the person who was the perfect mate for us. But then, maybe Fate tosses us some jerks along the way to make certain we appreciate how extraordinary it is when the real thing walks into our lives. I could tell you where I think this is heading, but then I doubt you’re ready to believe me. So, why don’t we just relax, listen to the rain and enjoy being together. Or . . . I could tell you that when you walked through the door of The Windmill, it was like you materialized from the sun’s blinding shafts, an image branded into my memory, so that when I’m old and gray I’ll recall that instant and how it moved me . . . changed me.”

  Feeling his life distill to this single moment in time, Jago reached out and took her braid. With slow movements, he undid the stretchy band around the ends, then unwound the three sections of auburn tresses. In the dimness of the bedroom her hair appeared almost brown. He couldn’t see the golden threads woven through the mane, but he could feel the silken softness as he pushed his fingers into the heavy mass. He arranged the long length over her shoulder, draped it so it fanned out. His mouth crooked at one corner as he noticed how the strands fell across the outer curve of her breast, almost clinging to it.

  “Smart hair . . . lucky hair.” He lightly traced the roundness of her full breast with the tip of his index finger.

  She half closed her eyes; her breathing shifted, shallow, faster. “I . . . I cannot think . . . when you are doing that, Jago.”

  “Me neither.” He closed the path of his finger to where he was circling just around the rim of her nipple. “Thinking is highly overrated anyway.”

  “Hmm . . . I agree.” She shifted, pushing on his shoulder until he was flat on his back and she was on her knees, straddling his hips. She said with a wicked grin, “Before this goes any further, I think I should warn you that I’m multiorgasmic.” She leaned forward and impishly lapped at his nipple with her hot little tongue. His breath drew in on a hiss and he had to fight to keep his body from bowing off the bed.

  “Ah, you are? Clever lass . . . ah . . . you are. Impressive. Delightful. Am I lucky or what?” He chuckled, thinking how happy Asha made him.

  That caused him pause. He’d been content before—pleased, thrilled, entertained. He’d enjoyed various aspects of his life, such as when he saved Mershan International a bundle in a takeover. But had he ever really been happy? Just happy?

  She ran her hands up his chest and then over his shoulders. “Well, actually, that’s not quite the truth. I think I would be multiorgasmic if I had a man worthy enough.”

  “Even better. Certainly sounds like something that would make me ‘rise’ to the occasion. So you think you could be this ‘sexual marathon maven’ if someone were to hold up his end of the bargain?” He gave a faint up thrust of his pelvis to punctuate his question.

  She flexed her hips so that the V of her crotch settled perfectly over the ridge of his erection taut against his belly. “Ah, think? I’m rather positive I could be.”

  “I think you would be, too. Multiorgasmic is my new favorite word.”

  H
is hands on her waist, he splayed them, then worked them up her ribcage, holding her tight. He jerked her to him, his mouth opening on hers, hot, demanding a response, demanding her surrender. Covering her lips with his, Jago coaxed, wooed, teased, challenged, until she opened and allowed his tongue the entrance he solicited. He sighed, having found what he’d been seeking his whole adult life.

  The weight of her breasts rested on the tops of his hands, tempting him to enjoy their fullness. He loved the feel of the cotton T-shirt, how the material stretched out over them. His deft fingers moved upward, squeezing her breasts. She liked that. Oh, did she like that! Only, she wanted more. He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, felt them hardening as the knot of desire tightened within them both.

  Rearing up, he captured one tight budded breast with his mouth and drew on it through the thin cotton, sucking hard. She cried out as the spasm of a climax ricocheted through her, shocking her, catching her off guard. Clearly, she’d never expected the orgasm to hit before he was even inside her body. Neither had he.

  “One,” she gasped, then laughed.

  “Oh, that’s a tossed gauntlet if ever I heard one.” His mouth moved to her other breast, pleasuring it with teeth and tongue, sucking rhythmically until he made her shatter yet again. This time she was anticipating it, tried to resist but couldn’t, then finally succumbed to the force. He smiled at the play of expressions on her face revealing all.

  “Ah . . . ah. . . . oooh,” she panted.

  Jago grinned unrepentantly. “Two.”