Riding the Storm (17 page)

Read Riding the Storm Online

Authors: Brenda Jackson

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Arts&Photography

kids
were
born
as
Westmorelands.”

“So
your
Uncle
Corey
has
three
sons
he
didn’t
know
a
thing
about?”

“No,
two
sons
and
one
daughter.”
He
shook
his
head,

chuckling.
“And
all
this
time
we
all
thought
Delaney
was
the
only
girl
in
the
Westmoreland
family
in
two
generations.

Last
month
Uncle
Corey
suprised
us
and
got
married!”

They
suspended
conversation
when
the
waiter
brought
out
Storm’s
food.
Storm
surprised
Jayla
when
he
handed
her
a
fork.
“There’s
too
much
here
for
one
person.
Share
it
with
me.”

She
glanced
at
his
plate.
He
did
have
a
lot
and
it
looked

delicious.
“Umm,
maybe,
I’ll
just
take
a
few
bites,”
she
said
taking
the
fork
from
him.

“Help
yourself.”

And
she
did.
The
picture
of
them
sharing
a
meal
played
out
a
rather
cozy
and
intimate
scene
in
her
mind,
one
she
tried
to
ignore.
She
licked
her
lips
after
they
had
finished.
The

food
had
tasted
great.
“Now
you’re
going
to
have
to
help

me
eat
that
cheesecake.”

“Hey,
I
can
handle
it.”

His
words
triggered
a
flutter
in
the
pit
of
her
stomach.
There

was
no
doubt
in
her
mind
that
Storm
Westmoreland
could
handle
anything.
And
he
did.
They
finished
off
the

strawberry
cheesecake
in
no
time.

Storm
checked
his
watch
after
he
signed
the
check
for
their
bill.
“It’s
still
early.
How
would
you
like
to
go
dancing?”

His
words
echoed
through
Jayla’s
mind.
She
knew
the
smart
thing
to
do
would
be
to
tell
him,
no,
but
for
some

reason,
she
didn’t
want
to
think
smart.
She
didn’t
want
to
think
at
all.
She
was
in
the
company
of
a
very
handsome
man
and
she
was
in
no
hurry
for
them
to
part
ways.

She
met
his
gaze.
“I’d
love
going
dancing
with
you,
Storm.”

The
club
that
had
come
highly
recommend
from
one
of
the
waiters
at
K-Paul’s
was
dark,
rather
small,
and
crowded.
Storm
and
Jayla
were
lucky
to
find
an
empty
table
inside
Café
Basil,
which
had
a
reputation
of
being
the
undisputed
king
of
nightlife
in
the
French
Quarter.

Storm
doubted
that
another
couple
could
fit
on
the
dance
floor.
Already,
the
place
was
jam-packed,
but
he
was

determined
that
they
would
squeeze
in
somehow.
There
was
no
way
he
would
leave
this
place
tonight
without

molding
Jayla’s
body
to
his
and
holding
her
in
his
arms.

He
glanced
across
the
table
at
her,
barely
able
to
make
out

her
features
in
the
dimly
lit
room.
Her
body
was
swaying
to
the
sound
of
the
jazz
band
that
was
playing
and
as
he

watched
her,
he
had
to
restrain
the
emotions
that
were

pulsing
inside
of
him.

He
had
been
with
numerous
women
before
and
each
one
had
met
his
specific
qualifications—whatever
they’d
been
at
the
time.
And
every
single
one
of
them
had
known
the

score.
He
promised
nothing
other
than
a
good
time
in
bed.
He
wasn’t
interested
in
satisfying
emotional
needs,
just

physical
ones.
But
there
was
something
about
Jayla
that

was
pulling
at
him.
The
pull
was
definitely
sexual,
but
there
was
something
about
it
that
was
emotional,
too.

And
Storm
Westmoreland
didn’t
do
anything
with
women
that
hinted
of
the
emotional
so
why
was
he
here,
bursting
at
the
seams
to
take
Jayla
into
his
arms
on
that
dance
floor?

Before
he
could
ponder
that
question,
the
tune
that
was

playing
stopped
and
another
started.
Some
of
the
dancers
went
back
to
their
seats,
clearing
the
way
for
others
to
take
their
turn.
“This
is
our
number,”
he
said
to
Jayla,
standing
and
reaching
out
for
her
hand.

She
smiled
and
placed
her
hand
in
his.
Immediately,
he
felt
a
tug
in
his
gut
that
he
tried
ignoring
as
he
led
her
onto
the
dance
floor.
He
took
a
deep
breath,
then
exhaled
slowly
the
moment
she
came
into
his
arms
and
molded
her
body
to

his.

“I
like
holding
you,”
he
said
truthfully
into
her
ear
moments
later,
wanting
her
to
hear
his
words
over
the
sound
of
the
band.

She
leaned
back
and
searched
his
face
a
moment
before
asking,
“Do
you?”

“Hmm…”

She
smiled
and
he
thought
it
was
the
most
beautiful
smile
he’d
ever
seen
on
a
woman
and
felt
good
that
his
words
had
brought
a
smile
to
her
lips.
Speaking
of
lips…

His
gaze
shifted
to
her
mouth
and
he
couldn’t
help
but
take
in
their
proximity
to
his.
All
he
had
to
do
was
inch
a
little

closer
and—

“You
smell
good,
Storm.”

He
inhaled
deeply
and
slowly
shook
his
head.
She
could
say
the
damnedest
things
at
times.
They
should
be

concentrating
on
small
talk
that
was
socially
acceptable
for
platonic
friends
and
not
the
sultry
murmurings
of
lovers.

“Thanks,
but
you
shouldn’t
say
that
to
me.”

“Why
not?
If
you
can
tell
me
that
you
like
holding
me,
then
I
should
be
able
to
tell
you
that
I
think
you
smell
good.”

His
hands
were
around
her
waist,
holding
her
tight,
and
her
arms
were
draped
about
his
neck.
The
music
playing
was

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