Riding the Thunder (16 page)

He gave her a fleeting grin, clearly afraid to believe. “You . . . saw?”

Asha nodded. “Yes, I saw them.”

Jago put his hands on his hips. “Saw who?” When no one answered, he threw up his hands. “Every time something totally bizarre—I mean
Outer Limits
time—happens around here, everyone ignores me. There was no one there. I think
you and Delbert both need to see a doctor and that so-called jukebox needs an electrician.”

Liam came in, shaking the rain off his windbreaker. “Hi ho, everyone. Another dull day around The Windmill, eh?”

With a smile, Asha eyed the e-mail from B.A. It illustrated her sister's quirky Scottish humor. It read:
Help! Falgannon has been invaded! Ravishment looming
!

Asha hit delete. She'd give her big blonde Amazon of a sister a ring tomorrow night—provided phone service to the isle in the Hebrides was working; it wasn't that unusual for the island to lose telephone and internet service for a week at a stretch. B.A. had just launched a new Web site called Isle of Love, advertising for brides because there was a shortage of marriageable females on Falgannon, thus the invasion part of the message didn't raise an eyebrow. Since most women sighed over a man in a kilt, Asha figured her sister would in short order find mates for the island's 213 bachelors.

Pacing restlessly to the office door, Asha looked out into the dining room. After things had calmed down from the earlier excitement, everything went back to normal for the quirky place. Later, they'd all dined on Sam's prime rib, baked potato, and garden salad special. Now, Jago sat in the far, family-size booth with Derek, Mike, Sam, Delbert
and Liam, playing poker. A rainy Saturday night like so many others. Yet so different. Only here a few days, Jago fit seamlessly into their lives. She could tell the men liked him.

She liked him. Maybe too much.

She studied Jago interacting with the eclectic men in her life. Judging them. They likely missed it, but she saw how he lost to them on purpose. He was patient, astute, and little got past his incisive mind. Her crew was out of their league in dealing with him. Bloody hell,
she
was out of her league with him.

Jago looked up, his green eyes locking with hers. Their power, their force took her breath away. All around her faded to a blur. She trembled as his mind crawled under her skin, brushed against hers. There wasn't any way she could hide from him. No shield. No protection: the power of their attraction wrapped around them, bonded them into a moment when the whole world held its breath.

Damn! She'd come into the shadowy office trying to get away from him, what he provoked her to feel. Hadn't she learned the hard way never to trust a pretty man? “Then why are you standing here falling for the jerk?” she whispered.

“Because women are fools.” Netta came to stand by the door. “No use hiding in there, sugarplum. You can tell yourself to be smart, to remember this or that. Bottom line, we lack even an ounce of self-preservation and will still stick our finger in the socket knowing . . .”

Asha prompted, “Knowing?”

“We dream for something we can never have.” Netta sighed sadly. Asha followed her friend's vivid blue eyes to Liam.

“Hell, Netta, we could form our own Maudlin & Misery Society.” Asha marched over to the desk, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of 12-year-old The Macallan Scotch. “I've been saving this for a rainy night. This qualifies. There's nothing more disgusting—”

The stupid Wurlitzer took that moment once more to
come to life. Asha gritted her teeth as Gene Pitney blasted out how it hurts to be in love.

Holding the bottle in her hand, she waved it and pointed with her finger. “Someone needs to murder that creepy thing.”

Netta laughed and snatched the bottle. “Brandishing this accomplishes nothing.” She tugged the stopper from the neck, paused and said, “Here's to beautiful men and foolish women who adore them.” Then, Netta took a big slug. She wiggled her eyebrows. “Ooooh, that's good Scotch.”

Asha claimed the bottle and inhaled a swig. “Whisky without the E, mind you. I'm a full-blooded Scots lass. I dunna need a friggin' E in me whisky. The Macallan is the only malt distillery to use sherry wood exclusively. Its nose shows hints of sherry, lemons, pears and honey. ‘A bewitching mouth feel'—whatever the hell that means.”

“It means it's a damn fine whisky.” Netta sniggered and took the bottle back. “Here's to the late, great Gene Pitney. God bless you, Gene. You sure belted one soulful tune.”

“
Brits
appreciated Pitney.” Asha snagged The Macallan and motioned to the couch. When the fat cat pussyfooted into the office and jumped up on the sofa, she asked. “How did
you
get in here? I put you on the sun porch.”

Netta flopped down, her feet bouncing in the air. “Maybe whommmmever plugged in the jukebox again let him in.”

“Well, then
they
can wait on customers. I'm off the clock.” Kicking off her shoes, Asha started to propose a toast, then paused trying to think of someone worthy of a salute. With a smile, she said, “Here's to Leanne Burroughs. One damn fine Scottish Romance writer.”

“Oooh, here's to men in kilts who speak in lilts!” Netta threw back her head and laughed. “I is a poet and don't know it.”

“A Highlander doesn't have a lilt. He speaks with a burr.”

“Ahhh . . . even better. Does Liam own a kilt?” Her eyes flew wide. “Is it true what they say a Highlander wears under his kilt?”

“Or doesn't wear, you mean?” Asha goaded, “You'll have to ask my brother about that.”

“Ask, hell—I want a demonstration.”

From the doorway, Rhonda cleared her throat. “I hate to interrupt this little party . . .”—meaning just the opposite—“but I need to speak to you, Asha.” She glared at Netta as if she were something found on the bottom of her shoe, then tacked on, “alone.”

Asha had felt this coming for weeks. There was a certain devotion from the people employed at The Windmill. The workers were ‘family' and Rhonda never developed that sense of belonging. To her, it was a job going nowhere. While Asha was an easy employer, encouraging people to be individuals and secretly delighting in their quirkiness, Rhonda took advantage of Asha's gentle indulgence as an employer.

“I'm sure whatever you have to say can be said before Netta. Not many secrets are kept around The Windmill.” Asha pulled her friend back down on the couch as Netta started to rise. “Sit. We're having a nice time.”

Flashing the blonde a disgusted look, Rhonda pulled out her paycheck and flourished it. “What's this about?”

Asha blinked and shook her head. “Whoa, hold that still if you want me to look at it. I presume you're referring to the thirty hours pay instead of forty.”

“Yes, I am.” Rhonda put a hand on her hip.

“Well, you worked thirty hours. I paid you thirty hours.”

“I can't live on that.”

Asha nodded in understanding. “Most people can't. That's why they work forty hours and get paid for forty hours. You were late twice and missed a day. And before you say you were ill, I spotted you having lunch at Turfland Mall with George Wilson.”

“I can get a job hostessing at the Howard Johnson's in Lexington,” Rhonda threatened.

Asha smiled. “Then I suggest you do so. See how long you last working
there
thirty hours a week and calling in sick all the time.”

Spinning on her heels, Rhonda stormed from the office, then out the front door. Netta gave a little wave. “Bye, Rhonda.”

With a shrug, Asha eyed the cat crawling into her lap. “Dismissing Rhonda from mind . . . I know why I don't trust Jago, but why do you think you can't have Liam? Personally, I think he's haveable.”

“I wish.” The two words reflected Netta's doubt.

Asha eyed her. “Sorry, fess-up time. Why are you putting Liam beyond reach? Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Oh, you think a couple slugs of Scotch and I'll reveal all? I'm cheap, but not
that
cheap.”

“Yep. A side property of The Macallan—it's a truth serum in disguise.” Asha shoved the bottle at her. “Come on, confession's good for the soul. Why is a sexy blue-eyed blonde going home alone every night?”

“Like you, sister woman, I was burned. He wasn't drop-dead beautiful like Jago or Liam, just a sweet boy. He wore those horned-rim glasses, was so studious, and determined to be a lawyer. I suggested we live together to cut expenses. He wouldn't hear of it, insisted we get married.
Insisted
.” She sighed sadly. “It didn't take much convincing. I would've jumped through hoops for him. I pulled two shifts to make ends meet while he went to school full-time. We had this dingy little apartment over on Rose Street in Lexington on the edge of the University. But we were happy.”

This was the first time Netta had talked about her past, other than a vague reference here or there, so Asha was curious. “What happened?”

“Rich grandparents. His mother had run away when she
was young, after she'd gotten pregnant. More likely they kicked her out when they learned about it. After her death, some private detectives finally tracked him down. They invited us to visit them—in their big fancy house on the hill. They wanted to forget the past and were delighted to have found their grandson after all these years. However, they were less than thrilled with me. I didn't know Armani from Wang. I laughed too loud, my hair was too bleached. I was too—” she waved her hands in the air—“everything. Common. They always got that same expression that Rhonda had on her face, like I was something they stepped in. Oh, they were subtle, careful to hide it from Jon. To make a long story short, in the end he preferred their money, and they preferred he have a wife more suited to their rich world.”

“Ah . . .” Understanding dawned within Asha. “I don't trust pretty men because I was burned by one and you—”

“Don't trust rich men. They don't mind slumming about with trailer trash like me, but they aren't the type to stick around.” She winked, saying Asha arrived at the crux of the problem.

“What's that you said when you gave me advice?—not all pretty men are alike. Maybe you should give Liam a bit more credit. He chooses to live here not England. And you, Netta Reynolds, are anything but common.”

On the Wurlitzer Gene Pitney wailed, “—
true love is worth all the pain, the heartache and tears
. . .”

Netta shuddered. “We're going to have to seriously do something about that jukebox. It's sinister.”

“Guess we can put the help wanted sign in the window Monday morn.” Asha took the bottle back. “So, is that maybe a yes on the hostess job? I'm suddenly in urgent need of one.”

Jago had noticed Asha watching him from the shadows of the office, her eyes full of longing. Much to his vexation, that look of reservation was there as well. Asha simply
didn't trust easily. Fortunately, he was a patient man.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that
, his mind mocked. Only it wasn't easy. He couldn't think of anything but her. When he noticed how her bronze tresses shimmered under the recessed lighting, his brain conjured images of his hands fisted in those long strands. Or the way her eyes flashed fire when she was fearful he'd cheat Derek—it made him want to see them flash with another sort of flame—passion. And when she rocked her hips to the music, his besotted mind blanked his vision, leaving him seeing her over him moving in the same pagan rhythm. The past days were nothing but a montage of Asha. At night, alone in his bed, it played over and over in his head.

Never having loved anyone outside of his mother and brothers, Jago wasn't entirely sure this was love. The words seemed too pale for what burned through him. Obsession. Compulsion. Fascination. Hell, he couldn't think of another word to fit, so he guessed it must be love. The instant Jago looked into Asha's amber-brown eyes he'd been lost.

He'd feel peculiar, befuddled by the enormity, if he hadn't noticed the same sort of expression on the face of Asha's brother. Possibly, there was something in the air. They say April in Paris is for lovers. He'd match October in Kentucky.

“The hairs on the back of my neck always stood up when my sisters were out of sight and it suddenly got quiet,” Liam commented, tossing in two dimes to the poker ante.

Jago pitched in two to match, and raised him three. “Only you don't feel very brotherly toward Netta, eh?”

“Not the least.” Liam hesitated, glanced to the door, then threw down his cards with a frown. “Damn, I fold. I can't concentrate on bloody cards with Netta on my brain. Let's see what they're up to.”

“Excuse us, gents.” Jago folded his hand and slid from the booth behind Liam. “It's been a pleasure. Maybe we can do it again—soon?”

As he passed the jukebox, he glared. The thing was playing
a hit by The Troggs, the singer crooning how he wanted to spend his life “. . .
with a girl like you
.”

“
Now
you play love songs, you menacing monster,” he grumbled.

He nearly bumped into Liam, who had stopped short. Nudging with his elbow, Liam pointed for Jago to look. The two women were sprawled on the sofa, laughing hysterically, a half-empty bottle of Scotch on the floor at their bare feet. The fat cat, draped over Asha's lap, lifted his head and meowed a hello.

Jago leaned against the doorframe drinking in Asha. Her mass of auburn hair spilled over her shoulders; she looked deliciously rumpled. Hell, he was jealous of that damn feline. He'd like to go over there and curl up on her lap.

“You're drunk.” Liam laughed.

“Me, too,” Asha chirped with a big smile.

Netta took a deep breath. “Not me. I'm just pleasantly mellow. We've been toasting Gene Pitney, men in kilts,
various unnamed males
—to protect the guilty—and trying to figure out what costumes we'll wear for the Halloween bash.”