Riding the Thunder (2 page)

“What the hell?” Tommy looked in the rearview mirror, trying to see who was driving. The harsh glare from the evening sun bounced off the windshield, nearly rendering it a mirror. Another slam to the rear said the first hadn't been an accident. Someone was clearly ramming the heavy truck into them.

“Tommy, are they nuts?” Her head whipped around trying to see.

The DJ on the car radio announced, “This is Coyote Calhoun on
WAKY
dedicating this Golden Oldie to all the Lauras out there, Ray Peterson's mournful ballad about star-crossed lovers, ‘Tell Laura I Love Her'.”

Ordinarily, Laura would turn the song up.
Their song.
Four years ago, the tune had made it to number one on the
Hit Parade
and it was still in the jukebox at The Windmill Restaurant where everyone hung out. Slot H-13. Since the lovers in the song were named Laura and Tommy, the song had become theirs.

The truck sped up and slammed against the rear of the Mustang again. Both Laura and he jerked from the impact, which nearly pushed the car into the back of the cement truck ahead of them.

“Tommy, I'm scared. What are they doing? That driver is stark-raving mad!”

Tommy glanced in the rearview mirror again. In slow motion, Tommy saw it all happen, too damn fast to prevent it. The driver revved the truck's engine and smashed into the car once more. Hard. The cement truck started to slow to make a left turn onto Richmond Pike.

The cliffs were coming up. Tommy dared not let this madness drag on as there was a likelihood they could be forced off one of the sharp S-turns. He hit the gas, hoping to swing around the truck before it halted to turn. As he did, the Ford truck slammed into the car, jarring them forward. Too late, Tommy saw the
Peterbilt
, which had been blocked from view by the cement truck, barreling down on them from the other direction. The driver never had a chance to hit the brakes.

Tommy swerved back into the right lane, but the truck crashed into the Mustang again, pushing them forward. Tommy cut the wheel hard at the last instant, trying to go into the small creek running parallel to the road's far side. He couldn't do it fast enough. Crying tires, busting glass, grinding metal . . . a painful scream Tommy heard as the semi plowed into the side of the Mustang.

Laura
.

They say life passes in front of your eyes just before you die.
They lied
. It wasn't the past that flashed through Tommy's mind as he lay there trying to move, trying to breathe.
It was all the things in life that would never be.
The wedding he'd hoped to share with Laura in a year's time, her so beautiful in a white gown. Images of him coming home to her, a small black-headed baby boy in her arms. Christmases, New Year's Eves, birthdays. Making love in the rain. Everything that Laura and he would never have.

Tommy sensed he was bleeding from his mouth and nose. Blood was in his eyes and streaming down his chest. He hurt. Bad. Yet, all he could think of was Laura. Beautiful Laura with her auburn hair and laughing brown eyes. The woman he loved more than life.

He reached for her hand. “Laura!” he choked through tears and blood. The instant he touched her he knew she was dead. He laced his fingers with hers and held on, knowing there was no life without her. “Laura!” He screamed in madness.

His body felt on fire. He couldn't breathe. Obscenely, Ray Peterson crooned, “‘Tell Laura not to cry, my love for her will never die.'”

“Tommy, wake up! Tommy!”

Tommy jerked up, then looked around, wondering if the collision had been merely a bad dream. The world was in sepia, a strange, gold shimmering twilight. Laura glistened with faery dust. She laughed and tugged on his hand, and for an instant he glanced back at the wreck. Cars were stopping along the road, and people ran to the smashed Mustang.

Not a dream. A nightmare.

“Tommy, this way.” Laura smiled, pulling his hand.

“Laura, wait. I love you.” He yanked her into his arms, squeezing her so tightly she'd have a hard time breathing. Tears filled his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. “Oh, Laura . . .”

She kissed him. “Shhhh! We must hurry before someone gets our booth at The Windmill. I want a Cherry Coke and then to slow dance to our song.”

“But Laura . . .” He hesitated, looking back at the wreck, confused.

She reached up and gently pulled his face around toward hers. “It doesn't matter, Tommy. Nothing matters but that we're together. We'll always be together. Just like the song, Tommy, our love will never die.”

Present Day Kentucky

Lifting the icy-cold bottle of Coors to his mouth, Jago Mershan froze in midmotion, then groaned as if he'd received a stiff blow to his solar plexus. His whole body tensed as everything about him receded to gray. Nothing could've prepared him for the impact of Asha Montgomerie on his senses.

Jago's eyes tracked the woman who'd slid out of the black Jaguar and strode across the parking lot, the image of warm honey suddenly foremost in his mind. Only, his sweet tooth wasn't throbbing. His pain centered lower—much lower. The jukebox switched to Bob Seger's pulsing “Come to Papa,” causing the right side of his mouth to twitch into a hungry predator's smile. Low laughter rumbled in his chest as his eyes never left Asha.

He whispered, “Yeah, come to papa.”

She was tall, around five-seven, the height increased a shade by the heels of her brown leather Wellies. Her black jeans fit snugger than his English racing gloves and lovingly
displayed the long, sleek limbs that could wrap around him—ah, a man—and never let go. Being a lowly male, he thoroughly appreciated how those firm breasts filled a 34D to perfection, no Miracle Bra needed, no Pamela Lee implants. Bodies like hers were a throwback to the heyday of Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell. Placing her hand on the porch rail, Asha followed the spiral up the creek-stone stairs, her body undulating in a quiet, feline grace. Those superb breasts swayed perceptibly with each step, the black scoop-necked sweater revealing tempting cleavage.

As she moved alongside the row of plate glass windows, Jago was treated to her profile, the derrière promising a male could enjoy watching her walk away nearly as much as seeing her coming toward him. Well, almost. Observing those mobile curves approach, a man would tingle with the anticipation of getting his hands on that firm flesh.

Sunlight caught and was refracted through the full glass door as Asha opened it, blinding him for an instant. Then she rematerialized, born from the brilliant shafts. The setting sun's aura followed her with an arcane sentience, greedily clinging to her to form a red-gold halo about her, a breath-stealing shard of time that burned deep into his soul. When he was old and gray, he'd recall this instant as if yesterday and remember its power, how it moved him.

Not a classic beauty, Asha's face was arresting, feline. Her jawline hinted at the Montgomerie stubbornness, though the faint cleft in her chin softened the effect. Jago's body bucked as he imagined running the side of his thumb over that shadowy dip, seeing those cat eyes watching him, spellbound by his action. A flicker of arrogance flashed in those amber eyes, but the haughtiness was understated, carried off with a regal self-assurance few women ever truly achieved.

Asha glanced about the room in a disinterested fashion, her hair rippling like silk down her finely arched spine. Golden brown: Jago deemed that label pathetically inadequate. Asha's locks shimmered with a thousand golds, fiery
to pale auburns and vibrant browns. That mane provoked an appetite to see it spread across a pillow as he drove himself into her slick, welcoming body, to feel it draped and cool over his burning skin. A hunger that would force a throwback like him to howl.

A wicked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when the jukebox changed tunes and the singer began
ah-ooing
about “The Werewolf of London.” Given a British passport was in the glove box of his leased Jeep Cherokee, and the fact Asha provoked him to consider howling, he chalked one up for odd quirks of fate and timing.

It was fascinating to observe the emotional shifts on male faces as they watched Asha pass. Clearly, they wanted her. Oh, did they want her! Nonetheless, Jago doubted any would approach her. She stared men in the eye, dismissing them with a bat of her long lashes with a poise that would send all but the most voracious meat eaters running. They would look her up and down and lick their chops, but the power, the regnancy radiating from her would humble all. Most would feel guilty for even daring to look, to wish, knowing they were unworthy. Only sheer morons with nothing to lose would take the risk.

Or a man as assured of himself as Jago.

Asha's aloof scan of the dining room finally reached him. Her tawny-brown eyes widened as their stares collided. The witchy force of those cat eyes rocked him, stole his breath. Lightning sizzled along his nerves as the odd moment in time lengthened. All else faded. Never had he felt so connected to anyone.

Then, with a sweep of her lashes, she pretended not to notice him.

“Nice try, Asha,” he said under his breath, then took a long draw of his beer to kill his parched throat.
Jago Luxovius Fitzgerald Mershan, you're one lucky sonofabitch—or cursed
, he mused.

Asha spoke to the hostess, her words lost to restaurant chatter. Evidently, she requested the blinds be dropped,
for the woman did just that, plunging the diner into shadow. Asha went ahead and seated herself in a booth about halfway back, on the side opposite of the long row of windows.

Jago's position on the stool at the counter was dead center on the aisle, affording him a splendid show. Oh yeah, this Scottish miss had one sweet ass! The way she moved sent his blood into a low, rocking thrum, similar to a Harley-Davidson jump-starting in his chest. Yep, that's what Asha reminded him of—his classic '67 Harley Electra Glide in black—all sleek curves and lines, created so a man craved to climb on for the ride of his life. He contemplated if Asha made love Harley-style: zero to a hundred mph in the blink of an eye.

It would be riding thunder
.

He nearly laughed aloud, realizing if he told her that—in all sincerity meaning it as the ultimate compliment—she'd probably deck him. Only a man would think comparing a woman to a Harley—not just any bike, mind you, but a Harley—was the highest praise. He recalled that old Robert Palmer song “Bang a Gong,” and the stanza about a woman being built like a truck. Females just didn't get what Palmer wailed about. Men did. It was one of those
Men are From Mars
kind of stalemates. Few things born of man could bring Jago to his knees faster than a vintage Harley or the perfect woman.

And Asha Montgomerie, without a doubt, was the perfect woman. A man's hottest fantasy come to life. His fantasy for far too long. Over the years he had studied dozens of photos of her. Then back in May at her grandfather's funeral in England, he'd seen her from a distance. Brief glimpses that little prepared him for the up close effect this woman had on his system. It took all his control not to get to his feet, go to her, put a hand behind her neck and devour that small, pouty mouth.

Jago wanted her as he'd never wanted a woman before. Without hesitation he'd take her, possess her, brand her
and never look back. Damning all consequences. Because like her, he too was a throwback. Too bad he was here to tear her safe, secure world apart. Before the dust settled, she'd likely hate his guts, despise him just as powerfully as he craved her.

Jago prayed he didn't destroy them both before it was done.

Asha stared at the menu—not that she needed to read it. The Windmill served Cajun gumbo on Thursday, fresh halibut on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, a grilled New York strip that would melt in your mouth every day of the week, along with BLTs, club sandwiches and burgers and fries. She was aware Kentucky catfish was no longer a specialty on the menu, thanks to the sprawling suburban population of Lexington polluting the Kentucky River with their sewage. She knew the prices. Wouldn't have to ask for availability. Small wonder since she ordered the food supplies each week.

She usually ate after the supper crowd thinned for the evening. Only, she had spent the day on the horse farm and was now ravenous, even though it was barely five. She'd eat early and be ready to handle the cash register, leaving Rhonda free to concentrate on seating customers as they shuffled in.

The long fingernails of her left hand tapped out a restless rhythm on the Formica tabletop while she feigned attention with the plastic covered menu. Asha tried to block out
the man sitting at the counter, drinking a beer. Her eyes had spotted him the instant she came in, though she affected pretense that she hadn't. Inside, her heart bounced against her ribs with a bruising force. Men like him were
hard
to miss. A female
sensed
their presence as much as
saw
them, some basic animalistic instinct that set off alarms.

“What'll you have, Boss Lady?” Netta asked, setting a glass of ice water on a paper coaster. With a grin, she pulled a Bic pen from behind her ear, popped her gum, and waited.

“You ever wonder why we put paper coasters under our drinks when it's a Formica top?” Asha asked blandly. She knew Netta was waiting for more than her order. The waitress wanted to gossip about Mr. Tall, Dark and Potently Sexy sitting on the stool.

Netta shrugged. “The Windmill has always put paper coasters under glasses.” She snapped her gum again and lifted her eyebrows. “You know what happens if you try to change anything around here. More than the natives get restless.”

Ignoring the comment, Asha folded the menu and handed it to the blonde. “New York strip, medium-rare, and a salad with French dressing. I'm famished.”