Riding the Thunder (34 page)

She forced a smile. This man was unsettling, but she wouldn't permit him to see it. He was a bully who fed off weakness. “Thank you. I try. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

For a moment she feared he wasn't going to let go, but then he released her. “Happy Halloween. Hope you get plenty of tricks-or-treats—whichever you want.” Then he turned and vanished into the crowd.

Asha knew she was being silly. Every community had a black sheep, a ‘Boo Radley' who creeped everyone out. That didn't mean he was really dangerous. Local gossip always blew everything out of proportion, to where truths became exaggerated legend. Hadn't Boo turned out to be the kindly protector of innocent children?

Jago came up and kissed her lightly on the mouth—a chili dog kiss—banishing Faulkner from her thoughts. “Sorry, my stomach rumbled and I had to comply.” His grin faded as concern flickered in his eyes. “You're not going spacey on me again, are you?”

“Nope. Just lost in a moment of thought.” She snatched up one of the hot dogs smothered with the mouthwatering chili and pushed back the paper wrapper to take a bite.

“I prefer them with onions, but I have a hot date for later.” He kissed her again, his tongue finding chili at the corner of her mouth.“Like a boy scout, I'm always prepared.”

“Lucky me—a man who holds his end
up
,” Asha laughed.

He grinned. “You better believe it.”

Asha's body rocked against Jago's as he brought the Harley to a fast stop. Instead of climbing off, she just sat there hugging his warm back. She had to admit, while the bike still scared her, she enjoyed riding with Sexy Lips. There was
something rather
stimulating
about being shoved up against his back, her arms around his waist. The low rumble of the powerful engine between her legs summoned images of no-holds-barred, ride-'em-cowboy sex. The vibration from the Electra Glide moved into her muscles and then lodge in her pelvis with a quiver.

Too smart by half, Jago's chest shook from his soft laughter. “You feel it.”

She nodded her head and just hugged him tighter, loving him with her whole heart. Wanting desperately to tell him how much. The need to express her feelings was overpowering, yet something warned her Jago wasn't ready to hear. This puzzled her. He was serious about her, so she didn't understand why this last barrier remained between them. Oh, he never said anything; it was just the fey connection they shared, the closeness she recognized when they'd had breakfast at The Cliffside.

He set the stand on the bike and turned so he could pull her into his arms, kissing her slowly, with the sheer pleasure of just kissing. Finally pulling back, he smiled. “Chili dog kisses are addictive.
You're
addictive. You know that, don't you?”

She smiled as he got off the Harley. “I sure hope I am.”

Just inside the cottage, he paused and whispered, “Close your eyes and don't move until I say you can.”

“Oooh . . . games?”

Clint the cat came to rub against her leg, meowing in complaint. She wasn't sure if it was a rant about being left alone, or that his food bowl was empty.

Music filled the darkness as Jago turned on the CD player; a catchy tune about seeing a ‘UFO in the backyard' filled the small cottage. Asha liked it, thinking it rather fitting for Halloween, but Jago muttered, “Oops” and hit another button, switching it to a soft ballad about love. The tune was the same one she'd heard at the glasshouse earlier.

“Colin let me borrow his Mike Duncan CD. I'm ordering a couple copies in the morning. This guy is going places.”

“Can I open my eyes now?” she asked.

“Nope.” She could hear him moving closer, felt the radiant heat of his very male body, then finally the scent that was Jago filled her head. He brushed his lips over one eyelid, then the other.“Tomorrow we have a lot of words to say, a lot of things to discuss. For the rest of the night we banish words, have no need of them. From this point on—don't speak. Just experience how we communicate on an elemental level.”

“I don't get to count?” She couldn't stop the smile from spreading across her lips.

His hands moved up the edge of her leather jacket and then very slowly peeled it off her shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor. “Lass, I'm going to saturate your brain with me, with us, with sensations so devastating you won't be able to count. Just let it happen.”

“I can do anything I want—I'm just not permitted to speak?”

He pulled her against his chest, lifting her slightly so he could feast on the side of her neck. “Hush, wench.”

He kissed her, so lightly, so reverently, she couldn't stop tears from welling in her eyes. The kiss spoke all the words she wanted to hear, needed to hear, that told her how important she was to him, how special. The kiss spoke of a soul-deep, never-ending hunger and that only she could touch him in this unique way.

Capturing her wrists, he traced his thumbs in maddening circles on her palms, causing her nerve endings to tingle. Her mind cast back to when they'd met and he introduced himself. He'd done the same thing, marking her. Branding her. He began to rock, slow-dancing in the dark to the beautiful words. Her whole being burned with the consuming arousal. She soaked up every marvel of the magic his body worked on hers as they swayed, touching, brushing, compelled to him as if he were a magnet.

“‘But I'm lost for words . . . when I hold you close . . . because you take my breath . . . away.'” He sang the words, then he nuzzled her temple.

“You're speaking,” she teased.

“Hush, wench. I'm
singing
.”

Releasing her wrists, he placed his hands on her hips then circled her waist until his thumbs and forefingers released the snap on her jeans. Sliding inside, his strong fingers gave her hips a squeeze. She felt the faint ripple of surprise shudder through his muscles as he recognized his hands were touching flesh and only a little scrap of her thong.

He growled. “You wicked, wicked woman.”

She looped an arm around his neck and arched to him. He leisurely pushed the jeans off her hips, down her thighs, finally leaving her to kick out of them, while he filled his hands with the globes of her derrière. She nipped his lower chin, then fussed, “You're speaking again. You said no words.”

Teeth flashing in a feral smile, he jerked her against him. Taking a step, he lifted and balanced her on the edge of the counter between the living room and the kitchen, leaving her legs dangling. Her arms tightened about his neck and held on.

Taking hold of her long braid, he loosened it about her shoulders. With a smile, he fisted his hands in the heavy tresses and forced her head back, their eyes locking. Not about to let him control this beautiful passion, she locked her legs about his hips and dragged him to her, rocking against his groin. He kissed the strong column of her neck, fed on her fey essence, which she hoped would brand his soul.

His hands palmed her breast, squeezing, feeling the pebbled nipples through her thin muscle T-shirt. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness to where she saw his face clearly in the night-light from the kitchen; beautiful in his feral beauty, he was a pagan fire god come to burn her heart, her body, her soul.

She jerked in shock as he grabbed the front of her T-shirt and ripped it down the middle. He paused for a moment,
just staring at her full breasts, areolas ruched against the caress of the cool air. Letting him know her arousal matched his, her chest rose and fell in short breaths lifting them, aching for his touch.

The passion flared bright, but with Mike Duncan's haunting voice flowing around them, through them this was more than just lust. This was the true beauty of their bonding. So much more. Need shuddered through her muscles. And not merely the need to have him inside her body, but to be able to speak all the words of how deeply she loved him.

He lightly dragged the back of his knuckle over that sensitized pearl at the apex of her female core, distracting her from thoughts. Asha nearly bucked off the counter in response. With a deliberateness that set her teeth on edge, he dragged her to the very rim of the counter. He pushed her panties aside; the rasp of his zipper followed. Then he was inside her, holding her rigidly. He set a rhythm so unhurried—his withdrawing, his becoming a part of her again—that she sighed in bliss, in agony.

The hot explosion rolled through her blood, slamming into her brain.

“‘Cause she takes my breath away.'” Jago gasped in near anguish, as he followed her into a release that fused their souls as one.

A tapping on the patio door came at the crack of dawn. Jago wanted to ignore it; Asha and he had barely been asleep for an hour. Nevertheless, after the scratching incident weeks before, the slightest noise outside always brought him fully awake. Sliding on his jeans, he zipped them up, then glanced at the sleeping cat and woman, his heart full of love.

He sighed. In a few hours she'd awaken, and then he'd tell her about Des, his mother and father. Strange. Had her grandfather not set into motion the events that resulted in his father killing himself, he might never have met Asha. Vagaries in the paths of life. It saddened him that everything
good in his existence came with a steep price tag. Maybe he could make her see how Fate controlled their destinies, how they were
meant to be
.

Of that he was firmly convinced. There had never been a woman like Asha, never would be one capable of filling his life, his heart, the way she and her gentle love did. He so admired how she'd come back to The Windmill and worked hard to create this special family community. Not many people understood the quality of caring for others as she did.

He had a smattering of dread that no matter how carefully he explained everything, what drove his brothers, what drove him, there'd be hell to pay. Asha hadn't been forced to live with the deprivations of his childhood, watched his mother struggle to keep their family together, or how Des drove himself to rise above the poverty that had threatened them. This pampered granddaughter of Sean Montgomerie had never gone to bed hungry. He had, more times than he cared to remember. It'd be hard for Asha, born of a life of indulgence and privilege, to grasp fully what had initially compelled him to go along with Desmond's plans. Asha wouldn't take his deception well. Maybe he should take her to meet Des first, let her get to know his brother so she could comprehend how truly obsessed Des was. And why.

Maybe, maybe not. It was too late for alternatives. He
had
to tell her this morning. The lies stopped now, before he destroyed any hope of a future with her.

Glancing to the closet, he thought of the small, black jeweler's box in the pocket of his windbreaker—the engagement ring he'd ended up purchasing while in Lexington to buy the Halloween costume. He'd come out of the costumers and was getting into the Shelby when he noticed the jeweler across the street. On impulse, he'd crossed over and went into the upscale store. He wasn't sure what he wanted, or even why he'd come, but then he'd seen
the
ring: a yellow diamond, marquis-cut, a nice size at
nearly three karats yet not too flashy. Asha wouldn't like anything flashy. And as he'd stared at the stone, he envisioned it on her finger, knew it was created only for her. For once, he was glad of his fey voice, pleased he'd listened to its proddings.

Of course, he could open their talk by giving Asha the ring and asking her to marry him, bind her to him before telling all. Yeah, right—the coward's way.
Will you marry me, Asha? Oh, by the way, your last name would be Mershan, not Fitzgerald
.

“She's going to kill me,” he said in a whisper. Fear rising in him, he swallowed hard. No, he hadn't the right to ask Asha to be his wife until he was completely honest with her. Never in his whole life had he been a coward. He'd face the music and then crawl on his belly to kiss her feet if that's what it would take to make amends. Only, right now being a coward was damned tempting.

The rapping came again, more insistent this time. Obviously it wasn't someone poking around, but instead, trying to awaken them. The muscles of his abdomen flexed in reaction, preparing to absorb the coming psychic blow. No one would casually disturb them at this hour. Something was wrong.

With one last look at his lady, he padded across the living room to the front door. Pulling the curtain aside, he was startled to see a man in chauffeur's uniform, the cap off and tucked into the curve of his elbow. The pace of his heart increased in those seconds it took to unlocked the door.

“Mr. Mershan?” the man queried as the door slid to the side.

Jago glanced past the stranger to see a black limousine parked at the end of the small lane, parking lights on. “Yes, I'm Jago Mershan.”

“Mr. Starkadder said I would recognize you by the green eyes and black hair,” the chauffeur informed him, holding out an envelope. “I'm to give you this, sir.”

Jago wanted to take the small square of paper about as
much as he ached to pet a king cobra. Sometimes, he wished he didn't have these fey impressions. The envelope sent blackness to coiling within him; he knew whatever words it contained were ones he didn't want to see.

Before the man began to think he was batty, he took the white envelope and broke the seal.

Come quickly. Your mother is dying.
Julian

Asha jerked awake and looked around, feeling something was very wrong. Her hand reached out to the rumpled sheet where Jago had slept. It was cold. Stretching and yawning she sat up.

Reaching for her robe, she swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. “Ugh. That's dreadful! I must brush my teeth before Jago wants a good morning kiss. Poor man would pass out from my toxic waste breath.” The cat mirrored her action, stretching and yawning, too. “Good morning, Clint,” she chuckled. “At least we know your name now.”