Riding the Thunder (6 page)

Never in her whole life had she ever considered taking a stranger to her bed. While a modern woman, there was still a wee dram of old-fashioned morals within her. The only way a man would make it past all her carefully erected guards and to her bed would be through love.

She had a feeling Jago Fitzgerald could be the exception.

Yes, she craved to take those few steps to him, maybe shock him with her surrender. However, as she thought of doing that—was just a breath away from doing it—images of a balefire seared her mind's eye, of two lovers coming together with a passion that would burn out all reason.

Swallowing back her yearning for him, she turned on her heels. And fled.

Yes, wanting was a dangerous thing.

Jago watched Asha rush to her bungalow and unlock it. She reached inside, flipped on a light, and then with a glance over her shoulder, entered. Sliding the patio door shut, she turned and relocked it. Hesitating, she stared with haunting eyes out into the night. At him. The instant spun out, making it hard for him to breathe.

It wouldn't take much to push the hand of fate and knock down those barriers she was carefully constructing between them. She wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him. It probably terrified Miss Prim and Proper just how much she did. An intelligent woman, she recognized she was his for the taking, that had he reached out and kissed her, he'd be in her bed this night. No words, no promises, just her sweet surrender. The needy look from those tawny eyes set his brain on a slow burn. Made him nearly forget his best intentions.

With a sharp yank, she pulled the cord on the heavy drapes, and shut him out of her contained little world. He didn't like being shut out. Still, despite his annoyance, he
smiled, seeing that her bungalow was next to his. He figured she likely had a personal code about never dating customers. Picky women often made such rules.

“And Asha is very particular, aren't you, love?” He said the words as a challenge.

Taking another drag on the Swisher Sweet, he relished the hint of cherry in the tobacco. Damn cheap-arse cigar, but one fine smoke. His brother Desmond always sniggered at his choice of cigars. Of course, Desmond did everything first class. Were he to smoke, only Havana's best would be good enough for him. Jago didn't indulge often, but at times a smoke was relaxing. It allowed him to savor the moment. Like now.

He wanted nothing more than to go knock on that glass door with the drapes pulled against the night.
Against him
. See if Asha would let him in. He wanted to push past the line she'd drawn in the sand, see if she'd make an exception for him, test if she'd break those rules. There was a restlessness inside him. A queer, itchy feeling that had been creeping up on him for the past ten months.

The restiveness had first started back in winter, though he couldn't now precisely pinpoint the date. He recalled going to the refrigerator looking for something, though he wasn't hungry. He wondered if the compulsive action was caused by lingering childhood memories when food had been scarce. That seemed logical. He'd noticed when watching television, he'd constantly flip channels; nothing held his attention. And women . . . they'd become like his incessant trips to the refrigerator—plenty of choices, but nothing for which he truly hungered.

Jago couldn't recall the last time he wanted a woman the way he ached at this moment for Asha Montgomerie—craved her until reason faded and age-old instincts to mate possessed his mind. What he felt for her was primitive, raw. It was dangerous. In more bloody ways than one.

So odd, Trevelyn and he were twins, yet their approach to women was wholly different, dissimilar even from their
elder brother Desmond. Desmond liked women; he just didn't like them to cling—especially after the novelty of the relationship wore thin. Trevelyn loved sex. He ran through women like one might a box of tissues when you had a cold. Strange to think of sharing a face and body with another being, yet inside that wrapper was a person poles apart. Trev was a tiger on the prowl. And himself? Jago sighed . . . not sure what he was anymore.

The disquiet within him had grown worse after Sean Montgomerie's funeral last May. Desmond, Trev and he had attended the service in England, sitting at the back of the ancient Norman kirk so that no one would notice them.

His brothers and he had been obsessed with bringing down Montgomerie's empire, vengeance pure and simple for their father's death. It had taken years, but Desmond had finally orchestrated the man's financial downfall, starting with claiming Falgannon Isle, Valinor Revisited and the estate in England, Colford Hall. Asha's grandfather Sean had once put up those properties as collateral for a loan, then defaulted on payment. The deliberate act had left Michael Mershan with a loss of his personal fortune, and facing jail time for misappropriation of bank funds in granting the questionable loan. As a result of the scandal, he had committed suicide when Jago and his brothers were children.

To say Desmond felt cheated by Montgomerie's death was putting it mildly. His brother had wanted to look the old man in the eyes when he handed him the papers showing the multi-billion dollar empire Sean had built was crumbling and why.

Well, the financial plans were still in place, and Desmond and Trev were pig-headedly determined to go through with them. True, there was a fortune at stake. Only of late, Jago questioned the whole idea. Montgomerie was dead. What did any of it really matter now?

All he had to do was close his eyes, and that memory of Desmond at thirteen was in his mind. Just like yesterday, he
saw his brother, feverish, so sick he belonged in bed, yet dressing at three in the morning, getting ready to deliver papers. It didn't matter that Des was sick, didn't matter that he'd eaten nothing the night before, or that he'd sat and rocked their mother most of the night while she was in the grips of one of her black depressions. Des always did his paper route, knowing the extra money he brought in often meant the difference between them eating and not.

That memory haunting his soul, Jago knew without hesitation he would walk barefoot through Hell for Des. If finally settling this business with the Montgomeries would give his brother the sense of peace he desperately needed, then Jago knew he'd walk on the hot coals of his conscience to do it.

Taking another pull on the Swisher Sweet, he cast his mind back to Sean's funeral. Asha and her sisters—Montgomerie's granddaughters—had sat in the second row. Seven breathtakingly beautiful women, the kind of women men fantasized about. The front row held their six brothers, father and two uncles. Jago vaguely recalled them, as handsome as the granddaughters were beautiful.

Clan Montgomerie's motto was
Look Well.
Though he assumed that meant
Be Vigilant
, in this instance it also applied to the appearance of the striking males and females of Sean's line. If the scientist who'd cloned Dolly the Sheep ever got around to cloning human beings, he needed to look up the Montgomeries.

Jago recalled how Desmond had stared at BarbaraAnne the whole time. Once she had turned and looked directly at Des. To Jago, it seemed the whole world had held its breath as the two stared at each other. Needless to say, he hadn't been surprised when Desmond announced he'd be the one to go to Falgannon Isle to handle that end of the business for Mershan International and Trident Ventures. Jago had never said anything to Desmond, but he was aware his brother had carried a picture of BarbaraAnne in his wallet for nearly fifteen years, cut from some magazine.
Desmond likely thought of it as a goal, as a reminder of what drove him. Jago figured his brother failed to recognize that he went to Falgannon for more than his role in taking down Montgomerie Enterprises. He wondered how long before Des recognized that fact.

“‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,'” Jago muttered, then flicked the ashes off his cigarillo.

At the funeral, much to his irritation, Asha had never turned around, so he'd spent the whole of the service staring at the back of her head. It was hard from that distance to tell her from her twin sister, Raven, or for that matter from her elder sisters, Katlynne and LynneAnne. The four women were dead ringers, variations on a theme, with only small differences in their height and hair. Asha had the lightest auburn locks, with pale almost blonde streaks.

Jago had been outside in the parking lot before he finally got a good look at her face. Quite vividly, he recalled standing by the car, watching Raven and Asha coming down the steps of the ancient kirk. They were twins, and yet, Asha had seemed unique somehow. Maybe being a twin himself had endowed him with a perception attuned to recognizing finite differences others missed.

As he hadn't been surprised when Desmond booked a flight to Scotland, Jago had fathomed in that breathless instant that he would be the one to come here to Kentucky.

“Destiny, the bitch, sure plays cruel tricks with people's lives.” He laughed softly, mockingly.

Jago took one last draw on the Swisher Sweet, the taste going flat. He dropped it and ground the butt beneath his boot. Instantly, the disquietude was back.

The light in the living room of Asha's bungalow winked out, increasing the penned animal mood within him. Like a big cat in a zoo, Jago wanted to break free of this invisible cage that caused his edginess. No, that light going off didn't help the situation one bit. Was Asha in bed? Did she sleep nude? Were the sheets soft flannel, crisp linen or sleek silk? What material rubbed against those full breasts? Images
filled his mind of them locked together in full-tilt, ride-'em-cowboy sort of sex. How would she taste? Would she want—as the Pointer Sisters crooned—“a lover with a slow hand,” or would she give measure-for-measure, as sudden and wild as a spring thunderstorm?

A fresh vision flashed in his mind: him holding her body spooned against his, lazily listening to the rain on the roof as they drowsed. It was a vivid picture devoid of his gnawing restlessness, and for a moment, an intangible sense flowed through him, spreading in gentle waves of tantalizing warmth. The sensation shifted through his veins, then lodged in his chest, both unnerving and welcome in the same breath.

Then the old hunger returned, tenfold, nearly overwhelming him. That damn wanting and yet not knowing what his soul cried for.

Giving up, Jago stalked disgustedly toward his bungalow. He wondered how many times this night he would get up, go to the refrigerator, stare for a few minutes and then slam the door—coming away with nothing.

“For a change there's a good excuse for that bit of nonsense—I don't have any food in it yet.” His mood brightened. “I'll just have to get Asha to show me where to shop tomorrow.”

Asha came out of the motel office and pulled up short. The black Jeep Cherokee sat, engine running, at the end of the walkway. “Bloody warlock read my mind?”

Jago leaned over the passenger seat and opened the door from the inside. “Hop in, Asha, you're getting wet.” He flashed that killer, mega-watt smile. Asha wanted to slap the smug expression off his handsome face.

Exhaling, she unslung her purse from her shoulder, slid into the Jeep and closed the door. There was no scent of cherry smoke, just clean male and the light hint of citrus, bergamot and wood found in Armani's
Pour Homme
. Last year, while searching for the perfect Christmas presents for her brothers, Asha had fallen for the scent, even bought it for cousin Edward. She adored it, and had almost purchased a bottle for herself, just to keep and smell. She'd eventually nixed that idea, thinking the fragrance required the body heat of a man to make it complete. Having no male around, it would only serve to torment her. That Jago wore that cologne—or one similar—flustered her.

“Good morning, Asha. Have you breakfasted yet?” He
shifted the Jeep into gear, pulled down the motel drive and turned onto the narrow outbound road, wipers swooshing in a soothing rhythm.

“Actually, I'm not much of a morning person, so I don't usually have breakfast.” As she fastened the seat belt, her eyes took in the details of the sexy man.

Jago wore a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans and a camel-colored, suede bomber jacket. His right hand rested lightly on the gearshift between them. The small gold ring on his pinkie matched his Rolex. Elegant. Understated. His effect on her system was anything but.

“Ever notice you have a habit of evading direct replies?” Jago coasted the sedan to the end of the short lane and waited to pull onto the highway. “Which way? Or are you going to ply me with another evasive answer?”

She fought a smile. “Left. To Leesburg.”

“Can we shop for groceries in Leesburg? While I look forward to meals at The Windmill, I'd like to have basic staples for my off hours. Sandwich stuff. Some utterly fattening Krispy Kreme donuts. Never know when a wicked hunger can strike a man in the middle of the night.”

She saw the long black lashes on those intense green eyes bat once, then he glanced to gauge the reaction to his thinly disguised double-entendre.
Think, silly woman, the man is expecting a reply
.
Something witty, droll, preferably!
Her problem: she was of two minds. Miz Goodie Two-Shoes sat, her knees clamped together, trying to ignore how her womb had contracted into a hard knot from the impact of this man on her senses. Yet, deep inside was a wild woman yearning to be set free to indulge in all the wild fantasies slipping into her mind whenever she looked at him, at those beautiful hands she wanted on her body. A small voice whispered that this man was the one to grant all those wishes.

Taking the easy way, the coward's way, she said, “Leesburg has a decent-size grocery. In the mid '60s the town
had a Kroger and a Gateway—back when gas was little more than a quarter a gallon.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You weren't alive back then.”

His comment gave her pause. How
did
she know these things? She could clearly summon the two stores to mind, could see the Texaco station with the sign showing gasoline at 22¢ per gallon. Memories of lazy summer evenings, people out for a sunset stroll, some gathering around the Dairy Queen to exchange pleasantries. Strange, these images were in shimmering sepia, devoid of all other color. But he was right—that had been over a decade before she was born. So strange, she could see the tableaux so clearly, as if she had
lived
them.